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Original Fic: Flowers In the Spring
Here's a little something from me for being gone so long. I know it's het and it's kind of weird, but... I still hope you like it ^_^;
Title: Flowers In the Spring
Author: Feygan
Original Fiction
Genre: gen-het. romance. angst
Rating: G
Home: http://www.darkgesture.com/fanfiction.htm
LiveJournal: http://feygan.livejournal.com
I was trudging down Main Street, heading to the bookstore where I worked part-time. He was coming the opposite direction and I didn't even notice him at first.
We met up at the crosswalk. He was crossing one way, and I was crossing the other, and we ended up sharing the same cement island.
I probably wouldn't have paid any attention to him at all if he hadn't been singing under his breath. It was a song that I had always liked for its catchy beat. I had never bothered to learn its name, but I knew all of the words and sang it sometimes in the bathtub. It was a song that had been around for years, a true classic, the kind of song that was always wonderful no matter how many times it was sung.
I couldn't help it. I turned and smiled at him, my mood changed completely.
He looked at me, this surprised look on his face. Almost as though he had just been punched hard in the stomach. For a second I thought he was going to throw up, but he was okay.
"Hi," he said hesitantly.
"Hello." He was most definitely not my type at all. Was so outside of my type that I couldn't even identify what type he was.
He was dressed all in black. Black jeans, a black shirt, a black trench coat that swirled around his knees, and even black sneakers. His black hair was a little spiky, and I couldn't believe it, but he was wearing makeup!
His eyes looked large and green and he had the nicest smile I had ever seen, even with the black lipstick.
"My name's George. Do you want to go get something to eat?" he asked.
I looked at him, then glanced down at my watch. I am strange in that I always have to be early for everything. I had about twenty minutes before I had to be at work.
"All right," I said, nodding my head.
He grinned, he was so happy, as though he hadn't thought I would actually want to go out with him. Then again, normally I wouldn't have. He was so odd.
"Come on," he said, gesturing the way he was headed. "There's a cafe on First Street that serves a wicked apple-crumb pie."
"Wicked?"
He laughed.
***
That was how I met George.
Even though we were so different, there were so many things that we had in common too. We liked some of the same music, we both liked to read, and we could both work up a good outrage from reading the newspaper.
After that first piece of pie, we met everyday. We had dinner sometimes and we went to see every movie. It was wonderful.
I never invited him home though. I knew what my parents would think. I also never invited him to come eat lunch at my table because I knew what my friends would think. They didn't know George the way I did.
He didn't seem to mind. He just ate his lunch with the other strange people and we never talked at school. It was only when we were alone that we could be ourselves.
Then, as the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom on the tree outside my window, he asked me to go to a club with him. He wanted me to hear a new band play.
"What kind of music?" I asked, unsure of whether I really wanted to go, but not wanting to hurt his feelings. Already I was falling in love with George and I wanted to be with him always, even if it meant a night of being unhappy.
He smiled. "It's that new stuff that's coming out. I really like it, I think maybe you will too. Please come."
I could never say no to him. "All right."
***
And so we went to the club he had heard about, a dark place that was vaguely threatening.
I knew instantly that I didn't belong here.
Everyone looked like George. They dressed all in black, they were very pale, and they all wore makeup, even the boys. There were lots of earrings and chains, studded collars, and grungy clothes.
I was a little afraid. I wasn't like them.
My face was scrubbed clean. My hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, my navy blue skirt was delicately pleated, and my white ruffled shirt was really out of place here.
"Maybe I should go," I whispered to George.
He took my hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "Don't worry, it'll be all right. I know you'll like it here."
"I guess so," I said doubtfully, following him to a table at the front of the room.
The place was so dark that it was hard to see, but I knew that there was a stage in front and that someone was gently strumming a guitar, getting ready to play.
We sat down, I unobtrusively wiping my seat with my handkerchief first. I didn't want to end up with some horrible disease or something.
"Stay here," George said, touching my shoulder as he got up. "I'll go get us something to drink."
"Okay."
He was gone for what felt like forever and I was a little frightened with all of these loud people shuffling around in the dark, yelling and laughing and singing to music that only they could hear. I wondered if they were all drunk or if they had been using drugs. It was scary.
Finally he came back and I almost cried in relief.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
I looked at him. "I don't like it here. I shouldn't be here. This isn't where I belong."
"Come on, you're just not used to it. Just stay here for a little while. For me?"
I couldn't say no to him. He was George and he knew me better than I knew myself.
I drank the Coke he had gotten me and we tried to talk, but I was still nervous.
We were there for almost half an hour before the band began to play.
They were dressed in the same dark clothes as everyone else, but there was something about them that seemed darker, harder than these others. Their hair was spikier, their black clothes were blacker, their silver chains and earrings were shinier, and there was an edge to them. A meanness to the tilt of their heads, a bleaker line to their lips.
