Six Pack of Cards
Six Pack of Cards, an Austin and Ally oneshot
I do not own Austin and Ally. I'llbringyoudown, this is what I made of your prompt. Please enjoy and review!
Envelope in her hands, she shakes it, wondering how she could have possibly missed it.
Perhaps it's because it's not there? It's probably in his pocket, how many miles away, with him and her heart. With Dez and Trish and a bunk that should be hers, if she hadn't stayed behind to work on her own music.
There is the chance that the ticket is still here. Not here in this room, or envelope. She's checked for even the tiniest sliver of an opening from which it could have escaped. Nothing. Just the jagged opening that she created, too rushed to worry about appearances.
Searching the practice room, the only thing she finds is a dust bunny.
She finds four more in his bedroom, her next logical place to look for it. His parents aren't home, so she uses the spare key from underneath the fake rock.
The ticket is sitting on his desk. All she has to do is pick it up and leave. She doesn't have to take out the torn cards and recycle them to save half a tree.
Yes she does.
She shouldn't have to read what they say either. They were in the trash can for a reason.
They were labeled "Dear Ally," for a reason too.
What could he have possibly censored her from? Perching on the edge of his bed, she lets her curiosity take over her. She has the right to know.
This is going to be the longest ninety four days ever without you. It's funny, I went so long without knowing you, and now that I do, I don't know how to not miss you. When Dez and I were kids, I always pictured it'd just be the two of us going on tour, and we'd stick our heads out of the sunroof, waving at everyone that passed by. Then I met you, and I didn't want to stick my head out of the sunroof anymore. (Not just because I'd have to use a step ladder to reach it in the bus.) I just wanted to be with you, and make music. I was going to sleep under you – under your bunk – and we'd pass sheet music between us trying to finish writing your songs. I know you'll be fine on your own. I just hope I can say the same for me.
The note cuts off there. She can picture them poking out of the sunroof, getting stuck because they're both fully grown. It makes her laugh, and her heart pangs. It's only been a few hours, and she misses him.
He's not the only one that doesn't know how to not miss somebody.
It's really really hard.
She finds another block of text.
I don't know why I'm writing this. You're obviously going to come with us. We've worked so hard to be where we are now. Think about it. One day I was playing drums with corn dogs, you were writing in secret, and now we both have record deals. Except you only get to keep yours if you stay, so maybe you won't be coming with us on tour. I'm really excited to tour, but it's not the same without you.
It's never the same without you.
He heart jumps so high she thinks it's going to come out her mouth and spill onto the floor.
Or it would, if it hadn't packed its bags and joined him on tour without her.
Though judging by his next letter, his heart is still meandering around here, spilled on the pages.
If you're reading this, then you've decided not to come on tour, or you've pieced all of the scraps together, because if you do come, I'm tearing this thing up. There's no way you can read this in front of me. I'm nervous as it is. That's why my handwriting is all shaky. I can't calm down.
You're probably wondering why I'm so nervous. It's just a letter. But it's not. Anything I write on this page is permanent, and it's going to be a long ninety four days waiting to see if it's caused permanent damage or permanent -word meaning opposite of damage.- Bliss? Happiness? That's what being with you would be like. With you with you. Somehow saying it twice changes the meaning.
Ally, I like you. In a more than best friends, partners, kind of way. I know you already know that. I kissed you and there was that date that didn't work out. I think it's because we were trying too hard to make it work. It's only because I don't want to lose you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Without you, I wouldn't have a record deal, or these songs, this friendship.
I wouldn't be i
The words stop there. There's a deep impression next to the 'i', as if there was more to the word. He wouldn't be what?
Adjectives that begin with 'i', go.
Irrelevant, incredible, interesting. Any of them could work. There'd be no reason to talk about him, despite the fact that he was, and always will be a fascinating person. It's imbedded in his personality.
There's a slim chance that it wasn't meant to be an adjective. It could a verb.
Her mind goes blank. There's thousands of words in the dictionary, and when a thought passes over her, it's the only thing that sticks.
He could be in love. The indentation next to the 'i' does look like an 'n,' or maybe an 'm.'
It's more likely that he would have said 'in like,' than 'in love.' Two very similar and yet very different concepts. Liking is an appreciation. Loving is never wanting to let go.
She didn't want to let go during that hug.
Neither did he.
Where does he keep the tissues in here?
There they are, next to Dougie. Come here you little dolphin.
We did some research on places to visit while we tour. We were going to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I know you wanted to see it. We'll have to go again when you go on tour. We'll have to see the Statue of Liberty too, because we missed it last time we were in New York, and I remember how you were telling me about it on the flight home, how you've wanted to go since you were a little girl. And if Ronnie Ramone is too stupid to give you a tour, we'll go by ourselves. He will though. Because you're talented, and amazing and so many things that I can't tell you because we're just friends and I'm not going to risk that. I nearly did, but my pen ran out, and I'm taking it as a sign. You're not supposed to know.
Except I just told you. Good thing I bought the six pack of cards, huh?
There is the bottom of his trash is the cardboard box. She takes it out to recycle too. That's what she's going to do, get rid of all these notes. She's not supposed to know, and she shouldn't be snooping anyhow.
That last card is calling to her.
No, she's not going to think about it. Nor is she going to think about them touring New York again, or what else he was going to tell her.
"I'm not going to do it," she tells Dougie. "He obviously didn't want me to see them."
Though he says nothing, something convinces her to read the last card. The words are already in front of her, having the cover torn off. All she has to do is look down.
Ally, I really like you and I'm sad you didn't come, but I hope that we can pick things up where we left off when we see each other again. We'll run up to each other and kiss (or that's what she can read through the scribble mark concealing his word choice) hug. Sorry about the scribble mark. I really shouldn't be using pen, but pencil doesn't show up, and I can't figure out what I want to say. I want to tell you that I'll miss you, but I don't want you to cry. I want you to kick butt making that new CD. I want you to be happy.
I want you to not forget about me.
Kiss. It definitely says kiss.
She likes the letter better without the scribble.
Dropping the cards back into the trash, she stuffs the tissue in her pocket. Dougie takes his place back on the bed. The door is left ajar, as it had been, and she makes her exit, as if she was never there.
She can erase her steps. She can't erase the words from her memory.
Austin likes her.
Like likes her. (He's right, saying it twice does change the meaning.)
He's not going to be back for ninety three days. Three months of only a computer between them, because she forgot the ticket on his desk. She needs to go back.
When her fingers glide over the plane ticket, her eyes focus on the trash can.
Temptation creeps up on her. She squashes it.
As far as she's concerned, all she's read is that sixth note, the one that's sitting on the piano, void of one plane ticket.
There are so many things that I want to tell you, but it's getting late, and I still have to finish packing. I'm going to miss you, a lot. But I get that your career is taking off too, and I am so proud. You've grown since we first met. We both have, from strangers to partners to best friends to – I don't know. My words keep getting mixed up. Maybe it'd be better if we talk about it in person? I'm enclosing a plane ticket so you can meet up with us on tour. Ninety four days is too long to be without you.