Thirteen Times

… "I hate you" is the only thing he can say when their lips are crushed together, hands at each other's throats.

By:

Nitrophiliac

With the fantastic When Stars Cry as Evander Blackhall

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The Fifth Time: In Which There is a Meeting of Fate

(Or: How December and Evander Surprise Themselves by Talking in a Civilized Manner.)

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“Sweetheart?”

Oh damn. The last time she called me that was when she had wanted to move cross-country to find her online boyfriend, LoVrBoYrOmEo12. We moved from California to flipping Rhode Island to find that she had been virtually dating a 12 year old kid with bipolar disorder. See, she only called me ‘sweetheart’ when she wanted to do something “spontaneous”... (Read as: ‘drastically stupid.’)

I can’t handle another move. Or ridiculous life change. Not right now. Why was she able to do this sort of thing to me?! I am 2nd youngest, almost the baby, and she tortures me like hell.

“Darling?”

Oh shit. This is really serious. The last time she called me that she was divorcing my 3rd step-father and moving us all in with her mother...who hates me with just a bit too much passion. For three weeks straight, I felt like I was in a holocaust camp! (Okay, maybe that‘s a bit over-dramatic, but it was horrible there!)

“Honey?!”

Ugh...you must’ve caught on to the endearment pattern by now...

“Yes, Barb?! What heinous torture have you come up with for me now?!”

I was met with a blank stare and utter silence as my evil mother sat staring at me. Okay, maybe that was a little over-board, but imagine the dread and fear I’m going through right now! Think about me! My feelings!

“You’re such a self-absorbed drama queen! All I wanted was for you to go get some milk! You were going out anyway, right?!”

... Ugh... Heh heh, my bad. But I’ll never apologize to her! Thinking about the life of pain she’s brought me, I can’t bring myself to dignify her with more than a loud “...whatever!” So what if I am a drama addict?

And with that I stormed out, feeling a little better. ‘Now where to?’ Feeling amore than a little bored, I marched my black-engulfed, sexy looking tail (What’s wrong with a little self-appreciation?) to the park.

“Tired of being what you want me to be,

Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface.

Don’t know what you’re expecting of me,

Put under the pressure, of walking in you’re shoes.

Every step that I make is another mistake to you.

I’ve become so numb; I can’t feel you there...

...Wonder if he’ll show up...”

“If you're talking about me, I'd like to bring your attention to the fact that I’m already here.”

I spun around to meet bright, laughing eyes and the face of my (former?) enemy. After a minute of him barely containing his laughter and me almost blushing (I’m too punky to blush... Y’all know about that image crap), I was finally able to spit out a coherent phrase.

“What’s your name anyway?”

“December du Charbonneau,” he replied in a manner full of confidence and typical arrogance, and, yet, at the same time, so uncertain. “And I suppose it would be polite of me to ask for your name."

“Evander.”

He delicately arched a brow. “Interesting name...” Yeah, look who's talking, Mr. Month.

“For an interesting person,” I responded with a nonchalant shrug.

December’s lips sort of twitched, as though he realized and could identify with me on the crap I got about my name. Though, I suppose he would have understood, with a long-winded name like 'December du Charbonneau.' What was this guy, anyways, a kid from some royalty novel? ...He just stared at me for a while before continuing a rather shaky conversation.

“So," he began after his pause, making a commendable effort to speak to me, it would have seemed. "What was that song you were singing?”

“Holy crap," I responded in a tone of obvious disbelief, eyes widening briefly. "Are you serious? You’ve honestly never heard of Linkin Park? What planet are you from?!”

“Are you implying that merely because I don’t listen to your barbaric rock music, I am an alien?” December asked in a rather... ‘miffed’ tone.

Realizing once again the delicate state of our conversation, I quickly searched for a different topic.

“So... How old are you? When’s your birthday?”

“No,” he answered flatly. What kind of answer was that?

“What? Some sorta state secret, Dee?’

“...Dee?” Another one of his skeptical, 'I-don't-understand-you-common-folk' looks.

“Eh, too lazy to say the entire name.”

“...but, Dee?”

“Might as well get used to it. Now when is your birthday?”

He gave a reluctant sigh, hands falling to his waist. “Very well. As long as you don’t laugh.”

Ladies and gents, I tell you now, the one sure-fire way to make a person crack up? Tell them not to. Say “I’ll tell you as long as you don’t laugh,” and I guarantee they will. But I digress...

“Well?” I asked; the smirk more and more evident on my face.

There was a long pause between us, then...

“May 25.”

Now it takes me at least two minutes, but I sure as hell get it. The kid’s name is December, and he was born in...May! As the utter irony of this slowly unfurls in my mind, and my the smile on my face gets wider and wider, December is standing there quietly, stiller than a statue, just glaring at me and daring me with his eyes to laugh. And boy do I. I laugh and cough and at some point even cry, as the joke is made funnier and funnier by the outraged look on December’s face. He gets mad, then red, then even redder until I’m crying like a newborn, laughing so hard, and he’s standing as though he’s about to “engage in battle” or something of that nature. Then? Then he pops me straight in the mouth, leaving me with the bruise and smile this time. People? It feels good.

December glares at me once more for good measure, muttering something along the lines of 'this is what I get for trying to converse with him,' and spins on his heels and takes off. I watch him walk through the iron arcs in the front of the park and then get up myself, brushing the dirt from my Dickies and my furry, leopard-skin converses and begin to walk home, having completely forgotten the scene at my house earlier and the point of it. As I walk through the front door of the rather shabby, one-story building, I almost run over the Brat. Who is the Brat you may wonder? Stacy-Madison-Michelle. My little sister, the baby. She stole my title, my freaking room, and my family’s love, the little harpy.

She glares up at me, then starts to smirk in her little-person, demonic way. I could imagine the strange picture I made, what with the black tears going down my face and the bruise I knew was already forming on my chin, but I saw no need for... Smirking.

“MO-OM! Evander didn’t bring home any milk! Now I can’t have any CE-EREAL!”

Ah. Now I get it. She glanced back up at me once more, her eyes widening, and the smirk growing.

“AND he got in a FI-IGHT!”

Crap.

“EVANDER, GET IN HERE THIS INSTANT!”

Even with the insurmountable amount of trouble I was about to be in, flashbacks of that day in the park kept coming to me, causing me to grin as I walked past the Brat and muttered, “Devil child.”

“MO-OM!!!”

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TBC.