Archive of Our Own

You saved me.

You don’t know that, do you?

I was stuck, before. Trapped in the smothering deserts of Arizona, surrounded by boring people and banal conversation. They’re all so dull , and I was drowning in the boredom, desperate for a way out.

And then, you .

You, in all your perfection.

You were never boring.

The first time I saw you, it was on a glossy magazine cover. You were wedged in the tight black wires of the check-out stand, nearly obscured by Good Housekeeping. Your eyes drew me in, that beautiful brown shining up at me. 

I grabbed you, before anyone else could.

My mother didn’t react when I added the trashy teenage magazine to her groceries. She always let me have what I want. She was dull, and dim, and as mind-numbingly useless as all the rest of them, but she never said no.

I took you to my room the moment we got home. I didn’t open the pages, not at first. Maybe part of me feared you’d disappoint me. That I would read your words and you would bore me just as much as all the others. I stared at your face on the cover, instead. Your smile was intoxicating. Your eyes saw me. I traced the light freckles on your skin, admired the soft curls of hair around your ears. I read your name, emblazoned in bold font across your forehead.

Julian. 

The word tasted beautiful. 

And my darling, you were anything but disappointing.

I devoured your words. All your brilliant answers to boring questions, the way you twisted the most basic topics into art. 

You were perfect.

I’d never wanted anything the way I wanted you. It consumed me, ate me alive. 

I couldn’t get enough of you.

That very first night, I stayed up for hours. I searched your name, read every word of your Wikipedia article once, twice, three times. I learned your name - your whole name, the double middle names and hyphenated last. I found your parents, the world-renowned actor and the celebrated actress. I watched your films. You were so young, in the beginning, a tiny thing with bright eyes and a smile too wide for your childlike face. You were flawless, even then, outshining actors ten times your age every blessed moment you graced the screen.

Your roles got darker, as you aged, and I could see the pain in your eyes.

Were you really that brilliant of an actor, Julian? Or was the pain real? Who could possibly hurt you ?

Your work was beautiful, and meaningful, and important .

(We won’t talk about Something Damaged . It’s beneath you, and I hope you know that. I hope you realize you’re better than teenage soap operas, that you’re leagues ahead of the likes of Cameron Pike and Clark Sawyer and Isabel Montero . People ship you with Clark, did you know that? I sent him something, to let him know he didn’t deserve you. Just in case he got any ideas.)

It took me weeks to get through all your interviews. I learned your favorite color (green), your favorite food (roast turkey sandwiches), and your favorite band (Haven, though I couldn’t help but wonder if that answer was fed by your publicist). You talked about your hopes to work on your music, and I fell down that rabbit hole for a few days. I didn’t have a full album, much to my dismay, just a handful of singles you’d released over the past few years. 

I listened to your voice in my ear as often as I could. I wore headphones constantly, played your music from the moment I woke to the moment I slept. 

And I realized something, Julian, on one of those long nights, with your voice in my ear and your face on my screen.

I loved you .

You were everything I wanted, and everything I wanted to be. Beautiful, and talented, and brilliant. You shone like the goddamn sun, and I’d never loved summer more.

I met you once, before. 

Would you even remember that?

You were so busy, pushed into a crowded convention hall with the rest of those useless wastes of space from Something Damaged . I’d skipped school, for two days, had driven for hours and hours to see you. You were so much brighter in person, and when you laughed at something Sawyer said, I swear our eyes met.

They said you weren’t staying for autographs.

But you were so kind, Julian, so caring. The others moved on when the group of teenagers swarmed you, but you didn’t. You smiled, and you signed autographs, and you thanked them for coming. 

I didn’t have anything for you to sign. I wanted to hit myself, for not bringing anything for you to sign.

But you looked at me, and smiled, and you knew , didn’t you? You knew how much you meant to me, how much I wanted to have your name forever. Your fingers wrapped around my wrist, and I swear, Julian, it took every ounce of self-control not to faint. You waited a moment, to make sure I didn’t mind (as if anyone could possibly mind), and then your felt-tipped marker pressed into the skin of my arm.

