Author: They-Call-Me-Orange PM
Sweet perfume and dried tears. the life of Paige Michalchuk.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Paige M. & Alex - Words: 619 - Reviews: 24 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 4 - Published: 05-24-07 - id: 3555847
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi. If I did Palex would have a spinoff by now. There would be much groping.
Title: "Confidential" (thank you, random word generator) the chapter is... "Perfect"
Genres: General, Angst, Drama, Romance, et cetera.
Rated: T - a higher 'T', I guess because I talk about sex and curse and shit. See? Just like that.
Writing Tools: Microsoft Word and Windows Media player - that's all, I swear. Well, AIM if you count my advice from DSW.
Tunes: Brand New "Sowing Season", "Millstone", "Jesus", "Degausser", and, especially "Okay I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don't" because without that song there would not be this fic.
People: Doctor Sex Walrus: I am completely, utterly, convinced that I wouldn't be able to write a goddamn thing without her. I've become completely dependent on her infinite wisdom and badass snarking.
Author's Note: New thing. Sort of like "Sepia: Flipped" only that's a terrible title and this is a thousand times more cannon. Paige's side of Palex. This part takes place directly after "Don't You Want Me" part 2. Spoiler-y things ahead.
After the dance we drove around until she asked me to pull over. We parked, and sat, and talked, and kissed. I use "talk" loosely because it was more of a series of half-formed apologies and broken whispers. After breaths got too heavy and clothes became to restricting we drove back here.
When we got here the house was empty. Ellie out god-knows-where, Marco working his ass off to repay his father. We were alone. We knew it. What happened next was no surprise.
Now she's asleep. I'd like to think that I wore her out, but, honestly, with everything that's happened in the past few days I'm surprised she didn't pass out hours ago.
It was good. Strange, kind of awkward, and it made me wonder if all make-up-sex was like that. My actions were fueled by lust, and guilt, and need. She was uncharacteristically shy. Tried to cover herself. She'd never tried to hide herself from me before. I gently removed the sheet from her grasp but there was shame in her eyes and it took some of my best moves to get her to look me in the eye.
When she came she pulled me close. Her eyes closed, head tilted back, mouth opened slightly. Breath in short, ragged bursts. Her thighs turned to steel and melted.
She was perfect.
And I was everything.
Throughout the whole thing neither of us talked. Not until it was over. When she lie close to me, facing away, voice rough and barely a whisper. She whispered that she loved me.
I didn't say it back.
Probably wouldn't matter, because now she's sleeping. She probably won't remember.
She once said that I was perfect.
My parents wouldn't have sent me to dance lessons, wouldn't have paid for tutoring to improve my study skills, for cheerleading camp, for pretty dresses and make-up if they expected anything less.
She said I was perfect.
She respected me because I had everything figured out. I knew who I was, where I was going. She asked how it felt.
How the Hell should I know?
She said I was perfect.
I wish I felt like it.