fic: the kids don't stand a chance (rpf)
Too old to keep a diary and too young to write a memoir. To say it started with them, it would be a blatant lie. (It's something they do well.)
RPF. [Starring: Dianna Agron, Aubrey Plaza & Chace Crawford. Guest Starring: Jessica Szohr, Cory Monteith, Bradley James, Lea Michele and Alison Brie. And Not to Mention: Donald Glover, Mark Salling, Kevin McHale, Ed Westwick, Michael Cera, Amy Poehler, Andy Samberg, Adam Brody, Anna Paquin, Taylor Swift, Robert Pattinson, Jackson Rathbone, Jonathon Groff, Aziz Ansari, Elijah Wood and Milo Ventimiglia.]
R. 6222.
[a/n: OH GOD. So this was written over three days. OH GOD. I don't even know how it started...I suppose I'll blame tumblr, and the pictures of Chace Crawford and Dianna Agron and then how I want Dianna to be bffs with Aubrey Plaza and...OH GOD. Listing all these people, I feel like a giant crazy. Most of these are only briefly mentioned/alluded to, which I should stress. Particularly in regards to above mentioned people of Twilight fame and T-Swift. NEVER MIND. LET'S JUST SAY I'M CRAZY. IT'LL BE EASIER IN THE LONG RUN.
I met you under neon, all of the lights were flickering,
off and on.
Everybody's coming down or throwing up or sleeping round.
I remember why I left this town.
Rich Kids, Washington
"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."
- Arthur O'Shaughnessy
Dianna taps her fingers against her champagne flute. Aubrey looks more noticeably bored. It’s another party, but not the good kind - there’s a Kardashian and a Hilton and all the wrong types of musicians.
“One of the Twilight kids is here,” Chace scoffs, handing Aubrey a drink which she downs like they’re at a high school kegger. His hand lingers on her back, which Dianna does not miss, but ignores politely all the same.
“Which one?” Dianna asks absently. Aubrey scowls.
“The one that hit on you in London. Not the one you made out with.”
Dianna’s turn to scowl.
“You made out with him too.”
Chace laughs.
“Yeah. Yeah she did.”
They’re too young to write a memoir, too old to keep a diary and in this town, if you’re young and pretty it’s a dangerous combination.
There’s no Mickey Mouse contracts. Purity rings are for the kids that can’t get laid and the pot is always good and the alcohol always flows and the good times never, ever stop.
To say it all started with them would be a blatant lie. Truth be told (now keep that out the media), they’re just the current flavour of the month.
The future is practically transparent: soon his show will be cancelled; in a few years her show will lose it’s main star. For the other one, people will gradually lose interest until there’s nothing but the memories.
They live it all while they can.
It’s a story of boy meets girl. And boy is a giant douche.
Girl isn’t really all that surprised.
“She’s got a pilot happening,” Jess will scowl. Chace will laugh.
“Don’t they all,” he slurs, “don’t they all.”
Six months later he’ll watch her pilot in a stone haze.
Her hair will make her look like an angel.
(He’ll eventually learn she’s anything but.)
Then there’s Aubrey. She is sarcastic, she is cynical. She speaks in a monotone and beautiful and quirky and when he meets her, she will tell him to fuck off.
She will fuck him in the bathroom an hour later.
Afterwards they’ll smoke a joint and she’ll tell him how she hates his stupid show and he’ll confess that he loves hers.
“Well then,” she smirks, “I might just have to keep you around, won’t I?”
I.
They meet because Michael Cera wanted to fuck her. Not those words, he mutters something about her being magnetic or enchanting or some romantic bullshit that Aubrey knows doesn’t exist in real life.
(But she’s here with Cory Whatshisface and she definitely wants to fuck him.)
She plays wingman to a tee, haaaave you met Michael? and Dianna smiles and the four of them chat in that way that you do when the only thing you have in common is fame and fake facebook profiles.
Michael shakes his head. Aubrey smirks because she is not ‘the one’ and as his heart sinks her spirits soar because she likes proving him wrong.
“What’s wrong with it not being true love?” Dianna will slur serenely, and Michael will stand straighter. “Pretend is much more beautiful than reality. That constant searching and longing is a lot more lovelier.”
She will not sleep with Michael that night. Aubrey will find out months later, a rooftop party in New York City, that she slept with the hipster-slash-musician Twilight star instead.
(Aubrey and Cory Whatshisface - that’s another story.)
There are music festivals. There is Jessica and Dianna. And there is Alison Brie.
Not quite young Hollywood, but not as old as her comedy contemporaries. There is Mad Men, of course, and there is a show on NBC with the guy from The Soup and Donald Glover, who Jessica slept with before she started sleeping with Ed.