You smiled, and then they pulled you away. But I had your name. I had the J, and the U, and the L-I-A-N, the final loopy L that trailed off into a swirl, fading into the skin of my wrist. 

I stared at your name for so long, Julian. I drove home one-handed, my arm propped up on the window, just so I could stare even more. 

Your name.

On my skin. 

I thought about having the letters tattooed, so that I could keep them forever. I wondered if you would find it romantic, if you’d understand that I did it out of love. But the letters started to fade after just a few days despite my care, and I watched the ink disappear into my skin.

I’d have more than just your name in ink, one day. 

I didn’t know how, of course. We’d made that first connection at a convention, but five seconds of eye contact could never be enough.

It took me far too long to find the answer. Far too long to figure out how to really meet you, how to get your attention.

Julian Larson goes to my cousin’s school!!! Terrible quality (buy me a new phone, dad, lol!) but here is he taking selfies!!

The attached photo was grainy, out-of-focus. But I could tell. I could see you, on one side of a chain-link fence, smiling brightly as a young girl snapped a photograph. It was you, Julian. I knew that surer than anything. You went to school . A normal, brick-and-mortar school . You’d spoken of tutors, in interviews, and your schedule had you all over the world, and I’d always assumed you were home-schooled like so many other young actors. 

The girl who originally posted the photo was vague, of course. Coy when asked.

I can’t just tell you what school, that would be a violation of privacy!! ;)

She knew how valuable the information was, of course. Your people kept that kind of thing locked up. I respected that. They kept you safe. I wanted that, too.

But she caved, of course. She earned so many new followers in so short a time, and no young girl could possibly ignore that kind of popularity surge. Those kinds of people always craved attention.

Look, all I’m saying is that I didn’t expect to see someone like Julian Larson in Ohio. *zips lips*

It wasn’t hard from there.

I searched for Julian Larson + Ohio , filtered through all the useless shit, and there it was.

There all of it was.

You had so many fans, Julian, so many people craving your attention. So many people who saw you, at restaurants and coffee shops and shopping malls. Most of them from one city.

Westerville .

It took all of thirty seconds to connect the dots from there.

You wouldn’t go to public school, Julian. Not like me. You would never survive long days with those boring people, would never deign to put your perfect hands on a grimy locker. 

And Westerville only had one private school.

Well, two, but I hazarded a guess that you didn’t attend Dobry School for Young Girls .

Dalton Academy had a website. No mention of you, of course, or any of the current students. I scanned the list of notable alumni, found the names of politicians and Pulitzer Prize winners. Exactly the kind of school a boy like you might attend. Illustrious. Prestigious. With an obscenely high tuition bill.

My parents had money. More money than they quite knew what to do with. I’d never wanted it before, never cared for antique furniture and designer clothing.

But money could get me to you.

It was laughably easy to convince them, you know. A list of universities most commonly attended by Dalton graduates (Harvard, Yale, Princeton, even schools like Cambridge and Oxford), a printout of notable alumni (Senators, Businessmen, even a President), and a pamphlet of all the many wonderful benefits the school provided (SAT tutoring, award-winning extracurriculars, teachers who held PhDs). That’s all it took. 

They loved the idea. They said it would be good for me, praised my grades and my talent and signed the application right there. I knew I’d get in. Public school was laughable , Julian, and my grades were impeccable. That’s all you needed, right? Grades and money.

Still, the day the thick envelope landed in the mailbox, I felt nervous . I took the envelope straight upstairs, set it on my bed and prayed.

(I’m not religious, Julian. I prayed to you , prayed to the universe that they’d let us come together again, that I’d be gifted with this opportunity to be near you.)

They let me in.

Of course they did. The universe knew we needed to meet, that we were meant for each other.

I packed a suitcase, and I got on a plane, and before I knew it, I was on my way to you. 

To you , Julian.

Did you feel me?

Did you feel the planet tilt on its axis, every molecule between us shortening as I traveled? Did you feel it the way that I did?

Because I felt it, Julian. I felt you , closer than ever, within my reach.

I needed you, Julian.

And I knew you needed me.

