fic: all we'll leave behind is all that's left, 1/1
title: all we'll leave behind is all that's left
rating: pg
pairing: Idina Menzel/ Kristin Chenoweth
summary: Here it comes, it's all blowing in tonight.
Idina’s already written the email- some generic paragraph about her and Taye and how thrilled they are, how so ridiculously happy they are about the news- and it sits on her screen like a slap in the face. It’s beyond beige. It’s somewhere near transparent. It’s a notice meant for acquaintances and Kristin’s…not that.
If Idina’s lying to herself- and she almost always is when it comes to Chenoweth- Kristin’s not anything. She’s a forgotten friend, she’s an old co-worker. She used to share her coffee on cold New York mornings and they sometimes smile at each other during parties.
If Idina’s being honest with herself- and she almost never is when it comes to Chenoweth- Kristin’s everything.
Idina runs her finger across the keys, leaving a wake of misplaced letters on the screen. She holds down delete until the words disappear from the screen. They haven’t spoken in months- god, they haven’t spoken in years unless you count "Hello" and "Hi" and the silent, indiscernible conversations their eyes conduct whenever they’re in the same room. She has of picture of them- from Wicked, of course, and there’s green behind her left ear because she missed that spot after every show that first month- and Idina glances at it before she goes to sleep each night. She felt guilty, at first, and now it’s a habit that she doesn’t dissect.
That was a good time. She remembers standing ovations and her voice breaking in For Good, remembers being a character and no one else. There were nights spent signing autographs for hundreds of fans outside the stage door and mornings when she forgot to call Taye because she was buried under covers with a tiny blonde who sang in her sleep.
That was a bad time. She remembers exhaustion and bad reviews and a cold that constantly threatened. There were sore throats and sleeping through Mondays and nights when she lied to Taye and told him whatever he wanted to hear.
It was her time, mainly, the good and the bad and the beautiful. Hot coffee, curly hair, and smeared lipstick, singing to each other in the shower while Kristin scrubbed Idina’s green off. They were young and swept up, spent their time together on stage, together for interviews, together in bed.
Idina lies to herself about all that- lies, all the time, about what happened and why. Because Taye was there and when he talks about it she can’t see herself in any of his situations. She doesn’t remember anything without Kristin- life was Kristin. It was the stage and their bed and, god, she lies to herself about it. To protect herself and to protect Taye, because she loves both of them and she loves them even more together.
She has a new reason for lying, now. Came to her on a plastic stick and from a doctor’s mouth. Made her so uncontrollably happy, made her cry for the first time in a long time. Still makes her cry. And you know what, you know the fuck what? When she found out, she thought of Kristin fucking Chenoweth.
It’s a plague. She caught it when she was much too young, back when there was no vaccination against desperate crushes and tender touches, and it’s almost dormant under her skin. But there are flickers of it, pieces that beat along with her pulse and invade her mind at the worst possible moments, when she has no guards, when there’s nothing but feeling.
She sings in the shower every morning while Taye’s out on his early morning run. She thinks her neighbors can probably hear, but whatever, let them enjoy it. She’s Idina fucking Menzel. Sometimes, when she’s feeling lonely, she shuts her eyes and belts it. And when she hits that long note that ends the song, the one that signals the end of Act I in every Broadway play, she can feel Kristin all over her, invading her, making her strong and tearing her down.
She thinks Taye knows when she has those mornings because he gives her space and brings her lunch early, squeezes her shoulder. He sings to her sometimes and she laughs, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. He’s the best thing for her, but that doesn’t mean she never aches. She still remembers Kristin’s small hands all over her, remembers the way her whole body thrummed when she kissed the blonde. She hasn’t known need like that since, hasn’t burned under someone’s hands.
Idina stands and walks toward the window in the study, lifts her arm and leans against the frame. Outside it’s cold and gray, but not snowing, and she thinks of Kristin’s blonde curls covered in flakes, deflating under the cold wet storm. She remembers sharing the stage with her and electricity that sparked in every scene, the adrenaline from the hot lights and the orchestra and the sparkle in Kristin eyes.
Idina, tired of reminiscing and wanting things she gave up years ago, moves away from the window and into the carpeted hallway. She steps past the picture of her and Kristin and Taye, all wrapped together like a twisted triangle, and resists the urge to glance at it.
Maybe moving forward means looking back.
"Did you email Kristin?" Taye calls from the living room. He’s shirtless, doing pushups almost effortlessly against the carpet floor. Idina pauses by the door and runs her eyes along his body. When she doesn’t answer, Taye stops and turns his head toward her, waiting for an answer. Idina smiles, tiny and a little injured, and nods.
