Now you get to see what Laurel’s response will be! Fun!

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Just So You Know– Laurel

“I love you.”

What?

Laurel’s mind stopped working for a moment as those words echoed in his ears.

Ryland loved him?

He could almost say he knew; in the back of his head somewhere, he’d always a had a sort of hunch that hadn’t fully invaded his consciousness til just now. And he’d always had sort of a hunch of what he’d say if Ryland ever told him this.

He could practically feel Ryland’s heartbeat quicken, hear him hold his breath as he waited for Laurel’s response. In his mind Ryland’s face appeared; beautiful and cheery, smiling brightly, those dark green eyes aglow.

But now that he was being put on the spot, what would he say?

He had an idea; he’d always harbored an affection for Ryland, one that went deeper than just being attracted to him physically or platonically. At a time, when he’d first realized that he sort of liked him, he’d thought it was love. But then, Laurel had never really been in love before; he had no idea what it felt like. What it was supposed to feel like.

Was love that eruption of butterflies in his stomach whenever Ryland called his name?

Was it the way he longed to take Ryland’s hand in his whenever their fingers brushed against each other?

Was it the overwhelming desire to protect and care for him, to hold him tightly when he was upset and to make him laugh when he was already happy?

Was it the way he wanted to show off for him, the way he blushed so easily when Ryland did something for him?

Was that love?

Laurel had no idea, truly; but he knew that he’d do anything Ryland asked. He’d jump off cliffs, he’d walk on water, he’d save children from burning buildings, all if it got him Ryland’s attention. You’d do anything, his mind told him again, anything in the name of Ryland Hollister.

In his mind, he came to a conclusion.

And he knew exactly what to say.

“Love you too.”

He could care less that Pixie was staring at him, Delano green eyes wide and mouth agape; could care less that he’d just confessed his love to this wonderful creature over the phone, in the least romantic way possible. All that mattered was that now he actually knew how he felt; saying it out loud had made it real.

“I’ll see you soon.”

He loved that voice. He knew that now. “Mmkay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

And he hung up just after Ryland did, holding the phone, almost mystified. He turned to Pixie, and a grin spread over his face. Laurel gestured at the phone and told Pixie, elated:

“I love him! Oh my God, Pixie...I love Ryland.”

“Good for you,” Pixie replied, nodding slowly, looking marginally frightened. “Really. I’m just acting like this because I have no idea what just happened, and I’m slightly freaked out. Just ignore me.”

“No, no, no. We have to go see Ryland–and Beckett.” Reality sunk in, bringing him down slightly. “Ryland says Beckett is acting weird–wrong–and he asked me to come over.”

When Pixie didn’t look convinced Laurel added pleadingly, “He sounded really worried.”

“Fine.” Pixie stood up, crossed the room, and snatched the keys from Laurel’s hand, looking irate. “Let’s go, then.”

Laurel just grinned, following Pixie out into the purple-skied sunshine.

--

Kaleidoscopic– Beckett

Beckett is a complete mess. He knows this much.

He’s almost embarrassed for himself now, even as the tears stream down his face and he’s laughing so hard his sides are tensing up painfully and Ryland’s coming in, just looking at him. He’s almost ashamed as Ryland sits on the edge of the couch and regards him with wide eyes, uncertainty and wariness clear in his gaze.

“Becks,” Ryland says softly, in a tone reminiscent of one speaking to a child. “What’s wrong? Laurel and Pixie are on their way over here right now, it’s okay. Settle down, Beckett.”

But Beckett can’t really speak then anyway, but the giggles die out at the mention of Pixie’s name, but can’t Ryland see that Pixie here would not help anything at all?

His heart sinks; he was in no shape to see Pixie at all, let alone anyone else. Pixie already thought he was dead pathetic (he was). How would seeing him crying hysterically improve the way he saw Beckett? It wouldn’t, that’s how.

“Beckett...” Ryland softly then, as if he could read his brother’s thoughts. “I know you think this is useless, but if you just talk to Pixie it can only help–really, I mean it. Please, just try.”

Beckett wants to say no more than anything, but his heart wants to resolve this. He had never been one to hold grudges or leave conflicts open. Against his will his mouth opens and the barest “Okay” escapes.

Ryland smiles and pats Beckett on the shoulder, nodding. “Now let’s settle down, okay?”

