Title: Am I Not Pretty Enough
Summary: Rory is watching Tristan with a girl up against a locker.
Spoilers: After Dean and Rory broke up but they didn't kiss and it is a while afterwards.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and the title comes from the song that inspired this fic, it's called funnily enough 'Am I Not Pretty Enough' by Kasey Chambers and it is really good.
Author's Note: This was written about three months ago when i was bored in a physics lecture and was wondering how fast my head would have to spin for my brains to come out from centripetal force, just thought you would like to know.
: Pretty angsty so sorry my next one will be a happy one, enjoy.
Am I Not Pretty Enough
She's got that supermodel quality all his other girlfriends have, but you'd never get her to realise it.
She watched him, she always watched him, she was just better at hiding it. Dean, the bum, had once said he had never seen someone read so intensely. He didn't get it, she wasn't just reading, she was paying attention too. She always looked engrossed but nothing escaped her, and definitely not him, she was just better at hiding it than him.
Sometimes she cursed her brain, her ability to think, ability to have a conscious stream of thought. It caused her more pain than joy at times like these, when he was with his new toy. She'd be wedged between him and her locker and would actually know how soft his lips were, how warm his embrace was, how strong his body was.
His affections weren't for her and they never would be, she'd never know him like this girl knew him, and suddenly she realised, she'd take it, the five minutes up against some locker kissing him, she'd take that over this dull ache. She never thought she'd be like that, always thought she needed more but with him anything was enough, as long as it was him.
She thought of the fact he didn't choose her, not that she could blame him, she'd made it obvious she didn't want to be chosen, and only if she didn't. Again her brain's fault, autopilot for her mouth, trait passed down from her mother. Normally she'd babble but not with him, with him she'd say things she didn't mean. Calm, cool, collected and mean that was what he brought out in her, that and these goddamn butterflies that spawned into pterodactyl.
He felt eyes on him, but didn't bother to turn around, he knew what he'd see and he didn't want to see it. Didn't want to see her disapproving eyes, he didn't want to feel the ache that started in his chest and moved through his body making it hard for him to breathe and to think. He couldn't feel like that right now, so he closed his eyes and kissed the girl in front of him hoping to erase the one behind. He knew what he would see in her eyes, nothing, and it hurt him, not lust, not love, not even hate, she didn't care enough about him to hate him. If she did it would be something he could work with hate is so close to love, he could change her mind he knew it but with nothing he knew she'd never feel the same.
The ache began to worsen so he closed his eyes tighter and kissed harder, and as hard as he tried in his mind he saw her face.
He knew that he was a masochist, the need to see her disapproval when she broke them apart to get to her locker. That's why, why it always took place there, he knew she'd come over eventually, she'd need books and hey if she could actually see that she didn't hurt him what a great bonus. The only thing better would be if she couldn't hurt him, or if she was between him and the locker.
She wondered how he learnt to go that, she wondered if it affected what's-her-name as much as it affected her, even from a distance. She knew the overpowering affect he had when her held her hostage during an argument but what about this did he feel different when it wasn't about anger, about, she couldn't say love but, lust. Did his intimidation change type when he held you up against a locker like that, flush against it, she never let him get that close. She so wanted to just grab that damn tie and knock his socks off sometimes and yet she knew she couldn't, she wasn't experienced, she couldn't knock the socks off a monk. She never let them be moulded together so that even light in it's infancy could not peek through, never been held against the metal locker, cold against her back and him warming her front. Didn't know what it was like to be held still by his lips, and kept standing by his hands. She wanted to know, she wanted it all, she wanted to experience him.
He knew she was softer than the girl he held in front of him, not really from experience but a knowledge that stemmed from his gut. He knew she would have soft curves to complement his hard lines and he wanted that instead of the bony thing he now held. He wondered if kissing the locker behind her would be any different from kissing her, at least it was Rory's.
He had to stop, had to move on, she wasn't interested and never would be and yet he couldn't pull himself from this cycle. She wasn't interested and she had made him uninterested in this too. The game he played was empty for him now, in truth it always had been, but he had been able to ignore it, not anymore, she made him crave more, crave her. He hated her for it, her ability to alter his entire world, to throw it off tilt without meaning to, without trying. He wanted to stop playing but he was afraid, she wouldn't be there when he stopped and was it worth it if she wasn't?