They were the epitome of all of these dark people and I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to go home.
They began to play. They sang/yelled hateful words, whispered dark secrets that only they knew, mumbled in languages I couldn't understand, and became something I could never be.
The single stage light shone on them, turning them into long, dark shadows, frightening figures from all of my nightmares. I was more than scared now.
I looked over at George in the hopes of him comforting me and saw something I hadn't seen before. He was like them. Like all of them, not just the musicians.
He was dressed in that same dark uniform, his face had that same edginess, and there was that same light in his eyes. And though I had thought that he was sweet and kind and that I loved him, looking at him then, I saw only a stranger.
I realized that he didn't belong to my world of soft rock, of school dances and coming-out parties. He would never be what I wanted and needed him to be. He would never become a stockbroker or a lawyer; he would never go to an Ivy League School. I would never be able to bring him home to meet my parents and expect to have my father like him. He would never inherit the family business and carry our name on to greatness.
He was one of them.
These dark strangers that were almost like ghosts, swaying to this hard music that spoke of death and destruction and the end of all that I knew.
As we sat there, listening to that music, and I saw the way he watched the musicians, the way he swayed along with everyone else, I whispered goodbye to my George. To the George that I had thought he was.
***
When he tried to talk to me later, I was always distant. I said that I was busy with other plans, and eventually, he gave up, just went away.
It made me feel sad inside, but I knew that it was the right thing. He was not my kind of people and never would be. We could never have been happy together.
Eventually I graduated and went on to college where I met a nice man named Henry and we got married. We had two children and were happy.
He's very dependable. He's considerate and quiet. And though we don't have the long conversations that George and I enjoyed, we were happy.
Then came my high school reunion and Henry and I packed our things and made our way cross-country to the city where I grew up.
I wore a lovely peach colored dress and made sure Henry wore a nice suit and off we went to see everyone I used to know.
***
In some way, they were all like me. Happy in what they had, even if they were miserable. They were my kind of people.
I didn't see George, and I was oddly disappointed. Then I told myself that I didn't want to see him. Until I saw him.
He was leaning against the wall by himself. Dressed all in black, looking like something out of a dream. He was still tall and lean, with a kind of easy grace that I had never understood. His hair was grown long and pulled back in a ponytail that left his face bare to the world, a handsome face that I had always admired.
He was beautiful.
I hadn't known it, but I had missed him.
Over the years there had been moments when I had seen something or heard something that I had wanted to share with him, but he hadn't been there. I had pushed him away until he was gone.
Now here he was. Leaning against the wall, a forgotten cup of red punch in his hand, a slight smile quirking his lips. He looked as though he were waiting for someone. Waiting for me.
I looked for Henry and saw him in the midst of a group of men, talking and laughing. I was by myself, one of the few moments that I had been alone.
I steeled up my courage and began the long walk over to talk to George. To say that I was sorry for the cold way I had treated him in the end. To admit that I had been afraid all of those years ago, that I hadn't understood what was going on and that as much as I hadn't known him, I hadn't known myself even more.
But before I got there, a woman slid next to George. His arm went around her waist and he smiled at her with that smile that had only been mine.
It felt as though my heart was breaking, and I quickly headed toward the punchbowl, pretending that that was where I had always been heading.
Covertly, I peeked at the woman with George.
She was tall and thin, willowy. Her hair was cut short and she was dressed in dark clothes that shrouded her form, but that couldn't hide her beauty. There was a stark perfection to the white skin and black hair and lipstick. And standing next to George, I saw that they were a matched set. Both beautiful like wild animals.
I wanted to cry, but I didn't. George wasn't mine anymore; I had thrown him away for my more dependable and less magical life with Henry.
***
It took me a few years to realize what I had felt that night. To realize that I had been jealous of George and that woman.
I didn't have whatever it was that they did. That spark that shone out of them and made them seem so strange and alien, yet undeniably beautiful. They had something that I never would, something that I almost wish I had.
When I remember George that night we went to the club, I see something that I didn't really see then. A fey quality that surrounded him and all of those dark people that made them special in a way I couldn't understand. And I see that he had wanted me to join him, had tried to give me a spark of my own, and I had rejected it without even knowing that it was offered.
It hurts me to think of George and what might have been, so I try not to think of it.
I met him in the last days of winter and I said goodbye while the flowers of spring were still blooming. And now, in the autumn of my life, married to solid, dependable Henry, with my children and my house and my everyday life, I wonder what it might have been like if I hadn't run away. If I had stayed with George and become what I had seen reflected in his eyes. Maybe spring would have always been around me, or maybe the world would have gone straight from spring to summer and I would never have to feel the cold bite of winter again.
