A Sorta Fairy Tale
By: Tammy
Rating: PG-13? Slashage.
Summary: I stared at Bernie!fic for too long. This ditty is all about losing the big V. Well, Petr is losing it.
AN: 2nd person pov. Jason POV. Pretend Petr was a virgin when he joined the Devils. Pretend Arkora could ever be happy.
Once upon a time--and isn’t that how it always starts? The stories, the fairy tales, the words that drip like honey from your lips--disgustingly sweet, but so smooth and oozing, and flowing, and too much can be a bad thing, but just a bit and they’re all craving more. Because everybody wants a fairy tale; everybody deserves a fairy tale.
It wasn’t like that for you. Neither time, because you had two, and weren’t you lucky? You had the chance to make the second better, to find your prince, and make up for the frog the first go-around, but it wasn’t so much the fact that she was a frog but that she was a ‘she.’ You were fourteen then, and that seems so young now, and you remember her face above you, glowing and golden and her hair was blonde like Teena’s. Teena was your best friend’s little sister.
She’s dead now. She was then too, but you weren’t thinking about that then. You were imagining Adam, and it was over before it started--the sex, and the crush, and it creeps you out now thinking about it. Not your thing for Adam, but the sex, because you’re supposed to remember your first time, but it’s all a little hazy for you and you’re thinking she might have been your babysitter.
You carried the memory of blonde hair, and a halo of gold around a fuzzy face for a long time, until your second-first-time. You remember that first time. In excruciating, painful detail. It was all details, and you recall his name, his clothes, the mole on the back of his hand, and the feeling of hotel sheets and their thin cotton threads being ground into your hips. You could give play-by-play, and you know the bark on every tree, can name each type, but you missed the forest--more scientist than knight in shining armor.
He coaxed tears from your dry eyes, but it wasn’t the pain--that was awkward, but it was thinking about Adam, and the funeral, and how you really loved hockey. Your thoughts weren’t quite non-sequitur because on some level all hockey players think about hockey at all times, and Adam used to be your best friend, and this guy--whose name you recall only too well--was your new best friend, and when you thought about Adam you always thought about the funeral because you just did, and it was the first big thing in your life until you lost your virginity, and then you realized that it still was.
Losing your virginity was a big thing, but not, because it didn’t change you, but you wanted it to, so the second time around when it didn’t it was a big let down. Maybe he could see the disappointment in your eyes, maybe he thought you weren’t impressed, maybe he was just an asshole, but afterwards he wasn’t your best friend anymore, and on some level perhaps that bothered you, but mostly you were glad that he was leaving you alone. Fairy tales are meant to be told, but misery tales should be kept to oneself.
When Petr asked about your first time, you made up some story about your next door neighbor or a boyfriend, or maybe a coach--something quaint or outlandish so that you wouldn’t mumble on about fuzzy golden faces or what it felt like to memorize freckles and birthmarks in an attempt to create intimacy, propinquity, or just attach meaning to something that had become so trivial over the years.
Ah, yes, it began once upon a time, but before the happily ever after there were fourteen hundred fucks, hundreds of tricks, and too many different kinds of sheets to count.
Petr hadn’t believed you like you hadn’t believed the one about Hansel and Gretel. Because what stupid kid ate a witch’s house and got caught? And who would use bread crumbs to mark a trail? You smiled, not saying anything. An attempt at ambiguity, or mystery, but mainly because you were thinking. You wanted to give him a fairy tale.
So here you are, whispering words, and he deserves them more than anyone; he deserves this fairy tale. He deserves it because you say so.
Frogs transform with your kisses, and caresses transcend, and the ugly duckling is beautiful because he’s with his family, he’s home, and Petr is your home, and when you breathe him in, he smells like porridge and it’s just right, and you’re tangling your fingers in hair that’s not quite as long as Rapunzel’s but just as soft, and you want to keep your first born so you call out three times Petr… Petr… Petr…
This is supposed to be his fairy tale, but you messed it up. You stole it, snatched it away from him, and maybe that’s what she did and what he did too. You weren’t quite hollow afterwards, but more empty than before, with a little something missing, and you thought it was just your virginity, but maybe it was your fairy tale too. You have it back, now; you stole it from him.
He kisses you and you can’t give it back, you can’t turn back time, you can’t shake Hansel and Gretel and tell them bread crumbs aren’t a good idea. They’re too fleeting, too soft, too likely to be stolen and eaten, unlike the cold, hard pebbles they should have used to mark their trail.
It all worked out for them, though. Gretel pushed the witch into the stove, and she shut the door. Slammed the cast-iron door and listened to it securely latch, and she and Hansel left, never to look back.
And you’re thinking, lying next to him, you stole his fairy tale, but maybe you can share the happily ever after with him.
end.