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She's only eight years old when she stumbles across him in the park, shifting around sand in the sandbox. She's intrigued by him; he's not like most eight year olds. His eyes remain guarded and hidden behind tinted glass, and his mouth remains unmoving (unless you catch it at the right moment, she learns.)
He doesn't say anything when she sits down next to him, folding her dress underneath her knees. When she asks him a question and he still doesn't respond, she thinks that maybe he's the kind of person who can't speak or can't hear, the kind of people that her grandpa explained to her when she had a classmate who couldn't talk.
Before long, she finds out he's only shy and withdrawn by nature, not deaf, and that his colloquialisms are beyond her own comprehension. He sputters words like he had been reading the dictionary recently, reciting each and every word precisely according to memory. She tells him he talks funny and he hits her. She cries and runs to her grandpa, and when she turns to point out the source of the problem, he's gone from sight.
~.~
He's nervous. Why should he be? He only has to go out into the world now with a smile full of metal. Lucky for him, he never smiles. Lucky for the world, too, he supposes.
One of the assistants leads him back out to the waiting area where his brother waits patiently for him, the latest copy of GQ in his hands. He rolls his eyes at him, and the nurse beckons him over in order to pay for the visit and to set up his next dental appointment. The TV hums in the background with Blues Clues on for the younger children in the room. He hears the door he just came out of open and someone flashes past him.
"Mr. Harley, she's all done," the assistant beckons to the few people seated in the room. An older man saunters over, his hair graying with age, but the rest of him still in the peak of living. His gaze follows back to the person the old man is with, and when he takes a good long look at her, he can't help but feel the sense of familiarity ringing throughout his mind. He's not sure how, but she catches him staring, her own gaze lying on his. He reckons he'd recognize those bright green eyes anywhere, but he still cannot place the origin. She offers him a half-hearted smile, one full of metal just like his. He's not sure why, but he smiles back at her. Then she's gone.
~.~
She's fourteen when she's in her first relationship. He's sweet and nice and she thinks she's going to be in love with him forever. He strums melodies for her on his acoustic guitar and she can't help but think she's the luckiest person on this whole planet. Later on, he convinces her that they should make love, because why not? They're both mature and they love each other. She agrees, and the next day he dumps her, says it's not meant to be. She spends a week cooped up inside her room, crying while she listens to Kelly Clarkson and Coldplay and R.E.M. She feels as though she's hit rock bottom, and everything around her feels wrong.
The next week she's back onto her two feet as if nothing happened. His name is burned from her memory and his stuff is burned from her room, and she swears to herself that from now on, she'll stick to studying and friends.
At least until college.
~.~
He's fifteen when he discovers the art of djing. He saves up enough money and buys himself a decent turntable and headphones, and although it's hard to figure out at first, he picks up on it quickly. He's amazed at how easily music flows from his fingertips, and within a month he's made a whole cd containing the songs he's made. He's so egotistical, he even sends it out to a record label to see if he can make a deal. A week later it returns with a note written in red: Good stuff. Needs more work and time. Good luck, kid. He tosses the note and cd into the trash and stores his sound equipment away into his closet, swearing never to touch it again.
He's mixing a new cd within the next week, a little more humble this time around.
~.~
She's eighteen when she decides to study physics. She's always had a knack for science, and her grandfather tells her it's because her parents were proficient in the subject, so she might as well have inherited it. She takes pride in that fact, knowing she'll be able to make a name not only for herself, but for her parents, too.
She visits Berkeley at California, testing out the grounds to see if the college is right for her. It's awfully big and certainly not anything she's used to, but something about the place and the people just feels right to her. She spends the night in one of the dorms and witnesses her first college party, where she's offered alcohol for the first time. She takes a sip and decides that beer is nasty, especially when lukewarm, but gulps it down anyway. The room spins a bit but she remains calm and composed, sobering up a lot when the music plays.
Someone beckons her to dance but she declines the offer, only wanting to listen to the music. It flows through her mind as easily as water through a groove in the dirt, and she sways with it as it plays. Eventually she's able to make out the head of the person performing, just the bob of blonde flashing over head. She does a double-take when she recognizes the boy at the turntables, but she can't place where she's seen him before. She catches a glimpse of a smile from him and remembers who he is, sans a hunk of metal shoved into his mouth. She tries to wait for the end of the concert to meet him but she can't even make it, passing out in her designated dorm room before the big hand on the clock reaches midnight.
