Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Pretty in Pink. Those rights belong to John Hughes.

Author's Note: Drabble, future fic. I'm not really sure how I feel about this one, but regardless, enjoy!

Pairing: slight undertones of Steff/Andie


This isn't love, it's an obsession.

The thought strikes her like a heavy handed blow and it's almost enough for her to pull her keys out of the ignition and go back inside, resuming another night of restless sleep.

Almost, but not quite enough.

After nearly sputtering out twice, the engine roars to life, the familiar purr soothing her nerves slightly. It wouldn't be long before it gave way to rust and age, but the idea of parting with her beloved little pink car made her stomach fill with dread. It was foolish of her to think that this would remain a constant in the chaos she called life, but it didn't stop her from holding on; the only things she had left these days were hope and dwindling dreams.

The winding pathways are familiar, shifting and narrowing with every curve, and if she just looks at the asphalt, she can pretend things have never changed; the city is still full of life and the shops are buzzing with activity, the raucous laughter of youth filling the spaces in between.

The little yellow slip above Trax catches her gaze and her knuckles turn white as she veers the car around, ignoring the heat beginning to pool around her eyes.

Everywhere she looks is another reminder that time waits for no one; all the condemned buildings surrounding her are shrouded with melancholy and regret. The debris begins to lessen as she travels further away from the urban dwellings that riddle her memories and towards the area that haunts her dreams; perhaps, there's a chance that it's still standing tall and proud amongst the decay.

She slowly parks the car along the side of the road, barely daring to chance a look at it; what she finally does see is terrifying.

The once beautiful colonial home is now a phantom of it's former glory; the roof is concaving in, while the oak railings are rotting, and the once manicured lawn is now full of twisting vines and snares of weeds. The young girl inside her looks on with eyes of mourning, languishing every crack, every splinter; the woman she has become only sees the decay of the inevitable.

Even armed with the knowledge of the present, nothing can ease the dull, all encompassing ache that is creeping it's way into her chest.

Her trembling hand gropes for the shift, before she pauses, catching sight of something faint and glowing out of the corner of her eye; towards the house, there's flickering spark that quickly dies out into a burning ember. Her hands settle back onto the steering wheel as she peers out of the window; she can just barely make out a silhouette, curtained underneath the sagging terrace.

The burnt sienna rises and falls against the darkness in dull, monotonous pattern; like a firefly that's forgotten how to use it's wings.

After a few moments, a man walks out of the shadows, his step no longer filled with the jaunty swagger she once knew; his stance is now firm and solemn, a funeral march to ghostly notes. The moon highlights his silhouette, disarming her; aside from a few weathered lines, he looks almost identical to his former self.

She had almost forgotten that he once lived there, all those years ago, back when the house was still full of life and splendor. She would think that he would be thrilled to see it's decline; after all, he had been watching it's descent from the wings, basking in the afterglow of lust and bourbon, the ruler of a lascivious hive of hormones and chaos.

Her heart stops when those hardened, glacial orbs catch her own, illuminated by the light of nicotine.

There are no formalities, no wooden stares, no sneers, just a quiet moment of understanding; they're the last two people left invested in this small town and soon, it will vanish too, leaving them orphans of a dying dream. He breaks her gaze, flicking the ashen remnants of his cigarette to the ground and for once, she thinks, she may have been wrong about him.

While it might have been destructive, he too, loved this house in his own way.