TROUVAILLE ... l.danes (REWRITE)

chapter three; the past

THEY BOTH DIE AT THE END 

nineteen-eighty-two

FOR THE first time in months, Lucas Danes is getting the chance to talk to Shelley St James.

Months, and months, and months of agony. Of watching her walk past with her nose held up in the air, purposely not looking at him, books held to her chest because there's not enough space in her bag anymore. Of trying to get close to her but ending up separated by all the girls in their year steering him towards their own lockers, or the bleachers, or wherever they can kiss him without anybody catching sight. It's not his fault he got popular and she stayed stagnant, always on the outskirts pushing herself to be bigger, and brighter, and better than the rest of them.

They all know there's only one ticket out of this town.

And it's Shelley St James with her hand firmly wrapped around it.

The hallway is almost empty. He's getting closer to her, his sneakers squeaking every so often against the linoleum floor. No sunshine reaches this far into the hallway, blocked off by the classrooms with the blinds pulled down, forcing them to rely on artificial light every day that makes them all look a bit more sallow and drawn out. Lucas tries to pump himself up the closer he gets, reminding himself of the first track meet that he won just before the summer.

He can still taste the sweat dripping into his mouth, his arms flailing above his head, the burning in his lungs as he refuses to catch his breath. Their cheers echo around him, the first time anyone in Stars Hollow has cheered for him, the screaming, the bellowing of his name on the air. He slows to a stop at the end of the track, gulping for breath, bending at the waist to hold his hands on his knees. The air claws against his throat. Fuck, he needs water. Or an oxygen mask.

A hand slaps his back. Everyone is burrowing closer and closer, cheering for him, their hands coming out to touch some part of his sweat-sticky body. He can feel them all getting closer and it's suffocating. So suffocating he's pretty sure he's going to be sick – or that might just be the fact he ran so fast he broke some sort of state record. God, does that burn in his legs feel good.

He straightens just as Jeff Smith, his best friend, throws a bottle of water over the crowd. Does he drink it or bathe in it? Both would feel amazing right now. To soothe the rage in his throat or to soak his aching limbs in some ice cold water. He decides on the former and basically downs the entire bottle in one go, ignoring the rumble of the crowd around him. They're trying to lift him onto their shoulders, wanting to carry him through the town square to show him off to everyone. But his limbs feel too heavy to lift and he's too sweaty for anyone to get a hold of. He waves them off laughing.

And then, he meets a pair of soft eyes in the crowd. Shelley St James, sitting on the first bench of the bleachers, the girl he used to spend every day with who now decides she's too good to talk to him. She came to his track meet. And beside her, his Dad, who would never leave the store closed for a few hours in the day just to watch his son run. But, they're both holding a sign with his name written on it, clearly created by his little sister Liz, who's probably run off with some boy when their Dad isn't watching.

His heart soars.

This is the feeling he carries with him through the hallway as he gets closer to Shelley, unable to stop his eyes from wandering over her. She's grown a few inches from before the summer and her golden hair is longer, bouncing around past her shoulders. She hasn't noticed him getting closer, instead much too focused on humming one of her favourite Kim Wilde songs as she flips through her Geography textbook.