She thinks she might attend Berkeley, afterall.
~.~
He's eighteen years old when he accepts a scholarship to Berkeley for paleontology. He's not sure how he made the grades for it or how he even found his passion for dead preserved things, but he tries it out anyway. He graduates high school early to get a head start, because what's really left for him in this dead end town of his? He'll leave nothing behind, that's for sure.
He's djing for an event when he catches sight of her in the crowd. She's like a mirage to him--a vision of something he wants but really isn't there in the first place. Her eyes are so vibrantly green that he can detect them all the way across the dancefloor, and he feels that same tingle of deja vu rush through his system as he felt years before. For some reason unbeknownst to him, he smiles at her (he's never been one to smile at anyone in his entire lifetime.) He wants so desperately to run over to her just to make sure she's real, but he makes the fundamental mistake of taking his eyes off her for all of one second. When he glances back up, there's nothing there but an empty void, and he thinks perhaps it's the alcohol in his system presenting a ghost to him. It's a whole lot easier than pining away for something that isn't real.
He gets over it quickly, his mind getting lost in the flow of the music.
~.~
She never really believed in true love. Well, there was a time she did, way back before her heart was broken innumerable times by boys who had only pretended to love her, pretended to care. So she brought her head down from the clouds and started facing reality, her heart caged in an iron box to shield it from outsiders who'd ever dare to do the same.
Now, she's starting to believe in love at first sight again.
His name is Becquerel and technically she's not allowed to keep him in the dorms, but she sneaks him in anyway. She sneaks him leftovers from the cafeteria at night, and he's the best dog shes ever owned in the entire fucking universe.
There does come a point where her RA discovers her secret, along with the rest of her hall, but he's so adorable and well behaved that not a single person let's it slip out to any higher authority at Berkeley.
He does cause a ruckus only once, when he manages to wrestle away a pair of headphones from one of the guys living on campus, but she's able to return them to him, chastising Becquerel as she slides him back into her bag. Even though she knows he won't answer back, she demands to know what was possibly running through his head, because this wasn't about to be a 101 Dalmatians scenario or the beginning of some shitty romcom. It didn't matter how cute the blond in question was: she was here at college purely for her own education, nothing more, nothing less.
~.~
He's at the spry age of twenty when he kisses her underneath the oak tree near the botanicals. It's sloppy and messy and cherry-flavored and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, but it makes him feel alive. It ignites fire into his veins, she ignites fire into his veins. Her sharp nails claw at the nape of his neck, bunches up the locks inbetween her long, spidery fingers. It takes him a second to register the hot flavor of cinnamon burning his tongue, and he suddenly understands her nickname 'The Teal Dragon'.
She makes him happy. Truly. She tests his patience and pushes every button in his system, but he enjoys the challenge. He enjoys having someone to constantly be up against, someone at the ready to jump onto his train of witty remarks and become the conductor of sarcastic quips. She does everything to make him feel not so distant from everyone. He suddenly has dozens of friends where he had only one before, and although he'd prefer to be aloof, he can't shake the pleasant energy coursing through his system.
Two months after he says 'I love you' they take a road trip. He makes them both ridiculous tie-dye t-shirts with 'Road Trip Buddies' written on the back for ironic effect, and she dons it proudly beside him. They have no real destination, they just drive and feel the wind whip through their hair, inhaling the scent of fresh air. When it gets dark, they stop on the side of the highway, lying beneath the spectacular array of twinkling stars above them. She rolls gently on top of him and they make love and he can't help but think that god he is so in love with her.
But this love is not eternal, and within another month she's gone, hanging onto the crook of some other guy's elbow. He loses all those 'friends' he claims came by the dozens, and he slips back into his regular slump of a daily routine, promising himself that maybe he'll lay off the romance for quite a while.
~.~
She's twenty-one when she has her first legal sip of alcohol. There's something satisfying about being able to buy alcohol and control the amount that enters her body, and she takes three shots when she gets to the party the fellow RAs threw together for her. She's a bit of a lightweight and begins wobbling after that, but she finds her equilibrium, returning to socializing as if nothing ever happened. She spots a couple of her friends in the crowd and joins them, sitting at one of the tables.
