[fic] happy people
fic: happy people
fandom: one tree hill
pairing: peyton/brooke (implied)
word count: 761
setting: season one
recepient: fluffyfrolicker wanted brooke/peyton domestic fluff... that is not at all what this is and I can't apologize
a/n: first oth fic ever, be kind
[I'm so sorry this is so not fluff!]It became a bit of a production (it was easier for them both that way) (they both had the flair for the dramatic in their own ways) (Peyton’s was in silences and disappearing acts and Brooke’s was in falling in love with the wrong boy over and over) (they both pretended their hearts were made of steel) (that was the biggest lie of them all and they liked to think they were the only two who knew it) coming over and throwing books and a danish on the bed and her looking up with a dark look like they didn’t just do this yesterday.
(Brooke sometimes forgets who they are pretending for, this elaborate game they play with Peyton in bed and her barging in like she doesn’t belong [it’s the only place she belongs] and a crumpled chocolate croissant passing chapped lips and then she sees the light blinking on Peyton’s laptop and remembers.)
(The performance is for them and only them and they stare at the blinking light daring the world to tell them to stop.)
Her fingers never linger too long, brushing back that curly mane and on her lips there’s a joke about a lion somewhere that never goes further than the tip of her tongue and on her lips there’s a lingering memory of lips that they don’t mention and never reaches their eyes.
She gives an update on all the gossip and opens a can of diet that they keep in the fridge downstairs just for her and wonders if the whole business of lying in bed depressed is just a way to keep the gossip on camera so that it stays part of something that isn’t real the way reality can sometimes be too harsh and real. She keeps her tone light and bitter at the same time - it’s something they’ve both perfected over the years - and she prides herself at being the charming one and it’s a truth that pretends to be a lie.
They are both charming.
That’s the joke.
They are both biting in their humor.
That’s the tragedy.
Tomorrow maybe they’ll see each other at school and laugh with their arms on each other’s waists and they’ll ignore the fact that maybe they shouldn’t be friends (all the cards say they shouldn’t - funny how the omniscient can’t see their lies) or ignore the fact that it was only possible for them to be friends (nights of long talks and soft words and hard kisses don’t last long in the daylight). Tomorrow they’ll be cheerleaders in matching short skirts and walk through the halls like they belong there and were always there and there was never this interlude.
Because the alternative is closing the door and turning off that damn blinking light and drawing up the blankets and never letting the world back in.
I’m ordering pizza.
You won’t eat it, she doesn’t look up from the black nail polish sliding across her toes.
I’m getting a salad and you can eat the pizza.
Wouldn’t want you to put on weight.
I’ll just feed you until you stop looking like a dying vampire.
Vampires are in.
Nerds are in. Vampires are so out.
She shrugs and the motion makes Brooke’s heart catch, makes her want to start over, come in through the door with something else to say than all their usual platitudes and silly euphemisms, I don’t really care what’s in anyway.
Well I’m force-feeding you anyway. I promised I’d take care of you.
She looks up and the circles under her eyes seem larger than before, there’s an accusation there, something cutting and deep that almost looks like truth.
You have to fit into that dress we picked out for Homecoming, her smile is a little too bright and she isn’t sure how to cut it off now, sees her lips lying on the floor in front of her, still talking because that’s all she seems to know how to do. You won’t be any competition for me if it’s hanging off of you like a sack. Gotta keep those breasts perky.
They smile because they held it together and she calls for pizza and salad (and only has one piece when it comes because cheese) and she puts blue glitter on top of the black polish on Peyton’s toes with her rabbit-smile, nose wrinkled and eyes twinkling.
And they are happy.
(They are girls and they are in love sitting on a bed with nail polish and magazines and pizza and diet soda. What else would they be?)
fandom: one tree hill
pairing: peyton/brooke (implied)
word count: 761
setting: season one
recepient: fluffyfrolicker wanted brooke/peyton domestic fluff... that is not at all what this is and I can't apologize
a/n: first oth fic ever, be kind
[I'm so sorry this is so not fluff!]It became a bit of a production (it was easier for them both that way) (they both had the flair for the dramatic in their own ways) (Peyton’s was in silences and disappearing acts and Brooke’s was in falling in love with the wrong boy over and over) (they both pretended their hearts were made of steel) (that was the biggest lie of them all and they liked to think they were the only two who knew it) coming over and throwing books and a danish on the bed and her looking up with a dark look like they didn’t just do this yesterday.
(Brooke sometimes forgets who they are pretending for, this elaborate game they play with Peyton in bed and her barging in like she doesn’t belong [it’s the only place she belongs] and a crumpled chocolate croissant passing chapped lips and then she sees the light blinking on Peyton’s laptop and remembers.)
(The performance is for them and only them and they stare at the blinking light daring the world to tell them to stop.)
Her fingers never linger too long, brushing back that curly mane and on her lips there’s a joke about a lion somewhere that never goes further than the tip of her tongue and on her lips there’s a lingering memory of lips that they don’t mention and never reaches their eyes.
She gives an update on all the gossip and opens a can of diet that they keep in the fridge downstairs just for her and wonders if the whole business of lying in bed depressed is just a way to keep the gossip on camera so that it stays part of something that isn’t real the way reality can sometimes be too harsh and real. She keeps her tone light and bitter at the same time - it’s something they’ve both perfected over the years - and she prides herself at being the charming one and it’s a truth that pretends to be a lie.
They are both charming.
That’s the joke.
They are both biting in their humor.
That’s the tragedy.
Tomorrow maybe they’ll see each other at school and laugh with their arms on each other’s waists and they’ll ignore the fact that maybe they shouldn’t be friends (all the cards say they shouldn’t - funny how the omniscient can’t see their lies) or ignore the fact that it was only possible for them to be friends (nights of long talks and soft words and hard kisses don’t last long in the daylight). Tomorrow they’ll be cheerleaders in matching short skirts and walk through the halls like they belong there and were always there and there was never this interlude.
Because the alternative is closing the door and turning off that damn blinking light and drawing up the blankets and never letting the world back in.
I’m ordering pizza.
You won’t eat it, she doesn’t look up from the black nail polish sliding across her toes.
I’m getting a salad and you can eat the pizza.
Wouldn’t want you to put on weight.
I’ll just feed you until you stop looking like a dying vampire.
Vampires are in.
Nerds are in. Vampires are so out.
She shrugs and the motion makes Brooke’s heart catch, makes her want to start over, come in through the door with something else to say than all their usual platitudes and silly euphemisms, I don’t really care what’s in anyway.
Well I’m force-feeding you anyway. I promised I’d take care of you.
She looks up and the circles under her eyes seem larger than before, there’s an accusation there, something cutting and deep that almost looks like truth.
You have to fit into that dress we picked out for Homecoming, her smile is a little too bright and she isn’t sure how to cut it off now, sees her lips lying on the floor in front of her, still talking because that’s all she seems to know how to do. You won’t be any competition for me if it’s hanging off of you like a sack. Gotta keep those breasts perky.
They smile because they held it together and she calls for pizza and salad (and only has one piece when it comes because cheese) and she puts blue glitter on top of the black polish on Peyton’s toes with her rabbit-smile, nose wrinkled and eyes twinkling.
And they are happy.
(They are girls and they are in love sitting on a bed with nail polish and magazines and pizza and diet soda. What else would they be?)