I saw it in your eyes. Every time you gave an interview, every time the cameras flashed. You were just as lonely as me, weren’t you? You wanted something just as badly as me. You wanted more .

I knew what that felt like.

We were going to save each other, Julian. I could save you, just as you saved me. I let that thought fuel me on the trip from the airport. That we would find each other, that you’d see . I knew I could make you see, if I just had the chance.

But Julian.

Oh, Julian.

Things couldn’t be quite that easy.

I arrived at Dalton, and they led me to a dorm called Hanover , where a boy with a British accent began droning on about rules and expectations . I tried to listen, Julian, I really did. But I couldn’t bring myself to care about heritage , not when I knew you were so close.

They gave out a directory to new students, did you know that? Listing every student and their dorm, giving out their school e-mail address.

I found your name. I was a little disappointed to see the red S beside it, so different from the blue H of Hanover. But that couldn’t keep us apart. So what if you were in a different building? You were close, and now I had a new way of contacting you.

(I never did e-mail [email protected] , did I? It seemed so informal, and I wanted to talk to you in person. But maybe I should have tried, maybe I should’ve seen how you would have responded.)

I couldn’t ask about you. Not right away. How would that have looked, Julian, if some new student came and immediately sought out Dalton’s resident celebrity? 

They couldn’t know I didn’t care about you being a celebrity. You could have been a teacher, Julian. You could have been homeless . I still would have seen you.

So I took my time. I unpacked my bags. I smiled at the other students. I pretended to give a shit about the ones who introduced themselves. I went to orientation. I got my class schedule.

I attended my first day of classes.

How, Julian, could the two of us be in the same grade and not have had a single period together? It was like the universe was taunting me, letting me close but not letting me see . 

But I could be patient, Julian. I could be so, so patient. 

I researched , Julian.

I couldn’t ask about you, still. Nobody in Hanover really seemed to know you, anyway. It made sense, that you were so private. You couldn’t let just anyone into your world. They knew some things of course: you attended theatre club meetings, even if you weren’t technically a member. You were surprisingly smart -- surprisingly, they all said, as if they couldn’t see the brilliance in your eyes -- and took multiple AP classes. The baseball coach asked you to try out, they said, but you couldn’t commit to the schedule. You had friends. Two in particular, both in Stuart with you.

Logan Wright and Derek Seigerson.

Julian.

Oh, Julian.

How ?

Seigerson was fine, I supposed. A little too alpha male, but intelligent and responsible.

But Logan Wright ?

I’d only just gotten to Dalton, and already I knew how drama followed him around. He was cold, and cruel, and callous, and how on earth could someone as beautiful and perfect as you be friends with someone like him ?

I thought maybe there was something to him I couldn’t see. But I watched him, Julian. I watched him, and it only ever got worse. He hurt people. People he claimed he cared about. He always looked angry, and I worried.

Had he ever hurt you , Julian?

Of course, it was as I watched him that I saw you.

You .

Wright was complaining, it seemed, just as always. His face was pinched, his eyes dark, his fists clenched. Like a goddamn Disney villain, Julian, all that anger and ugliness written all over his face. And right beside him, you.

God , you.

You shone , Julian. Like the goddamn sun. You showed up, and suddenly we all fell into your orbit. I wanted to approach you that day, but I knew better. To get to you, I had to be patient. I had to wait.

And I was so goddamn patient, Julian.

I watched you. I watched, and I paid attention.

And I learned something awful .

Logan Wright ?

Of all the people you could have, of every single human being in the whole world, why him? How on earth could you have chosen him , out of everyone else? Him, with the anger and the rage? Logan Wright , who only spoke to you to complain, who used you as a springboard for all his frustrations, who couldn’t appreciate the beauty before him.

I wasn’t sure, at first. I wasn’t sure if it was just a crush, or something more. But you stared , Julian. You stared and you sighed and you fucking swooned , all for a boy who didn’t spare you a second glance.

He didn’t deserve you.

He didn’t deserve to be near you, to breathe the same air. 