"Great party, Jade!" her friend John shouts to her. "Oh, there's someone I'd like you to meet. Here's Dave Strider!"
She can barely hear him over the music, and all of a sudden someone is pulled out of the crowd and thrust toward her. He's still laughing from a previous conversation, a bit thrown off by John's intrusion into his flow of things, but his face drops immediately at the sight of her. Her reaction is the same, and she thinks it might be the drink getting to her but damn he looks familiar. Not the kind of deja vu in passing, where she's felt as though she's been in one place before. It's the kind of deja vu that fills every nerve in the brain with images of this person, destined to meet but never know.
"Hey, haven't I . . . "
"Yeah, I swear I've . . . "
"Wow, it's good to finally meet you."
"Ditto."
It's moments like this in her life that she doesn't underestimate or leave unnoticed, sort of like a ten dollar bill abandoned in front of a donut shop or the constant influx of signs that led her to Berkeley. She spends the rest of her twenty-first birthday party talking to him, catching up with him as if he were an old friend, and to her, he practically is. She likes that about him. And eventually when the party dies down and everyone's leaving to return to their dorms and apartments, he hands her his number and makes her promise that she'll make time to hang out with him again. She smiles wide, nodding as she takes the slip of paper, and then he disappears, leaving her swaying amongst the dark of the recreation room as 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' fades in the background.
The next day, she decides to never drink that much alcohol again.
~.~
He's twenty-one when he realizes for the first time that paleontology is just not for him. He spent his last four years in a program entirely for it, and now, four years and almost one complete bachelor's degree later, he's realized he not only doesn't like it, he hates it. Most importantly, he hates that he never even knew until just now. He calls up his bro to announce it, to confess that he doesn't have a goddamn clue what he's doing.
"Just get through the degree, then figure it out. You'll get it sorted, don't worry."
What he doesn't tell him is the other part of the truth, the first part being that he does not want to continue a path on paleontology, and the second part--he wants to become a DJ. He doesn't tell him this because they're broke and he was supposed to be the saving grace to the two of them with his large income, now washed down the drain.
He can't even remember why he chose Berkeley in the first place.
~.~
She finds him tucked away beneath one of the gazebos hidden within the botanical gardens, lying flat on his back. She's got two beers in hand and she offers him one for his troubles. He sits up and takes the bottle gingerly, unscrewing the cap with the fabric of his shirt before taking a swig of it. She sits opposite of him, her legs outstretched as she faces him. She tries her best to reassure it's okay, that it'll get better, she just knows it. He shakes his head.
"No, it won't."
She talks to him about everything else instead. She asks him whatever questions pop into her mind, and it soon turns into their own game of twenty questions. They both dip into a dizzy haze as they finish up their beers, and she's got her head pressed against his shoulder as she succumbs to a fit of laughter, and eventually he succumbs, too, leaning his forehead into her hair. They're both a mess and they know it, but they don't seem to care. Tonight isn't about worrying about the future, about the fact that graduation is tomorrow. It's about being detached and free, if only for a few hours.
At one point he takes her hand in his, tracing the lines of her palm with his thumb. She finds herself wondering if he has the same thoughts as her right now. She's not sure what she wants, or if she wants anything, really. He asks her if she ever thought about dating anyone as of late and she tells him no, that she's focused on herself. He admits to her that he hadn't either, his heart was still fresh with pain after his girlfriend of almost a year dumped him. He drops her hand and they spend the rest of the night in silence, abandoning the gardens when the sun begins to rise.
~.~
He's twenty-eight years old when he opens up his first club. He puts a lot of thought into it, makes sure to go over every last detail with precision. He wants this to work, wants this career he's made for himself to be viable and bring in cash. He's spent the last few years sving up for it, taking a second job at a local grocery store to add to his wages. It's a long and tough ride, but he accomplishes the feat, and on the opening night it fills wall-to-wall with people, and he's never been prouder.
College is years behind him. Seven years, to be exact, and yet the time seemed to have slipped by in a slurry of confusion. He's lost touch with a lot of old friends and gained no touch from new friends, but he kind of prefers it that way. His life is quiet except for the occasional person he brings back to his apartment, but none of it ever lasts. It's not like he wanted it to, anyway.