Beckett can’t bring himself to mind being treated like a child (he’s certainly acting like one) and hiccups accordingly, the audible noises slowly petering off until only his chest shakes with every exhalation like he should be still sobbing but he’s not. He allows himself to be soothed by Ryland’s thereness, and if he had been in any shape to think of anything else he would’ve been just a little amazed at how well Ryland played the parental figure.

“Why don’ t you go into the bathroom and clean up a little bit?” Ryland suggests when Beckett is quiet, staring balefully at his hands. “I’ll let you know when they get here.”

“Okay,” Beckett replies softly, standing up, aware of how much older than him Ryland seemed to be. He couldn’t bring himself to mind, though, because he knew that unless Ryland hadn’t come in he would’ve simply curled up on that couch and cried until he fell asleep again.

His feet carried him to the bathroom, surer than he felt, and the door clicked shut behind him.

Beckett turms the sink on, feeling the water run cold under his hands, and looks up at himself in the mirror. He definitely looks pathetic; face pale, eyes red, the hint of a sickly flush on his cheekbones. Why was he like this?

Now irritated, he bends his face to the sink and let the water stream through his fingers before closing them and splashing his face as if to wash the image away. It seemed to soothe him, the simple motion, and he repeated it almost mindlessly, carelessly.

Noises from outside the bathroom distracted him temporarily, and water trickled from his stilled hands to soak his collar more thoroughly. He had not been careful; water was everywhere, pooling on the counter and dripping from his hair.

Beckett’s hand goes to the door and he opens it, stepping out, running one hand through his hair. “Ryland?” he calls, his voice creaky with disuse. “Ryland, are you–”

Pixie stops short down the hallway, frozen in place.

Beckett’s stomach drops through the floor and he is lost for words. Pixie is there, dark hair in his eyes, mouth parted in surprise. The expression that fleets across his face sends some unreasonable pain shooting through his chest, and Beckett can tell his own face has to be shocked and empty and frightening and pathetic.

Neither one of them moves, simply staring; in the background Beckett can hear Laurel and Ryland speaking quietly in the kitchen.

Pixie is the first to break, twitching slightly and then turning slowly to fully face Beckett. His eyes are on Beckett’s shoulders, not meeting his eyes for a moment, long lashes silhouetted against his cheekbones.

And then he looks up and Beckett’s world is momentarily tilted sideways. Pain and sadness and why are you doing this what’s happening radiate from those clear green eyes, that vivid color that Beckett would distinguish from any other for the rest of his life. He’s aware that he’s staring ridiculously now, but it’s almost as if he’s forgotten what Pixie looks like in the few tumultuous hours that separated them, like his tears had cleansed his mind of those memories.

Pixie’s mouth closes, compressing hard pink uncertainly into a line, no resolve in it, and then it opens again.

“Beckett,” he whispers hoarsely.

Beckett wants to move, to cry, to run, but he can’t because God damn it he doesn’t know why. He’s pinned in place by those eyes, that voice, and it’s only when Pixie’s face falls slightly that he is startled out of place.

“Pixie,” he says in return, voice just as grating, and he could swear he sees Pixie shudder minutely.

“Beckett,” Pixie says again, eyes widening, pleading, begging. “Beckett, what–” his voice breaks off and he has to stop, running one hand through his hair as if that will hold him together. Beckett is hanging on his every word, watching Pixie disintegrate from the inside out.

When he speaks again Pixie’s voice is strangled, soft and desperate and silk against his ears. “Beckett, what have I done?”

It should be ‘what have I done?’ The thought skips through Beckett’s mind along with a thousand others, none of them prompting him of what to say in the slightest.

He has no idea of what’s going on, still. Why Pixie’s looking at him like that. Why he can’t seem to do anything right.

Beckett is cluelessly, hopelessly lost.

--

Short and disappointing (well, the end was, anyway), I know. But at least it’s up. And I already sort of have a plan for the next chapter. Hopefully it’ll be exciting, which I’m expecting it to be if I can get it right.

And if this sucks (which it sort of does) it’s because I wrote pretty much all of Beckett’s POV from four to five in the morning in a bout of insomnia, which is becoming pretty regular lately. It took me almost an hour to write two and a half pages. Needless to say, I’m kind of disappointed.

Review, please.