She stole your love,
She stole your spotlight.
You get suspicious when he calls you less, and when he does you only talk for five minutes, not forty-five like usual.
You get even more so when he stops inviting you to his place, and stops picking you up and dropping you off from school.
Whenever you bring it up he ignores you and tries to change the subject. You let it go, because you're in love with him—even though you're not sure about how he feels anymore.
When you are six and your sister is three, you and your family go to New York. You fly in First Class, because Mommy and Daddy are just that sophisticated. You sit by the window, looking out at the fluffy clouds and the pretty blue sky that eventually turns into yellow, then pink, then a pretty navy blue (just like Mommy's blazer, and Daddy's watch, and your sister's shiny red shoes. You have a pretty yellow bow in your hair, which compliments your purple stockings and dress quite nicely. You've always been out of the crowd.)
You snap when you find him kissing her in the hallway.
You don't cry, you don't scream—but you laugh. You don't know why, you just laugh, and laugh, because it's just so ironic. The one good thing in your life has been taken away. Perfect. Awesome. Spectacular, isn't it?
You sob into your black pillow at night, which, by the way, still smells like him.
Your sides still hurt from laughing.
When you go to Broadway with Mommy and your little (perfect—oh look, she's better than you!) sister, everyone compliments her as she twirls and giggles and hums. Everyone is standing around her, and whoops!—sorry, sweetie, got pushed out of the crowd!
You don't care though; you just turn away, and wave at a good looking man with a sleek brown ponytail and a nice and sharp tuxedo. He smiles back and waves too.
You walk over to him, pushing through the throng of the paparazzi, and tug on his pant leg.
You ask, "Who are you?"
He looks down at you and says, "Why, I'm Gregory Sikowits, Broadway star." He gestures to a pretty lady with chocolate brown hair and pretty, sparkly, green eyes. You cock your head for just a second—she looks really tired. "This is my wife, Marie." The pretty lady waves, you wave back.
A few minutes later your mother comes over, apologizes to the good looking man and tired pretty lady, scolds you for walking off like that (but why should she care? You're sister is obviously the better one.), and pulls you away.
You get one last fleeting look and the man, until you're pulled around the corner.
You and your family don't visit New York anymore, but that's okay, because you know you'll be there again, and you'll be a star, just like the cool man and tired lady.
The next year you see the man again, in a picture, on the cover of tons of magazines. He's crying.
One day, when you're at Mal-Mart, you squint and try to sound out the words.
Greegee Seekowhites' wife dies of caner.
Yes, you are seven, but you know enough about the world to know what the word caner means.
That night, you pray to God and ask if the pretty, tired lady is alright, and if He could be good and let the cool looking man feel happy again.
"So I heard Tori stole Beck from you."
"Oh wow, thanks so fucking much for the reminder."
"Hey, it's okay—I kind of hate Tori too."
"But she's your sister."
"So? That doesn't mean I'm not allowed to hate her."
The first time you two kiss is… strange.
Sure, it's in a play—and sure, it's scripted—but it doesn't seem fake at all.
It isn't love, or lust, or some stupid, awkward, gay crush, but it's an understanding. It tells you both that you share the same pain. It gives you both a bond, which will soon be as strong as forever.
Backstage, as everyone congratulates the both of you (finally), and as everyone crowds around you (God, just leave me alone!), you both send secret looks at each other—some in awe, some confused, and some just plain happy.
Even though she's about two years younger than you, she's still really, really stronger.
She locks the both of you in a closet, nothing is said, because you get her, and she gets you—what else is there to say?
She kisses your jaw line, and you kiss her lips—which are surprisingly super soft. The both of you moan in pleasure for about half an hour in that old closet, both of your phones vibrating in your pants pockets which are—whoops!—on the floor. You ignore it, and continue on.
The next morning you're both snuggled up in bed at her house, you told your mom last night that your friends dragged you over to a sleep over (oh, wow—another little lie?). Jade's mom is out of town again, getting high. You both are happy though (you haven't been in a long, long time) that you have the whole house to your selves. You look at her for a little while, study her creamy, pale skin, and find a few cute freckles along the bridge of her nose. You look down at her wrist, and find a few pink scars, some a little bit more new. You take in a shaky breath and think about the ones on your (fat) thighs.
There's another big showcase when she's in her senior year (you're majoring in Fashion Design,) and she gets two years on Broadway, another two if the big hot-shots there are impressed.
That night in bed she tells you, in a little, indecisive, voice that is so not like her, that she's scared. She's scared of her dreams, she doesn't want them to fly away just like her mother's. You sigh and shake your head, because you know that everything will be fine. She stops fretting.
Over the years you both have realized a few things about each other.
Like how you both like your coffee black with sugar (although you like yours with cream too.)
Or how you have been dreaming about New York, and you name in lights (hers on a sign at Broadway, yours on a sign at Fashion Week,) since you've both been little.
How she likes the soft cookies, not the hard; and how you absolutely love to draw, something not even your family knew about, they were always too busy fawning over her, anyway. "Oh sweetheart, you don't like bologna, do you?" "Sweetie, could you please turn on the fan—she's a little hot." (You were freezing.)
But whatever, you got the prize.
Ugh. I don't really like the ending, but whatever.
Would this pairing be considered a Crack one to you guys? I dunno.
Anyway, I'm really digging this.
And yes, I added in Sikowits! Why? I dunno, thought it'd be kinda cool. *smile & point thing—go!*
OH! PS! – I'm starting a Glee meets Victorious fic! And yes, there will be the Mickenley High Gang in it, just towards the end, in Nationals.
But could someone please co-write it with me? I need all the help I can get, I don't want to waste a good idea/plot on a terrible writer, I also suck at multi-chap fics. Anyway, just PM me the deets, kk? Thanks!