(How could anyone have you so close and ever look at anyone else, Julian? How does he not notice? How can he care about Kurt Hummel , someone so boring and plain and average, when the sun was standing so close?)

He didn’t deserve you, and still you loved him.

You loved him, Julian, when you should have loved me. And you would, one day. I knew you would, once I just got you to see.

So I found the time to make my move.

I sent letters before, of course. I’d been sending letters for ages. Letters, and roses, and testaments to my love for you. 

But Valentine’s Day .

What could possibly be more romantic?

You looked nervous, Julian, the day I saved you. You’d seen the teenagers, the ones you didn’t recognize from school, and you knew you were five seconds away from being swarmed by a fan club.

So I saved you.

You looked startled, when I grabbed your wrist. I could barely keep myself upright, when my fingers touched your skin. It was electric, exhilarating, and I knew you felt it too.

I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Julian, and I messed up.

See, I’d taken up smoking, when I saw you do it in a movie. You looked so beautiful, with the smoke trailing from your lips, and I wanted a taste.

By the time I found out you’d quit, that you hated the habit, I was addicted.

Just as I was addicted to you.

But I messed up, and I had a cigarette in one hand when I pulled you along. I had a fucking cigarette , and when I saw your face I hated myself. I threw it out as soon as I realized.

But then I messed up again .

(Do you see what you do to me, Julian? How nervous you make me? How off-kilter I am around you?)

I threw it out, and I apologized, and you noticed when I said that I knew you hated it.

I couldn’t save that, Julian, and so I chose to play self-deprecating. You made self-deprecating jokes in interviews. I thought maybe you’d appreciate it.

I called myself creepy . A fanboy .

I didn’t believe it, Julian. I wasn’t creepy, I simply noticed you. I wasn’t a fanboy, I was in love . 

Still, it made you smile.

I gave you a sandwich. One I’d made for myself. Your favorite - roast turkey. You smiled again , like I was a hero.

But then he came.

Logan Wright .

He was awful to you, Julian. He accused you of terrible things, of seeking out attention, of enjoying the swarm of fans that had found you. 

You should have told him to fuck off, Julian. But you didn’t.

So I did.

I’d never hated someone with quite the same ferocity as Logan Wright. How cruelly he treated you, how much I knew his words hurt you, how ignorant he was. 

I hoped you’d realize.

I knew you’d see. That Logan Wright was nothing . That I would save you, that I would defend you.

But you were upset , Julian.

Upset that I got involved, upset that I would call him out.

I just had to get you to see , Julian.

It seemed I’d have to take more drastic measures.

The bleach burned. It burned , Julian, on my skin and in my lungs and in my eyes. It was painful and awful and absolute torture. 

It was common knowledge, really, that you had a preference for blondes. You’d said it in interviews, joked about it online. Most of the silly little girls you’d been photographed with had blonde hair.

Logan Wright had blonde hair.

It was an easy fix, for me.

It didn’t turn out quite as I expected, I had to admit. The bleach was difficult to work with, and I didn’t quite manage to apply it evenly. I didn’t intend on you seeing it, Julian. I would fix it first, would find a way to repair the mottled shades before I let you see.

But then I heard a rumor, Julian. 

That you were sick .

Someone said you looked ill, that your friend Derek was fussing over you.

And I had to see for myself, Julian.

I had to take care of you.

You seemed okay, really. A little underweight, maybe. 

(Do you see now, how useless your friends were? Complaining that you looked sick, but they couldn’t even be bothered to make sure you were fed properly. I would never make that mistake, Julian. I would keep roast turkey sandwiches for you, would stock up on cherry lollipops, would always have coffee ready.)

The laugh did hurt, Julian.

I knew you didn’t really mean it, that you were simply amused by my failed attempt at impressing you. But after the laugh, you took my hand .

I almost couldn’t stand upright.

You told Kurt -- why , Julian, would you associate with that boy? -- you wanted to help me fix it, that you wanted to be with me , wanted to be worshipped for a little while.

You knew, didn’t you?

You knew how desperately I loved you, even if I hadn’t told you yet. You knew I would be the one to worship you, to finally tell you how perfect you truly were, to give you everything you’d ever wanted. 