Times have changed. The young ones, they don’t want the CW roles. They want the shows with the SNL alumni or the CBS crime shows. They want HBO and Showtime, but they don’t give you those roles if you look like you stepped out of an American Apparel shoot. They give them to the foreigners, the ones with stage notoriety; the ones with BBC costume dramas to their names. The ones with the awards.
Alison is nice. She looks like a Disney princess, but drinks like a sailor and dresses the way she does because she can.
It will not be friendship. It will be connections and people knowing people and Jess will sleep with Donald again and they will keep her secret; solidarity of a sisterhood that thought ‘hey, why not?’.
Dianna captures it all on film. Ed will find out by accident.
But really, it was Bradley’s fault.
In Australia she sees Chace again. This time, he leaves a better impression. But not quite.
Mark tries to sleep with her, Dianna’s strict ‘no sleeping with co-workers’ rule reigns supreme and after the tour he gives up. She doesn’t hold it against him.
Australia is sightseeing and Sydney nightclubs and boys with cute accents who have never heard of her show. Australia is dust storms and the true unrelenting impact of nature and falling into a hotel bed at two in the morning with a little piece of home on her lips.
“Where have you been all my life?” he mutters drunkenly and she’ll roll her eyes at the clichés and kiss him all the same.
(In the morning her head will hurt and he’ll struggle to remember her name.
“Does it matter?” she’ll sigh and he’ll look hurt and she won’t really care.)
Australia is one-night-stands left open ended, boys who break hearts and a girl who never gave hers to begin with.
“You’re not allowed to date my colleagues,” she murmurs over bitter wine at an after party. Aubrey laughs, doesn’t miss the possessiveness and passes her a flute of good champagne instead.
“Any in particular?” she mutters dryly and Dianna scowls.
“Don’t make me into some kind of bitch,” she states, matter-of-fact, and Aubrey kind of sits up straighter because ‘Lady Di’ does not swear. At all.
“I don’t want to date Cory,” Aubrey snaps, “This isn’t high school. I just think he’d be fun.”
“And it probably will be. But then it will end bitterly and you’ll hate him and he’ll have a broken heart and I don’t want to be that girl that plans parties based on which of her friends can’t stand each other.”
Aubrey looks at Dianna in that funny way she does when she doesn’t know when to be sincere or make a joke. Dianna doesn’t try to be sentimental around her, doesn’t try that touchy-feely adoring friend bullshit. They don’t even really acknowledge that they’re friends. Ever.
They don’t even have very much in common.
But Dianna’s the sanest person she knows, highly aware of the fact that ‘this’ could end anytime. That one false step, one bad relationship and all your dreams can turn to dust.
“Okay,” Aubrey says quietly, “I won’t.”
Jessica hates Lea and Lea hates Aubrey and Aubrey wants to fuck Jessica’s boyfriend.
They say young Hollywood is catty. They really don’t know shit.
II.
Ed does not know Bradley. Ed didn’t really know anyone; a handful of musicians, a few semi-serious actors. Ed said ‘fuck you’ to the British way of acting; West End and period dramas.
LA, he felt, was always more his speed.
Unfortunately for Ed, no one takes you seriously if your main acting credit is a CW villain. Especially in London, where if it’s not on the BBC, then it’s probably not worth watching.
Instead of swanky nightclubs, there’s a small pub he used to frequent; local bands and good beer and Dianna is too tipsy too quickly and she stumbles-
-this is how she meets Bradley.
Bradley leaves a perfect impression. Bradley is polite and funny and pretty and is on a show that doesn’t make her want to bang her head against a wall.
Jessica and Ed leave early, you’ll be right a courtesy while Ed drags her away. In a foreign atmosphere in a foreign country? Sure.
These are the moments Dianna lives for.
There’s the Twilight guy; the British one and too much straight spirits and Dianna doesn’t like the attention. Bradley sweeps in, sorry to keep you waiting, babe, on his lips and whisks her away.
“What are you, my knight in shining armour or something?” Dianna giggles.
“Something that that, darling,” he laughs, “something like that.”
“Sounds dreamy,” Lea swoons across the ocean. Dianna laughs, contrasting conversations (Plaza’s four word text message: did u fuck him???) and contrasting friends. Lea’s had a lifetime of dreams coming true and expects nothing less.
“He is.”
“How’d you get such a good picture?” Lea demands. (What Lea wants, Lea gets and Dianna, ever the generous friend is willing to comply).
“Got his number,” Dianna smirks, “took a picture. Easy.”
“He looks like a Prince.”
“He plays one.” Dianna answers and Lea sighs.
“And he’s charming?”
“Positively.”
“You should fuck him.”
Dianna cannot help but laugh.
There’s an airport lounge.
And there’s Chace and Aubrey. Separately, of course; she’s doing the media circus rounds with Aziz and he’s by himself, but where there’s screaming girls there’s a Hollywood hottie and Aubrey’s curiosity gets the better of her.
