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28 August 2009 @ 08:44 pm
Honey Is For Bees, Silly Bear  
Title: Honey Is For Bees, Silly Bear
Rating: R (for language and mature content)
Pairing: OC/OC
POV: Third person
Summary: He got to be the bee, and she got to be the bear.
Original Post: Here (friend-locked)

She's been wondering back over how they got their nicknames, her and the boy she used to love. She understands his - it's the first letter of his name, after all. The fact that the letter had been transformed into a similar word that meant something completely different was a product of everyone who called him "honey" when he was just a boy, and sweet enough to earn a moniker such as that. He was still sweet at the end, but it was sickly sweet, not unlike honey itself when you have too much. And maybe that's the problem.

She had too much.

At any rate, her nickname is more difficult to understand. She's slender, graceful, not at all like her nickname suggests. But she thinks maybe he called her by the name he did because it sounded good with his. That's pretty well the whole reason she stayed beside him - she looked good with him.

He got to be the bee, and she got to be the bear.


They're playing in a kindergarten classroom, all by themselves, when the teacher comes in and finds them. She snatches them up immediately, dragging them outside, when he yells in his young voice, "Bear wants to play inside! What's so wrong with that?"

The teacher pauses, looking down at the boy with black hair and blue eyes and the girl with brown hair and green eyes. She lets them go.

She's just about around the corner when she hears the little girl say, "Thank you, Bee."


"Bear," he whispers, low in the dark, and she can feel him moving up the bed to curl up next to her. "My Bear, are you awake?"

She sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he presses into her, burrowing his face in her collarbone and breathing out hot against it. He's broken the rules again - she can smell the sweetness on him. She wonders if that's the only drug he used tonight.

She knows they'll wake up face to face tomorrow morning, her tired because she didn't sleep for fear of him overdosing while she's out cold, him angry because he's not exactly sober yet, and both of them about as awkward as is possible, but she doesn't dare push him away. If anything, she pulls him closer.

If this is all he's going to give her, she's going to take it.


"Do you hate me?" he asks her one day, right as she's walking in the door with his requested black coffee in hand. She stops when she hears the words, before she rolls her eyes and walks over to his body on the couch.

"Of course not, Bee," she says as she hands him the drink before turning back to the kitchen.

On the way there she takes a sip of her coffee, smiling sickly when she doesn't gag at all. She drinks her coffee black, now, just because of him. He said her practice of adding milk was stupid.

He's not controlling, she claims. He just knows what he wants.


When they pass in the hallway, between third period and fourth, she tries her hardest to catch his eye, to get him to acknowledge her presence in public, for once. But he just looks the opposite way, tapping a pretty girl on the arm and proceeding to flirt carelessly with her instead.

If he's the bee, maybe this new girl is the goddamn bird.


She hides the razors, locks up the knives, steals his cigarettes, throws away any drugs of his she finds. She knows it's mostly too late, but she doesn't give a fuck, at this point. She wants him to scream at her, if only because today she knows she's strong enough to scream back.

Then he comes in, with bags under his eyes and bandages on both wrists, and she doesn't yell. She pours peroxide over his cuts and sends him to bed instead.

She almost cuts herself, just to feel like him. She almost wants to try cocaine, just so she can empathize.

She almost wants to tell him she's in love.


Bruises aren't so hard to cover up, or so she's discovering. Especially when she's only got them on her stomach, back, arms, legs, and everywhere else regularly hidden by clothes.

Well, at least he's careful.


"Are you wearing that out, Bear? Your legs aren't really nice enough for short-shorts."

She goes to change.


Her friends ask her how she's doing, and she just wants to cry. He gets angrier with the alcohol, more careless with the drugs, more twisted with her every word.

But he's her fucking drug, and now she knows how he feels - so desperate all the time.

She just wants more. More. More.


They're sitting together on the back deck, him smoking and her trying hard to finish his math before he finishes his cigarette. They're done about the same time and she's secretly a little satisfied. Not so much with herself. He really dislikes narcissism.

Hell, isn't that ironic?


This time she flinches only a little, because she's learning not to care. Apathy is beautiful. Cut, scrape, twist, bite, bruise - who gives a fuck?

Not her. Not him.


She looks at him, dark and sullen, smoking yet again next to her in the parking lot behind their school, and she tries to see him growing up. Getting a job. Falling in love. She tries to picture him actually giving a shit.

It's very hard.

She knows he's not going to live after high school - she has a funny feeling he'll do whatever it takes to never grow up. He's her Peter Pan, her Neverland. Her back up plan.

But if he's Peter Pan, then she's Wendy. And no matter how many times you rewind, Wendy always leaves at the end.


When she gets the call she doesn't fake emotion - just gathers up his things and brings them to the make-shift fire pit in their backyard. She doesn't show a bit of sadness as everything he's ever owned goes up in flames and comes down in ash. She's too bitter for depression now. Just blank nothingness. It's so very nice when you're pretending you don't care.

As the part only part of him she has left is destroyed, she thinks to herself, I guess I won.

But really, everyone's a loser here.


"Hi!" a boy with bright blue eyes says to her, and she blinks, unsure who he is. He tells her his name, but tacks on to the end, "You can call me B. Everyone else does!"

She smiles shyly, following him as he wanders over to the play place, before she mumbles, "My name's Holly. But you can call me Hollybear, if you want.

"Everyone else does."