She had finally made him accept the truth, that this world, one that his father and his father's father had been born into, was not one he wanted. This shallow existence wasn't enough for him anymore; he had always seen it for what it was, a game to be played and to be won. Now he didn't want to win, didn't want to exist hollow, without the warmth she gave him, even if it was from pain, because that was real, no matter how much it hurt it was real. She had changed him and now he couldn't go back, he changed for her without realising and now she didn't see it and didn't want him.
She knew she'd be like him to if her mother hadn't run, she had never been happier that she had run until she came here, saw the emptiness that was this privileged existence. If she'd been born here she knew she'd be different too, she would be able to move past her stubbornness and take what she wanted because it would only be about one moment. She wanted that moment but she couldn't deny that she wanted the next one too and she couldn't give in as a result it. Would hurt more to know what she was missing when he moved on, than to never truly know.
She had said she didn't want him, he was the exact opposite of what she said she wanted, what they thought she wanted, exact opposite of her ex-boyfriend.
While she didn't doubt he would accept another notch on his headboard she couldn't be the one to pursue, she just couldn't, something else her mum passed down. And even if he did on a cold day in hell want something more then she still couldn't retract her earlier sentiments. She knew though she could, she was afraid, afraid was getting him and never letting go, of losing herself in his eyes and his arms and losing her heart most of all, even if part of it was with him already.
He knew class would start soon, but he refused to move, refused not to see her up close this morning, refused to not have her tap him on the shoulder, refused to lose that small contact. He was stubborn, he wasn't moving until she came and moved him. He wondered why she hadn't come over already, why didn't she care, why didn't she see him, and see the fact he wanted her and only her. He felt her move, and he hated that too, the way his body sensed hers knew her movements, and allowed him to always be aware of her, even when he didn't want to be.
She needed books, that was the only reason she was breaking them up, she didn't care if he spent all day kissing someone that wasn't her, and it didn't hurt, no, not at all, then why did she feel like someone has put sherbet up her nose. She admitted that if they weren't in front of her then she might be able to think of something other than what he kissed like. But she didn't like him, lust that was all, It was lust and her previous thoughts only the hormones racing through her body, she could almost hear her mother laughing at her feeble attempts to decline her feelings. She sighed and admitted to herself if no one else that she had feelings for him, god she wished her mind would leave her body for a while.
She got closer and he moved closer to the girl in front, maybe he'd get a response, maybe she'd care, or maybe he'd be left feeling cold still. Even if she didn't feel something then maybe it would disgust her a bit and she would look at him like scum. Then he could feel for just a moment, feel what it was like to be worthy of anything from her, any emotion, good or bad, damn it why did she have to do this to him.
She paused barely noticeably when he leaned further in and her mouth dropped open so she could actually breathe. She felt sick and tears prickled at her eyes but she refused to let them see it, refused to let him see it, to know that she felt like this, that she wanted him so bad that it hurt. She reached out and touched him on the shoulder, and he didn't respond for a minute so she tapped again, this time he pulled away and turned to her.
She tapped him on the shoulder and he wanted to run, run from the look she was sure to give him, run from the pain he felt. He waited to see if she would touch him again, reach out so he could pretend that she was doing it for a better reason than school. She reached out and in that moment his heart soared as he pretended and came crashing down as reality hit and he turned to look at her face, her beautiful, heartbreaking face.
They looked at each other and saw for a fleeting moment the truth between them but neither was willing to acknowledge it, willing to hope, willing to take a chance and maybe fail. The next thing they knew their faces changed and they could go back to being sad, despondent and most importantly unhurtable. Tristan gave Rory a smile that felt fake even to him and turned leaving both girls in his heartbroken wake. Rory moved to her locker and pretended not to be hurt that he hadn't baited her, and they hadn't sparred, pretended that she didn't long for it, the passion that it invoked and the release that it allowed.
Was this what love was, a pain in your chest that refused to go away until the object of your affection was yours or the part of you that wanted them was dead.