Like always.
Chace spots her first; she makes the introductions and Aziz glances at her knowingly and she smirks. He grins and nudges her shoulder.
“Headin’ to LA, Crawford?” Aubrey drawls and he nods.
“Then to London,” he answers and looks at her intently. They both know who’s in London.
Except Aziz.
“Who’s in London?”
“A girl,” Aubrey smirks and Chace rolls his eyes.
“Ain’t it always?”
“Ed and Jess are there as well.”
Aubrey mouths Gossip Girl to Aziz who cracks up laughing, but stops suddenly.
“Wait, is Jess that hot one?”
Ignoring him, Aubrey turns back to Chace and almost feels sorry for the guy. He’s not half as bad as they make him out to be. Not half as good, but no one deserves to be jilted in a foreign country.
(Correction: Aubrey can think of a few people. Okay, a lot of people. Just not him.)
“Don’t go, man,” Aubrey shakes her head slowly. She doesn’t offer an explanation.
“Why not?”
“Just…listen to me, okay?” she sighs, “There’s not going to be a sequel to ‘Australia’. It was a one-time thing.”
“You guys aren’t talking about the Hugh Jackman film, are you?”
“Just tell me, Plaza.”
Aubrey sighs. She didn’t want to be a part of this. There’s a reason she went into the comedy game rather than the young and pretty business. Hates the drama that comes with the bed hopping, hates the kids that play Russian roulette with their emotions. Hates that they think their life is a movie just because they act in them.
This is her world. And she wants to shake it and tell it to grow the fuck up.
“She met some guy,” she grimaces, “he’s British and an actor; in that show Merlin. And even if you go over there, even if your bed hair is perfect and you wear your most charming jeans and blazer combo, you’re not gonna stand a chance.”
There’s a pause and Aziz looks between them both, wide eyed.
“Huh.”
The announcer calls to board and Chace chuckles. Aubrey looks confused.
“Dude?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “that’s cool. Thanks.”
They watch as he walks away and Aubrey feels a small tinge of guilt.
“Harsh, Plaza.”
She scowls and doesn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the flight.
Chace makes it complicated.
Here’s the thing with Aubrey: she’s not a complete cynical bitch. She respects emotions and those that have them. She’s been known to possess them on occasion. She’s got a conscience, for sure. And when she catches Crawford by-passing the paparazzi and fans, she starts to feel kind of shitty.
That night she texts him: where are u, Crawford?
Half an hour later, he texts her an address. It’s a nightclub and she groans.
“Plaza,” he slurs when she arrives. She rolls her eyes at his female entourage, each trashier than the rest. Glaring at them, she raises her eyebrows.
“You want to fuck off for a few, ladies?”
With a few choice expletives and gestures on their part as they leave, Aubrey plants herself beside him, taking a sip of his beer.
“You’re ruining my buzz,” he complains. She laughs, because it’s a lie. He’s clearly stoned enough not to care, hair dishevelled, still in the same clothes as at the airport. The waitress brings over a few drinks and she grabs the only beer, leaving the cosmopolitans and daiquiris for him.
“We both know that’s impossible,” she smirks and he laughs, throwing his arm around the back of the couch. The music is too loud and it’s neither of their jams. They drink to fill the silence.
“Aziz thinks you can do better,” she offers, “her show is fucking gay.”
Chace bursts out laughing, falling over her in hysterics. She grins, rolling her eyes.
“Aubrey,” he smiles, looking at her a bit too closely. She looks down nervously and his hands brush the hair out of her face. It’s too tender, too intimate and she can’t find a way to joke her way out of the moment.
He kisses her too gently for the setting; more nervous fumbling than erratic groping. Her hands reach for his neck, tugging gently at his hair.
“Let’s get out of here.”
(Breath hitches in her throat.)
“Okay.”
A new decade, a new version of the starlet. They aren’t sun kissed beach babes, just as they aren’t all artificially blonde. They’re a different city every night, champagne and intelligent conversations and cynical humour. They’re modest and romantics and sleeping is the same as giving up.
They like their power ballads LOUD. (Sing it like it might be your last.)
And if it is your last, make it worthwhile.
III.
Paris is for lovers; this week is no exception.
And they only have the one. Her shooting schedule is more intense than most; he starts on season three soon.
It’s hotels with Eiffel Tower views, too much champagne and site seeing when they’re not making love.
It’s a funny word, love. Sneaks up on you and drowns you until the point where you can barely breath (and honestly, don’t think you’ll ever want to).
In the catacombs she wears a funny hat and he tells her he might be falling in love with her. Amidst the skulls and bones of the long, long dead she wonders if all those centuries ago another girl felt the same way she feels about another boy.
(Something about that thought makes Dianna smile.)
