gilmore girls. jess/rory, with dean/rory and logan/rory. pg.
i don't own the show gilmore girls, or the characters portrayed in this drabble.
The arts have always been her thing - words and music and pictures and films.
The arts have always been her thing - words and music and pictures and films. They all speak to her, fill in parts of her story, like the dirty old grout between the tiles in the upstairs bathroom. It's not surprising that she sees people as these things in her head, but when she tries to write it down or spell it out it doesn't sound the same. Her words, which she's always treasured, drain the feeling from her thoughts. She finds it frustrating that something she's always trusted is failing her.
Dean was - he is a children's book in her mind. She was the Princess, resting in her ivory tower when he found her and brought her down and taught her what love was like, how it felt. Comfort could always be found in his arms, the way she could rely on the crinkled pages of Alice in Wonderland to keep her safe, show her life, make her calm. He will always be on her shelf of memories, and from time to time she revisits their memories, smiling at their naive love, and the images of sunlight and blue dresses and daisies. It was a sweet story, but lacking depth - oh, how the surface was beautiful, though. Gold embossed letters and the words I love you and - perfect.
There was Logan, too, who was so different. To her, Logan is a bright painting, paint covering every available inch of canvas, twelve thousand colors. He was overwhelming and interesting and there were new shapes and experiences hiding within him, waiting behind the abstract shapes he presented to the public. He was the kind of picture that lit a fire inside of her and made her want to do something, change something, be anything. If she stared too long, though, her eyes began to hurt and her vision started to swim with the thought of what does it all really mean? and this is too much. After she had looked at such a startling picture every day, it wore her down, and she left it alone. She could no longer look. It hurt too much.
And then she wonders - everyday, she thinks, what would Jess be? Reason tells her it would be a book, because that's what brought them together and held them together and reunited them, but - she doesn't reread even her favorite book everyday the way that her mind strays to his image almost daily.
Maybe that's why she goes to find him - because she wants to know, and wants to find a label for whatever they were. It is what it is, he once said, but that's not good enough for her.
When he opens the door, she kisses him so fast that he drops something. The newspaper crinkles under their feet as he pulls her in, shuts the door.
That's what he becomes. The ink stains her fingers, and she doesn't always like what she sees in the newspaper, but its there everyday, reliably, just like him, making coffee and pressing kisses to her back as the sun rises. She always wanted to be a journalist. She should have known that Jess would be her obession, the one thing that had always consumed her hopes and fears and desires and needs - he was Jess. She was Rory. They were black and white, classic, times. They were newspaper.
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