AMALIN (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} amalin) wrote,@ 2004-05-04 01:14:00 |
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Give and Take.
Title: Give and Take
Author: Amalin
Peyton loves Brooke's mouth. She loves it because when her mom died, Brooke's the one who showed up with her pillow in her arms and her hair in pigtails, ready to stay as long as it took, and though Brooke said something misplaced and meaningless, her mouth had trembled and Peyton had known. She loves it because no matter how bitchy Brooke gets, Peyton looks at her and the left corner of Brooke's mouth curls a little, the kind of imperceptible smile that says, but, of course, you are still you, which really means, but, of course, I love you.
Peyton loves Brooke's mouth because Brooke can lie through her teeth and kiss beautiful, nameless boys with those lips and slouch at the bar and sip vodka all night, but in the end it's her mouth that betrays her, that day at the mall, when she looks up and there's hurt slipping out through the gaps in her words, the kind of hurt that makes Peyton want to die. Or maybe just kiss her until they both forget who they started out wanting and end up just wanting.
It's Brooke's mouth that doesn't look right smiling a practiced smile every time Peyton laughs at her, says, "God, you don't know anything, do you?" like she's Jessica Simpson or something. It's her mouth that says, I'm about to make you want to disappear when she smirks at girls in the hallway, about to be cruel; it's her mouth that says, I'm sorry, I don't know how to love you anymore when she appears in Peyton's doorway looking like a stranger and yet everything Peyton knows.
It's her mouth Peyton runs a trembling thumb over in the morning, when she wakes up and Brooke's still at her side, boots still on, one hand thrown up by her side, wrist turned inward, vulnerable. Brooke makes a sort of sigh.
Peyton withdraws, flutters her eyelids shut, and in a few moments, Brooke yawns and stretches and nestles into Peyton's side. They're both warm with sleep, and words don’t make sense when the sun is pouring in and the morning is on pause. It's only natural when Brooke leans up and presses her lips to Peyton's jaw, only natural when Peyton mm's and turns her head just that much.
Time moves on and they find Lucas's letter on the door and Brooke stands in the sunlight, hair tousled and eyes expectant; she says, serious, "Did we do this? Did--did I--" and Peyton wants to say yes, say no, say look, Brooke, you are who you are, of course you did this, but that wouldn't be right either. She wants to say, I'm sorry, or I think I love you, but in the end it comes down to the things she can't voice, the way Brooke is standing there shadowed in light and she's full of it, filled up with days and possibilities and old afternoons. Peyton thinks, the history of us.
Brooke says, softly, "I have to go," and then she's not the girl with the perfect lipstick, the one Peyton goes shopping with and laughs with in the halls; she's just the girl who came over every day for months when even Peyton's dad was choking on grief, who hugged Peyton so hard the first time her dad left on business that Peyton forgot that she wanted to run away, who kissed Peyton on the cheek once, sticky with strawberry ice cream and the languor of summer, a girl with braces who was and is Peyton's best friend, who was and is the only one who knows how best to hurt her.
Peyton thinks, but you'll come back, and it's a question and not a question all at once, sort of like the way Brooke smiles with her mouth at the front door and says, "Bye, then."
It's no kind of fairy tale, but she has this sketch of Brooke tucked inside her favorite record, this rough picture of Brooke with her hair in her face and one hand on the steering wheel and she's laughing, head tipped back, and Peyton thinks, maybe that's enough. Maybe that's what it's about, because sometimes Peyton wishes Brooke were less of a bitch, sometimes Peyton wishes Brooke listened to real music, sometimes Peyton wishes Brooke weren't her friend at all; sometimes they fight and sometimes Peyton hates Brooke with her lips that kissed Lucas and the way she tosses her hair and the way she smiles at Peyton sometimes, like she knows Peyton would do anything for her. But maybe this is it, these moments in between, where they're lit up with sunlight and it's enough to be young, it's enough to call this love and maybe, just maybe, believe it.
