Archive of Our Own ^beta

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 There’s someone new in town. She’s confident, mysterious, a rebel, everything you’re not. She makes music- she is music, loud and complex, finding her way into your head and using the memories you hold to stay alive. And one day she’ll fade away, but never leave you.

What a life she must live, only being a memory. She’s as free as you could possibly imagine, and there’s nothing for you to do but look through the golden birdcage you call status.

You hate her. You have no other choice. She’s not what you know, not what you want to know. She hates you too.

And in a strange way, it’s exciting, lighting a spark of recklessness that you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in years. You’re attracted to her, the way moths are attracted to bug zappers. 

And she’s attracted to you too. Or maybe just amused. Either way you want to impress her, show her you’re worth something, something she’ll never have.

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 You're counting the seconds until you leave. You could swear on everything that your van was far too sturdy to break down in a random town, but it could very possibly just be the universe torturing you again. It's been nine days. You've never been anywhere this long. 

 You've never been anywhere this strange before- everyone's too nice, too involved with you.

Or maybe it's just that one girl.

Her name is Spot and she won't leave you alone. She tells you she's an artist, as if her paint-stained clothes and bright streaks of colour in her blonde braids weren't a big hint. You're willing to bet she has a crush on you, and if you weren't who you are, maybe you would entertain her fantasies. She's pretty cute after all, and she likes your music.

Unlike that other girl.

 Her name is Jewel and you hate her. She's materialistic, bratty, and perfect. Perfect in the sense a porcelain doll is perfect, in the sense that she's sheltered and polished, that a single wrong move could chip off her painted on smile. You think she knows that, that the reason she wants you to leave is so much heavier than a fear of change. A part of yourself you try to suppress, wants to see that doll worn down and tattered, brought down to your level. The part of you that's in control just wants to see her crack.

Maybe you'll stay a while.

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She’s hard to ignore, as much as you try.

 She lives right across from you after all, taunting you whenever she gets the chance.

 At least she comes to the boutique. Most don’t. Not when it isn’t a special occasion, like a banquet that just so happens to be hosted by you.

It’s not desperate, it’s a marketing strategy, you think.

 Anyway, she comes to the boutique. She’s at the boutique. And you’re at the countertop, waiting for her to at least pretend as if she’ll buy anything.

 It’s only slightly better company than your cat, who’s decided that you’re not interesting to tag along with for the day.

”Will you ever buy something?” You ask, bored out of your mind.

”Maybe when you get something good,” She replies. “Can’t you get rid of all the pink?”

You frown. “I’ll have you know I made ‘all that pink’.”

She doesn’t look impressed. “Can’t you, like, diverse your set or something? There’s nothing in here for normal, non-fancypants royal people.”

She’s not wrong, as much as you’d never admit. Everyone in town has very different styles and aesthetics, and only, like, three other people are royalty.

It used to be more. But that’s not her right to know.

Nevertheless she’s right, there’s nothing in the store that matches with her… punk expression. Nothing matches her silver leather jacket, her chunky boots, or fashion monstrosity of a hot magenta tutu over glossy black jeans.

It’s an odd sense. It’s dangerous, above all.

And alluring.

Tempting, even.

”Hey, glitter? Are you even listening to me?” She chirps, knocking you out of thoughts you’d rather not have.

”The store is closing,” Is all you can trust yourself to say. “Please leave.”

”Aww, so soon? I was just getting started!” She feigns sadness, and in three steps she’s out the door.

You do not think she’s pre- aesthetically appealing. That’s the right word.

You begin to think of a new casual line for the boutique. Something that lets everyone be unabashedly themselves.

Big words for a living performance.

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 You’re a brat. You’ve known that since you were old enough to pretend not to care what people think. But now that you’re standing outside your door in front of two care packages the fact really sinks in.

 One is a nostalgic cotton-candy pink with a white ribbon, the other decked with every colour in the rainbow. Not hard to guess who sent what.

Why is a far more harder mystery. You know your sister- your lighter than air, golden girl, sweethearted sister. She sends you a package every two minutes. The only reason you stop driving is so that she has an address attached to your name.

You take them in, inspecting them as if they’d shatter at any moment, as if they’re too soft for your painstakingly self-inflected edges.

They both come with letters. Your sister’s is eight pages long and somehow marshmallow scented. You’re briefly worried; it’s not like her to be so short.

The other is half a page, and every word feels like a novel.

Dear Storm E.,

Welcome to LalaloopsyLand!!! I’m so happy you’re here!!!

(This is spot, btw) 

To celebrate your arrival I made you this Welcome Box. It’s got everything you need to be a Lalaloopsyland citizen! I know you’re not sure about staying but if you do (and I hope you do) you’ve got everything you need right here!

And you’ve got me!

(Down the street, not in the box lol)

- Spot

P.S Favourite cupcake flavour??? 

Your favourite cupcake flavour is red velvet and you are brat. You don’t deserve this, this affection. You don’t look at what’s inside the box, knowing it will add to the growing pit where your stomach should be.

You need to listen to sad music, or angry music, or bug Jewel.

you pick all of the above.