can you hear a smile?
Oct. 11th, 2004 09:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluelovesorangeThe usual suspects apply - Regina, like, this is totally your fault.
Drabbles, drabbles, everywhere!
this delicate balance 1/1
another ending and beginning
Lover.
Boyfriend.
Mason is none of these things. The words don't fit him, and they don't fit her either. They've always just been Mason and George.
Now they're just MasonandGeorge or GeorgeandMason, and she always thought she'd never be one of those girls. She's still not, really - it's not like they walk hand in hand or with each other's hands stuck in the other's back pocket (and really, who wants to walk around with someone's hand on their ass all day?).
Besides, if Mason's hands were in her pockets, he'd be looking for her wallet.
It's an absent-minded thing he does, almost on autopilot.
The first time he did it, he was embarrassed. "Don't know what to do with my hands, sometimes."
She had only rolled her eyes and said, "Nice party trick, Mason. Now hand it over."
What they are, for a lack of a better word - is them. Mason doesn't stop grossing her out from time to time and there are days, when she thinks there is something terribly cliche about being in love with her best friend, but really, who else is there for her?
Mason doesn't drink as much as he used to, and she doesn't flatter herself into thinking he's doing it for her.
Sometimes though, when they're at Der Wafflehaus, and Mason is sitting across from her, and she's not really paying attention to the menu, she'll feel him bump her knee underneath the table. And he'll smile, a wide mischievous grin, and she has to bite her lip so she doesn't betray to the other occupants of the table just how happy she is. And she bumps back, because she just has to.
George does not gaze upon Mason with a barely-contained look of longing, or any of that ridiculous stuff she's read in Daisy's left over romance novels. All she has to do is turn her head and Mason's looking at her, and they are not discreet at all. When she goes home, there's always something waiting for her on the kitchen table - an apple, or a flower, something perfectly formed and just waiting for her to pick it up.
Mason says I love you in a hundred different ways, and only one of them involves English.
When Mason says it for the first time, the first real time where she hadn't felt he had been saying it in a platonic way, she had been angry. Furious, even.
Typical Mason to make some attempt at a 'moment' and then just bail, like he was teaching her about the birds and the bees, or vandalizing public property and here you go, George, have a nice life, except hey, you're DEAD.
Yet she keeps on having these experiences, and it makes her sad and just a little more angry that she wasted her life like that, because she would have never met Mason in her life, and fuck him, he can't just go around telling girls that he loves them and then just *leave*.
When she sees him again, he's at her house, and she just spits out that Daisy's not there, and she's not Daisy, so fuck off already, and Mason leans in and stops her from slamming the door in his face.
"Georgie," and why is it that now he can undo her with just her name?
"You could never be Daisy. Not in a million years."
She hears it in his voice, that same quiet urgency he used when he told her he loved her.
She lets him in.
This is what George knows - that Mason is ticklish right underneath his left arm, by his ribs, that when he's feeling particularly maudlin, he can recite Chaucer. He has no great love for pudding, and he takes his coffee black but inevitably pours in half a pitcher of creamer because he can't stand the bitterness. He has an expansive collection of t-shirts, only half of which are permissible to wear in polite company, and the other half are too rude to contemplate, or filthy. Mason does laundry every other week and he prefers showers over baths, because "who wants to marinate in their own filth all the time? No thank you."
He never looms over her and whenever she's standing hip-to-hip next to him, he never makes her feel like a delicate swooning flower. He makes her laugh, often by accident.
They don't talk about Daisy very often - George still lives with her, and Daisy never asks about Mason. It's as if an invisible line has been drawn in the sand - life pre Mason and life with Mason - and George doesn't want to delve too much into what Daisy thinks about it. She thinks she might not like the answer or Daisy, for that matter. There are a million other topics in the world to talk about, anyway.
So she locks the door behind herself and beckons Mason over to her and they'll just lie on her bed, her hand resting against his chest and his face pressed against her cheek. His stubble gets a little bristly and ticklish and she teases him about making her break out in a rash, and he sing songs, "You've got Masonitis. It's completely incurable."
She smiles and says, "Lucky me."
Tomorrow morning, he'll steal her hash browns and she'll throw the little plastic jam container at his head. It gets all over his cheek and he laughs and wipes it off with his thumb. He looks at her from beneath his eyelashes and smirks.
Mason is not her lover or her boyfriend. He just is, and that's more than enough for her.