Title: Give and Take
Author: Amalin
Peyton loves Brooke's mouth. She loves it because when her mom died, Brooke's the one who showed up with her pillow in her arms and her hair in pigtails, ready to stay as long as it took, and though Brooke said something misplaced and meaningless, her mouth had trembled and Peyton had known. She loves it because no matter how bitchy Brooke gets, Peyton looks at her and the left corner of Brooke's mouth curls a little, the kind of imperceptible smile that says, but, of course, you are still you, which really means, but, of course, I love you.
Peyton loves Brooke's mouth because Brooke can lie through her teeth and kiss beautiful, nameless boys with those lips and slouch at the bar and sip vodka all night, but in the end it's her mouth that betrays her, that day at the mall, when she looks up and there's hurt slipping out through the gaps in her words, the kind of hurt that makes Peyton want to die. Or maybe just kiss her until they both forget who they started out wanting and end up just wanting.
It's Brooke's mouth that doesn't look right smiling a practiced smile every time Peyton laughs at her, says, "God, you don't know anything, do you?" like she's Jessica Simpson or something. It's her mouth that says, I'm about to make you want to disappear when she smirks at girls in the hallway, about to be cruel; it's her mouth that says, I'm sorry, I don't know how to love you anymore when she appears in Peyton's doorway looking like a stranger and yet everything Peyton knows.
It's her mouth Peyton runs a trembling thumb over in the morning, when she wakes up and Brooke's still at her side, boots still on, one hand thrown up by her side, wrist turned inward, vulnerable. Brooke makes a sort of sigh.
Peyton withdraws, flutters her eyelids shut, and in a few moments, Brooke yawns and stretches and nestles into Peyton's side. They're both warm with sleep, and words don’t make sense when the sun is pouring in and the morning is on pause. It's only natural when Brooke leans up and presses her lips to Peyton's jaw, only natural when Peyton mm's and turns her head just that much.
Time moves on and they find Lucas's letter on the door and Brooke stands in the sunlight, hair tousled and eyes expectant; she says, serious, "Did we do this? Did--did I--" and Peyton wants to say yes, say no, say look, Brooke, you are who you are, of course you did this, but that wouldn't be right either. She wants to say, I'm sorry, or I think I love you, but in the end it comes down to the things she can't voice, the way Brooke is standing there shadowed in light and she's full of it, filled up with days and possibilities and old afternoons. Peyton thinks, the history of us.
Brooke says, softly, "I have to go," and then she's not the girl with the perfect lipstick, the one Peyton goes shopping with and laughs with in the halls; she's just the girl who came over every day for months when even Peyton's dad was choking on grief, who hugged Peyton so hard the first time her dad left on business that Peyton forgot that she wanted to run away, who kissed Peyton on the cheek once, sticky with strawberry ice cream and the languor of summer, a girl with braces who was and is Peyton's best friend, who was and is the only one who knows how best to hurt her.
Peyton thinks, but you'll come back, and it's a question and not a question all at once, sort of like the way Brooke smiles with her mouth at the front door and says, "Bye, then."
It's no kind of fairy tale, but she has this sketch of Brooke tucked inside her favorite record, this rough picture of Brooke with her hair in her face and one hand on the steering wheel and she's laughing, head tipped back, and Peyton thinks, maybe that's enough. Maybe that's what it's about, because sometimes Peyton wishes Brooke were less of a bitch, sometimes Peyton wishes Brooke listened to real music, sometimes Peyton wishes Brooke weren't her friend at all; sometimes they fight and sometimes Peyton hates Brooke with her lips that kissed Lucas and the way she tosses her hair and the way she smiles at Peyton sometimes, like she knows Peyton would do anything for her. But maybe this is it, these moments in between, where they're lit up with sunlight and it's enough to be young, it's enough to call this love and maybe, just maybe, believe it.