.
.
=THE END=
Hope you enjoy. Please give feedback.
Title: Flowers In the Spring
Author: Feygan
Original Fiction
Genre: gen-het. romance. angst
Rating: G
Home: http://www.darkgesture.com/fanfiction.htm
LiveJournal: http://feygan.livejournal.com
I was trudging down Main Street, heading to the bookstore where I worked part-time. He was coming the opposite direction and I didn't even notice him at first.
We met up at the crosswalk. He was crossing one way, and I was crossing the other, and we ended up sharing the same cement island.
I probably wouldn't have paid any attention to him at all if he hadn't been singing under his breath. It was a song that I had always liked for its catchy beat. I had never bothered to learn its name, but I knew all of the words and sang it sometimes in the bathtub. It was a song that had been around for years, a true classic, the kind of song that was always wonderful no matter how many times it was sung.
I couldn't help it. I turned and smiled at him, my mood changed completely.
He looked at me, this surprised look on his face. Almost as though he had just been punched hard in the stomach. For a second I thought he was going to throw up, but he was okay.
"Hi," he said hesitantly.
"Hello." He was most definitely not my type at all. Was so outside of my type that I couldn't even identify what type he was.
He was dressed all in black. Black jeans, a black shirt, a black trench coat that swirled around his knees, and even black sneakers. His black hair was a little spiky, and I couldn't believe it, but he was wearing makeup!
His eyes looked large and green and he had the nicest smile I had ever seen, even with the black lipstick.
"My name's George. Do you want to go get something to eat?" he asked.
I looked at him, then glanced down at my watch. I am strange in that I always have to be early for everything. I had about twenty minutes before I had to be at work.
"All right," I said, nodding my head.
He grinned, he was so happy, as though he hadn't thought I would actually want to go out with him. Then again, normally I wouldn't have. He was so odd.
"Come on," he said, gesturing the way he was headed. "There's a cafe on First Street that serves a wicked apple-crumb pie."
"Wicked?"
He laughed.
That was how I met George.
Even though we were so different, there were so many things that we had in common too. We liked some of the same music, we both liked to read, and we could both work up a good outrage from reading the newspaper.
After that first piece of pie, we met everyday. We had dinner sometimes and we went to see every movie. It was wonderful.
I never invited him home though. I knew what my parents would think. I also never invited him to come eat lunch at my table because I knew what my friends would think. They didn't know George the way I did.
He didn't seem to mind. He just ate his lunch with the other strange people and we never talked at school. It was only when we were alone that we could be ourselves.
Then, as the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom on the tree outside my window, he asked me to go to a club with him. He wanted me to hear a new band play.
"What kind of music?" I asked, unsure of whether I really wanted to go, but not wanting to hurt his feelings. Already I was falling in love with George and I wanted to be with him always, even if it meant a night of being unhappy.
He smiled. "It's that new stuff that's coming out. I really like it, I think maybe you will too. Please come."
I could never say no to him. "All right."
And so we went to the club he had heard about, a dark place that was vaguely threatening.
I knew instantly that I didn't belong here.
Everyone looked like George. They dressed all in black, they were very pale, and they all wore makeup, even the boys. There were lots of earrings and chains, studded collars, and grungy clothes.
I was a little afraid. I wasn't like them.
My face was scrubbed clean. My hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, my navy blue skirt was delicately pleated, and my white ruffled shirt was really out of place here.
"Maybe I should go," I whispered to George.
He took my hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "Don't worry, it'll be all right. I know you'll like it here."
"I guess so," I said doubtfully, following him to a table at the front of the room.
The place was so dark that it was hard to see, but I knew that there was a stage in front and that someone was gently strumming a guitar, getting ready to play.
We sat down, I unobtrusively wiping my seat with my handkerchief first. I didn't want to end up with some horrible disease or something.
"Stay here," George said, touching my shoulder as he got up. "I'll go get us something to drink."
"Okay."
He was gone for what felt like forever and I was a little frightened with all of these loud people shuffling around in the dark, yelling and laughing and singing to music that only they could hear. I wondered if they were all drunk or if they had been using drugs. It was scary.
Finally he came back and I almost cried in relief.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
I looked at him. "I don't like it here. I shouldn't be here. This isn't where I belong."
"Come on, you're just not used to it. Just stay here for a little while. For me?"
I couldn't say no to him. He was George and he knew me better than I knew myself.
I drank the Coke he had gotten me and we tried to talk, but I was still nervous.
We were there for almost half an hour before the band began to play.
They were dressed in the same dark clothes as everyone else, but there was something about them that seemed darker, harder than these others. Their hair was spikier, their black clothes were blacker, their silver chains and earrings were shinier, and there was an edge to them. A meanness to the tilt of their heads, a bleaker line to their lips.