If you wanted to be worshipped, I would gladly build an altar. 

In fact, Julian, I had one.

Not that I would show you, of course. Not yet. You weren’t ready for that.

But I did worship. Every single night. I collected all the pieces of you I could. Photographs, at first. But at school, with us closer, I could collect more. The napkin you’d used to wipe your mouth at lunch. A pencil you’d dropped in the hall. A Stuart House pin I’d swiped off your blazer. All the little pieces of you I could get my hands on.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand…

But you couldn’t make it easy for me, could you?

I supposed it was only fair. That someone like you couldn’t come to me so easily. That I would have to prove my worth. That I had to show the world how much I loved you. How right we were for each other.

There were people in the way.

The entire time I’d been at school, my fellow dorm mates had left me alone. They understood I was quiet, that I preferred keeping to myself. I was polite to them, Julian. There was no need to be rude. The girl, Merril, enjoyed Something Damaged , and I sometimes watched with her. 

But then they got nosy, Julian.

They questioned me.

They said I was being overbearing , that I seemed obsessed with you.

They were the first on my list.

Then it was that strange boy from Windsor, him and the little girl. I could feel them following me, feel them watching me. 

They were next.

Derek had to join them. I almost felt guilty about that one. But he was too close to Logan. He didn’t understand my gifts. He worried , Julian, and I couldn’t have anyone putting those kind of thoughts into your pretty head.

Kurt joined the list, too, if only because he thought he was so superior to you. How anyone at that school was fascinated by him when you were right there was beyond me.

And Logan, of course. Logan, who hurt you the most, who deserved to suffer the most. His downfall was almost fun to plan.

I got carried away, Julian. I became overly dramatic.

The little game those Windsor twins played, where they fancied themselves in a storybook, where they created their own little Wonderland -- I found it childish. Absurd. But I gained a strange sense of joy when I used the game for myself.

Off with his head , I scrawled on every photo of Logan. Of Kurt. Of Derek, and all the others who stood in the way.

Off with their heads .

But we weren’t in Wonderland, Julian.

We were in Verona, in Paris, in Eden. We were star-crossed lovers, and the whole world stood in our way.

(I didn’t intend to kill anyone, Julian. It’s important to me that you know that. As badly as I wanted to, as much as Logan Wright deserved it, I never planned to kill him. You’re so much more sensitive than you like people to think, Julian, and I knew it would hurt you. I only meant to get him out of the way, just long enough for us to have our chance.)

Logan had far too many weaknesses for someone who made enemies so easily. His allergies were common knowledge, and I toyed with that idea for a time. But it was difficult to find out exactly how badly he’d react, how quickly it would affect him.

His medication was such an easy choice.

He was so careless with it, Julian, almost as careless as he was with you. With your heart. It wasn’t hard to get my hands on it, to replace a few of his pills with something I’d picked up on my own.

Once the bottle was slipped back in his bag, I had to move quickly.

I picked the perfect day, of course. The whole school was in a frenzy, and everything was set up so beautifully. They filled the Art Hall with candles, and I knew an artist like you would appreciate the romanticism in that.

Of course, nothing could ever be easy for us, could it?

I didn’t want to hurt poor little Reed Van Kamp, truly. 

Nobody was meant to be in that Hall for hours. But there he was, scurrying around like a little mouse, and he’d already started to look suspicious. I had to incapacitate him. Just briefly, Julian, just long enough to make sure he wouldn’t pull more people into what was meant to be my private declaration of love.

I wasn’t quite ready yet, you see. I had such big plans. Flowers. Candles. Everything, for you.

Would it surprise you, Julian, to find out that the strange Windsor boy was snooping around my room as I prepared? That he’d found my things, found my altar, that he threatened me?

He had to go, too.

The little girl was next, and I thought finally, foolishly, it was time.

But no.

Little Alice had to go and ruin things again. I found him in the Art Hall, when I went back to finish setting up. He asked about you, Julian. The first time anyone at that godforsaken school showed any consideration for you, and it came from him . 

I told him the truth.