He's djing an event at his club one night when he spots it--a flash of raven hair and green eyes that so distinct and piercing they bore a hole into his heart. He calls it coincidence when he finds her again, she calls it fate and asks him to grab a coffee the next day.
He missed that laugh of hers.
~.~
She gets a call late one night announcing the death of her grandfather. Her fingers and toes and limbs and everything run numb. She can't process anything, just stares at the stained linoleum kitchen floor with eyes wide. She doesn't even cry at first, only stands there thinking to herself, "Is this real?"
Then she trembles.
A surge of energy course through her veins and her whole body shudders from the impact, and she falls to the ground. Her palms press against the cold linoleum, her back arches over and suddenly she can't breath. Then when she can breath, each breath is a sharp intake, a punch in the chest that causes her muscles to ache as the minutes pass. Then streams turn to waterfalls and her sobs become uncontrollable and she's reduced to a blotchy red mess.
She feels so alone.
She forgets she told him she'd hang out with him tonight, so when he knocks at her door, she really just wants him to go away and disappear along with the rest of the world. She doesn't though and rises from the ground to open the door, not caring what her appearance may look like. Her spirit is defeated and worn down as she comes to his view. He doesn't waste a second on greetings, his expression faltering immediately.
"What's wrong?" he asks her, and she tells him. She tells him everything that she heard on the phone, and she tells him every last thought that enters her mind. She doesn't want to keep it under lock and key around him--it hurts too much and she trusts him. He spends the rest of the night comforting her and cheering her up, and even though he's not there when she wakes in the morning, she finds herself tucked away in her bed, a note resting on the nightstand:
Dinner tonight at six. Non-negotiable. Wear something nice.
-Dave
(P.S. Sorry I had to bail. I had work related issues that came up)
~.~
He's being too straightforward. Okay, straightforward enough for him, but he knows she needs this. She needs to be distracted and she needs to not be alone. He thinks he can remedy the situation, but he doesn't want to get too ahead of himself. He wants to be there for her whenever she needs him, and he doesn't want to see her slip and fade out of his life again. As much as she needs him now, he needs her friendship more than anything.
After dinner they stop at a local drugstore and pick up a pack of beer, driving all the way out to the botanical gardens with it. It's a bit out of the way, but they can't think of a better place to wind down at. They find the old gazebo they once spent many nights studying and just talking under, and he twists open both of the caps off of their bottles, handing one off to her. They sit on the ground, their backs pressed up against the bench, and they talk. He asks her how work is going and she tells him it's not like it's rocket science (but it is). She asks him how his club is going and he tells her that it's okay (it's never been better).
They drink quickly until they've finished their first bottles, nursing the second ones because they've got time. She finds herself laughing at one point for no reason, and even though he can't figure out why, he's suddenly laughing, too. Her thigh remains tight against his, and every once in a while his fingers brush by the exposed skin gently, on accident of course. She becomes bubblier as the night progresses and soon everything becomes a joke and they're doubled over in laughter, her head nestled in his shoulder. He tells her he missed being able to talk to her and joke with her, and she tells him that she missed that, too, and why did it ever stop?
He has no logical reasoning behind it.
She almost slumps over at one point but he's quick to the catch, steadying her as quick as lightning, his fingers wrapped gently around her wrists as he tugs her forward. He miscalculates how much weight she's throwing around, however, and she pushes him over, lying on top of him. Her raven hair falls in thick tendrils, her eyes twinkling like the stars above. The tips of his fingers act on impulse, brushing up against the delicate flesh of her cheek like they're meant to be there in the first place.
God, he wants to kiss her so badly.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
Her response startles him, and he doesn't even know he expressed the desire aloud, but that doesn't even matter anymore. Her lips are on his and he's kissing her like there's no tomorrow, because he's so desperate to have her at his side through thick and thin. He thinks that if he goes to sleep anytime soon, he'll wake up and it'll all have been a dream. He needs this. He needs her, all of her.
"I fucking love you," he breathes, not the most romantic thing, but he means it with every fiber of his being.
"I love you, too," she croons, leaning her forehead against his, the tips of their noses touching.
They both feel on top of the world, and for once, everything seems alright.