They were the epitome of all of these dark people and I didn't know what to do. I just wanted to go home.
They began to play. They sang/yelled hateful words, whispered dark secrets that only they knew, mumbled in languages I couldn't understand, and became something I could never be.
The single stage light shone on them, turning them into long, dark shadows, frightening figures from all of my nightmares. I was more than scared now.
I looked over at George in the hopes of him comforting me and saw something I hadn't seen before. He was like them. Like all of them, not just the musicians.
He was dressed in that same dark uniform, his face had that same edginess, and there was that same light in his eyes. And though I had thought that he was sweet and kind and that I loved him, looking at him then, I saw only a stranger.
I realized that he didn't belong to my world of soft rock, of school dances and coming-out parties. He would never be what I wanted and needed him to be. He would never become a stockbroker or a lawyer; he would never go to an Ivy League School. I would never be able to bring him home to meet my parents and expect to have my father like him. He would never inherit the family business and carry our name on to greatness.
He was one of them.
These dark strangers that were almost like ghosts, swaying to this hard music that spoke of death and destruction and the end of all that I knew.
As we sat there, listening to that music, and I saw the way he watched the musicians, the way he swayed along with everyone else, I whispered goodbye to my George. To the George that I had thought he was.
When he tried to talk to me later, I was always distant. I said that I was busy with other plans, and eventually, he gave up, just went away.
It made me feel sad inside, but I knew that it was the right thing. He was not my kind of people and never would be. We could never have been happy together.
Eventually I graduated and went on to college where I met a nice man named Henry and we got married. We had two children and were happy.
He's very dependable. He's considerate and quiet. And though we don't have the long conversations that George and I enjoyed, we were happy.
Then came my high school reunion and Henry and I packed our things and made our way cross-country to the city where I grew up.
I wore a lovely peach colored dress and made sure Henry wore a nice suit and off we went to see everyone I used to know.
In some way, they were all like me. Happy in what they had, even if they were miserable. They were my kind of people.
I didn't see George, and I was oddly disappointed. Then I told myself that I didn't want to see him. Until I saw him.
He was leaning against the wall by himself. Dressed all in black, looking like something out of a dream. He was still tall and lean, with a kind of easy grace that I had never understood. His hair was grown long and pulled back in a ponytail that left his face bare to the world, a handsome face that I had always admired.
He was beautiful.
I hadn't known it, but I had missed him.
Over the years there had been moments when I had seen something or heard something that I had wanted to share with him, but he hadn't been there. I had pushed him away until he was gone.
Now here he was. Leaning against the wall, a forgotten cup of red punch in his hand, a slight smile quirking his lips. He looked as though he were waiting for someone. Waiting for me.
I looked for Henry and saw him in the midst of a group of men, talking and laughing. I was by myself, one of the few moments that I had been alone.
I steeled up my courage and began the long walk over to talk to George. To say that I was sorry for the cold way I had treated him in the end. To admit that I had been afraid all of those years ago, that I hadn't understood what was going on and that as much as I hadn't known him, I hadn't known myself even more.
But before I got there, a woman slid next to George. His arm went around her waist and he smiled at her with that smile that had only been mine.
It felt as though my heart was breaking, and I quickly headed toward the punchbowl, pretending that that was where I had always been heading.
Covertly, I peeked at the woman with George.
She was tall and thin, willowy. Her hair was cut short and she was dressed in dark clothes that shrouded her form, but that couldn't hide her beauty. There was a stark perfection to the white skin and black hair and lipstick. And standing next to George, I saw that they were a matched set. Both beautiful like wild animals.
I wanted to cry, but I didn't. George wasn't mine anymore; I had thrown him away for my more dependable and less magical life with Henry.
It took me a few years to realize what I had felt that night. To realize that I had been jealous of George and that woman.
I didn't have whatever it was that they did. That spark that shone out of them and made them seem so strange and alien, yet undeniably beautiful. They had something that I never would, something that I almost wish I had.
When I remember George that night we went to the club, I see something that I didn't really see then. A fey quality that surrounded him and all of those dark people that made them special in a way I couldn't understand. And I see that he had wanted me to join him, had tried to give me a spark of my own, and I had rejected it without even knowing that it was offered.
It hurts me to think of George and what might have been, so I try not to think of it.
I met him in the last days of winter and I said goodbye while the flowers of spring were still blooming. And now, in the autumn of my life, married to solid, dependable Henry, with my children and my house and my everyday life, I wonder what it might have been like if I hadn't run away. If I had stayed with George and become what I had seen reflected in his eyes. Maybe spring would have always been around me, or maybe the world would have gone straight from spring to summer and I would never have to feel the cold bite of winter again.
.
.
=THE END=
Hope you enjoy. Please give feedback.