I told him I had to protect you. That I was the only one who could protect you.

That I was going to make you happy.

He argued, of course. He fought. But he was weak, just like the little Dormouse. 

Perhaps it was more romantic, with an audience. With people to see how much I cared, how much I loved you. They would see, and they would realize , and so would you.

I heard you, in his room. I heard your beautiful voice, singing such a sad song for someone who would never listen.

You wouldn’t be sad anymore, Julian.

You looked surprised, when you saw me.

I hadn’t realized I’d gotten so much of their blood on me.

You thought it was mine , didn’t you? You looked so worried , so concerned , and it was all for me. You saw the blood, and you worried I was hurt.

It was touching.

But oh, Julian, you didn’t understand. You seemed so reluctant to come with me, and you fought . It hurt me, so very badly, that you still couldn’t see.

But you would, and so very soon.

It was sweet of you to worry about Danny. Pointless, but sweet. You screamed, when I fought him, and I couldn’t have your scream drawing attention.

(Hitting you is my biggest regret, Julian. I hurt you, after promising to protect you, and I hate myself for it. But I had to show you. I had to bring you, so that you’d understand, and you weren’t getting it .)

You felt so lovely in my arms. The weight of you, resting against my chest. Your warmth. Your scent.

It was intoxicating. 

I couldn’t help myself.

I laid you down in the Art Hall, surrounded by my roses and candles, and I stole one tiny kiss.

Your taste , Julian. I almost lost myself.

But there was still work to do. Still a declaration of love to be made.

I didn’t understand how you could be so frightened. You looked so scared , darling, when you woke. You pleaded, and you begged, and you implored me to let the other boys go.

Your kindness was so touching, Julian, but I couldn’t.

You must have known I couldn’t. They would have ruined things. They would have run straight to the others, to the people who wanted to take you away from me.

I thought I had killed Danny Abbot. Thought I had rid myself of the only person who knew where we were, where I planned on taking you.

But I must have been wrong, because who showed up uninvited? Logan Wright .

Logan fucking Wright.

With an axe .

I had to laugh, Julian. 

Three years he had you.

Three years he failed you.

And he chose that moment to storm in like some kind of avenging knight.

He should have realized he was the monster in the story all along.

He couldn’t win. I wouldn’t let him win.

It was cruel, Julian. I knew even then. It was cruel, and hurtful, and a betrayal of your trust.

But I needed him to see . I needed him to hurt .

You cried, when I made you tell him. I wasn’t really going to hurt you, when I held that knife to your throat. I just needed you to say it, needed him to realize all he’d lost. All I was taking from him.

You saw his face. You saw the horror there. The disgust.

You must have known, then, how much he didn’t deserve you. 

Still, you begged him to leave, begged him to take the others and run.

But he didn’t.

It wasn’t a fair fight, Julian. You must have seen that. Must have known I would’ve won, if he’d followed any of the rules. But he had backup , and a weapon , and Julian…

I fell.

(You will tell me, one day, what happened as I slept. Won’t you? You’ll tell me how you turned Logan away, how you told him you finally saw , how you realized you never really loved him the way you thought you did. How you told him he was worthless , how he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.)

(You did tell him, didn’t you?)

That could’ve been the end of me, Julian.

They told me, after, that the entire building went up in flames. That a teacher didn’t make it out. That those weak friends of yours only just managed to be rescued. 

There was one thing they didn’t need to tell me.

One thing I already knew.

I felt you, Julian. I smelled you. I heard you. I sensed you.

I knew it was your arms that wrapped around me. Your strength that carried me to that window. Your body pressed so close as you led us both to safety, to freedom. 

I could only barely open my eyes, after. I knew we’d hit something softer than the hard ground, felt the hands pulling us apart.

Always pulling us apart, Julian.

They took you away.

They took me away.

Always, another barrier to our love.

I don’t know where you are, Julian.

I don’t know if you know where I am. 

They give me medicine, here, awful stuff that warps my mind.

But I remember you. Always.

And I know you remember me, too.

You finally saw , Julian.

You finally love me, too.

I know you do.

Because you saved me.