Drabbles, drabbles, everywhere!
this delicate balance 1/1
another ending and beginning
Lover.
Boyfriend.
Mason is none of these things. The words don't fit him, and they don't fit her either. They've always just been Mason and George.
Now they're just MasonandGeorge or GeorgeandMason, and she always thought she'd never be one of those girls. She's still not, really - it's not like they walk hand in hand or with each other's hands stuck in the other's back pocket (and really, who wants to walk around with someone's hand on their ass all day?).
Besides, if Mason's hands were in her pockets, he'd be looking for her wallet.
It's an absent-minded thing he does, almost on autopilot.
The first time he did it, he was embarrassed. "Don't know what to do with my hands, sometimes."
She had only rolled her eyes and said, "Nice party trick, Mason. Now hand it over."
What they are, for a lack of a better word - is them. Mason doesn't stop grossing her out from time to time and there are days, when she thinks there is something terribly cliche about being in love with her best friend, but really, who else is there for her?
Mason doesn't drink as much as he used to, and she doesn't flatter herself into thinking he's doing it for her.
Sometimes though, when they're at Der Wafflehaus, and Mason is sitting across from her, and she's not really paying attention to the menu, she'll feel him bump her knee underneath the table. And he'll smile, a wide mischievous grin, and she has to bite her lip so she doesn't betray to the other occupants of the table just how happy she is. And she bumps back, because she just has to.
George does not gaze upon Mason with a barely-contained look of longing, or any of that ridiculous stuff she's read in Daisy's left over romance novels. All she has to do is turn her head and Mason's looking at her, and they are not discreet at all. When she goes home, there's always something waiting for her on the kitchen table - an apple, or a flower, something perfectly formed and just waiting for her to pick it up.
Mason says I love you in a hundred different ways, and only one of them involves English.
When Mason says it for the first time, the first real time where she hadn't felt he had been saying it in a platonic way, she had been angry. Furious, even.
Typical Mason to make some attempt at a 'moment' and then just bail, like he was teaching her about the birds and the bees, or vandalizing public property and here you go, George, have a nice life, except hey, you're DEAD.
Yet she keeps on having these experiences, and it makes her sad and just a little more angry that she wasted her life like that, because she would have never met Mason in her life, and fuck him, he can't just go around telling girls that he loves them and then just *leave*.
When she sees him again, he's at her house, and she just spits out that Daisy's not there, and she's not Daisy, so fuck off already, and Mason leans in and stops her from slamming the door in his face.
"Georgie," and why is it that now he can undo her with just her name?
"You could never be Daisy. Not in a million years."
She hears it in his voice, that same quiet urgency he used when he told her he loved her.
She lets him in.
This is what George knows - that Mason is ticklish right underneath his left arm, by his ribs, that when he's feeling particularly maudlin, he can recite Chaucer. He has no great love for pudding, and he takes his coffee black but inevitably pours in half a pitcher of creamer because he can't stand the bitterness. He has an expansive collection of t-shirts, only half of which are permissible to wear in polite company, and the other half are too rude to contemplate, or filthy. Mason does laundry every other week and he prefers showers over baths, because "who wants to marinate in their own filth all the time? No thank you."
He never looms over her and whenever she's standing hip-to-hip next to him, he never makes her feel like a delicate swooning flower. He makes her laugh, often by accident.
They don't talk about Daisy very often - George still lives with her, and Daisy never asks about Mason. It's as if an invisible line has been drawn in the sand - life pre Mason and life with Mason - and George doesn't want to delve too much into what Daisy thinks about it. She thinks she might not like the answer or Daisy, for that matter. There are a million other topics in the world to talk about, anyway.
So she locks the door behind herself and beckons Mason over to her and they'll just lie on her bed, her hand resting against his chest and his face pressed against her cheek. His stubble gets a little bristly and ticklish and she teases him about making her break out in a rash, and he sing songs, "You've got Masonitis. It's completely incurable."
She smiles and says, "Lucky me."
Tomorrow morning, he'll steal her hash browns and she'll throw the little plastic jam container at his head. It gets all over his cheek and he laughs and wipes it off with his thumb. He looks at her from beneath his eyelashes and smirks.
Mason is not her lover or her boyfriend. He just is, and that's more than enough for her.
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Re: I really do love that icon
Date: 2004-10-12 04:26 pm (UTC)Gah! I can't see the previews! Sho.com doesn't let anyone outside the states onto their site and the place I usually download them from isn't working right now.
hee, thanks for writing it!