"Yeah." She lies, because, god, she will always lie, and she moves into the room.
rating: pg
pairing: Idina Menzel/ Kristin Chenoweth
summary: Here it comes, it's all blowing in tonight.
Idina’s already written the email- some generic paragraph about her and Taye and how thrilled they are, how so ridiculously happy they are about the news- and it sits on her screen like a slap in the face. It’s beyond beige. It’s somewhere near transparent. It’s a notice meant for acquaintances and Kristin’s…not that.
If Idina’s lying to herself- and she almost always is when it comes to Chenoweth- Kristin’s not anything. She’s a forgotten friend, she’s an old co-worker. She used to share her coffee on cold New York mornings and they sometimes smile at each other during parties.
If Idina’s being honest with herself- and she almost never is when it comes to Chenoweth- Kristin’s everything.
Idina runs her finger across the keys, leaving a wake of misplaced letters on the screen. She holds down delete until the words disappear from the screen. They haven’t spoken in months- god, they haven’t spoken in years unless you count "Hello" and "Hi" and the silent, indiscernible conversations their eyes conduct whenever they’re in the same room. She has of picture of them- from Wicked, of course, and there’s green behind her left ear because she missed that spot after every show that first month- and Idina glances at it before she goes to sleep each night. She felt guilty, at first, and now it’s a habit that she doesn’t dissect.
That was a good time. She remembers standing ovations and her voice breaking in For Good, remembers being a character and no one else. There were nights spent signing autographs for hundreds of fans outside the stage door and mornings when she forgot to call Taye because she was buried under covers with a tiny blonde who sang in her sleep.
That was a bad time. She remembers exhaustion and bad reviews and a cold that constantly threatened. There were sore throats and sleeping through Mondays and nights when she lied to Taye and told him whatever he wanted to hear.
It was her time, mainly, the good and the bad and the beautiful. Hot coffee, curly hair, and smeared lipstick, singing to each other in the shower while Kristin scrubbed Idina’s green off. They were young and swept up, spent their time together on stage, together for interviews, together in bed.
Idina lies to herself about all that- lies, all the time, about what happened and why. Because Taye was there and when he talks about it she can’t see herself in any of his situations. She doesn’t remember anything without Kristin- life was Kristin. It was the stage and their bed and, god, she lies to herself about it. To protect herself and to protect Taye, because she loves both of them and she loves them even more together.
She has a new reason for lying, now. Came to her on a plastic stick and from a doctor’s mouth. Made her so uncontrollably happy, made her cry for the first time in a long time. Still makes her cry. And you know what, you know the fuck what? When she found out, she thought of Kristin fucking Chenoweth.
It’s a plague. She caught it when she was much too young, back when there was no vaccination against desperate crushes and tender touches, and it’s almost dormant under her skin. But there are flickers of it, pieces that beat along with her pulse and invade her mind at the worst possible moments, when she has no guards, when there’s nothing but feeling.
She sings in the shower every morning while Taye’s out on his early morning run. She thinks her neighbors can probably hear, but whatever, let them enjoy it. She’s Idina fucking Menzel. Sometimes, when she’s feeling lonely, she shuts her eyes and belts it. And when she hits that long note that ends the song, the one that signals the end of Act I in every Broadway play, she can feel Kristin all over her, invading her, making her strong and tearing her down.
She thinks Taye knows when she has those mornings because he gives her space and brings her lunch early, squeezes her shoulder. He sings to her sometimes and she laughs, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. He’s the best thing for her, but that doesn’t mean she never aches. She still remembers Kristin’s small hands all over her, remembers the way her whole body thrummed when she kissed the blonde. She hasn’t known need like that since, hasn’t burned under someone’s hands.
Idina stands and walks toward the window in the study, lifts her arm and leans against the frame. Outside it’s cold and gray, but not snowing, and she thinks of Kristin’s blonde curls covered in flakes, deflating under the cold wet storm. She remembers sharing the stage with her and electricity that sparked in every scene, the adrenaline from the hot lights and the orchestra and the sparkle in Kristin eyes.
Idina, tired of reminiscing and wanting things she gave up years ago, moves away from the window and into the carpeted hallway. She steps past the picture of her and Kristin and Taye, all wrapped together like a twisted triangle, and resists the urge to glance at it.
Maybe moving forward means looking back.
"Did you email Kristin?" Taye calls from the living room. He’s shirtless, doing pushups almost effortlessly against the carpet floor. Idina pauses by the door and runs her eyes along his body. When she doesn’t answer, Taye stops and turns his head toward her, waiting for an answer. Idina smiles, tiny and a little injured, and nods.
"Yeah." She lies, because, god, she will always lie, and she moves into the room.