Paris ends in the rain underneath the Eiffel Tower.
But Paris is not the ending. You’d best remember that.
They shoot on the same lot one day. Amy Poehler plays the role of gracious comic idol; the young ones crowd and fawn and Aubrey will smirk because her job? Best ever. Period.
“Sup mama,” she deadpans and Dianna laughs, hand over the fake baby bump.
“Hot, yeah?”
“Definitely,” Aubrey smirks, “Bradley seen it yet.”
Dianna laughs too loudly and with the distraction, Amy takes her leave. Aubrey hangs around, playing with Dianna’s phone while Mark tries to flirt with her and she tries to catch Cory’s eye.
Until a photo catches hers.
(Not that kind of photo. Keep your mind out of the gutter, okay?)
“God damn, Di,” Aubrey whistles, “this is your British boyfriend?”
Dianna blushes softly and the phone gets passed around; there’s ribbing and teasing, but it’s all good-natured and Aubrey feels sick because this young, tight nit group, finding fame together and being genuine friends?
It’s not normal.
“Yeah.”
“I thought he was the other one, Merlin or something,” Aubrey takes back the phone, “not whoever the fuck this is!”
“Prince Arthur,” Lea says slowly, all fake smiles, “so cute.”
“Hmm, I suppose,” Aubrey mutters, “I prefer pasty tall white guys in shorts, myself.”
There’s an exaggerated wink somewhere there, territorial glares somewhere else and Aubrey thanks whatever higher power out there she’s not the type of girl to care about making friends.
Aubrey likes sneaking around with Chace. She likes hotel rooms and last minute flights and 2am phone calls and having secrets.
Most of all, she like that there are no commitments. This is not ‘forever’, this is not set in stone.
“Are you sleeping with Cory Whatshisface?” Chace asks one night, tracing patterns on her stomach with practiced ease. Pushing his hand away, she scowls into the darkness.
“Monteith. And no. Di won’t let me fuck her co-stars. Why do you care?”
He flinches at the mention of her name and Aubrey sighs loudly. Grabbing the remote, she turns on the TV, flicking channels until settling on some British sci-fi.
“I don’t,” Chace answers too quickly and Aubrey raises her eyebrows.
“Liar.”
He focuses too intently on the screen, ignoring her. She sighs, because this show? Pretty interesting. And she’s going to have to kill it by addressing their issues.
Switching it off, she sighs.
“What the fuck, Crawford?”
His turn to sigh.
“I met the guy the other night at…fuck, I don’t know where I was. He’s pretty cool.”
“So?” Aubrey smirks, “you want to fuck him instead?”
“Shut up, Plaza,” Chace scowls, “I’m just saying, he’s clearly more your type than I am. I don’t want to lose this arrangement.”
“I’m not going to sleep with him,” Aubrey mutters after a beat, “I promised Dianna.”
He looks at sceptically.
“And you’re actually going to keep that promise?”
She flicks the television back on, watching quietly as a young couple run for their lives and thinks that perhaps that tragic, ‘we haven’t got a chance in hell’ love is probably for the best.
It would be easier if it would just all end tomorrow.
“Yeah,” Aubrey mutters, “for Dianna I would.”
In New York he breaks her heart.
There’s Skype and an ocean between them. For the first time since she’s known him, he looks tired.
Lately, Dianna is always tired.
There’s this: long distance is too hard; this would be best for both of us. Let’s see how we feel down the road, pick it up from there.
She does not cry. She nods and smiles a small smile. Of course. There’s something here, but we can’t sustain it across an ocean.
Dianna doesn’t really believe what she’s saying. But she’s an actor and that is what she does.
At the hotel bar, she sips house red until Adam shows up.
“You look like you need something harder than that.”
She chuckles, fiddling with the edge of her phone.
“I probably do,” she murmurs, “this guy and I…well, I guess you could say we broke up. Or something.”
“Oh,” Adam nods, uncomfortable, “do you want me to get Anna?”
“Nah,” she shakes her head, “it’s stupid anyway.”
“Who was he,” Adam asks quietly, “co star?”
Dianna shakes her head.
“He’s an actor. Lives in England. I was silly thinking it would work.”
“Nothing silly about that,” Adam shrugs, “you’re not the first to be fooled by that thinking. Dating co stars - that’s silly.”
There’s truth in his words; she looks at him and reminds herself that she’s not the first to travel this path. It starts with a pilot, people screaming your name and ends with cancellation and a broken heart.
(Ends with you trying to fit the pieces back together and come out the other end with some semblance of a career left.)
“Was it worth it though?” she whispers, willing herself not to cry. Adam smiles.
“Yeah, it was worth it. The good times will remain the good times, bad times be damned.”
“That sounds okay.” Dianna says slowly, thinking it over.
Adam will laugh, clinking his glass against hers and she’ll duck her head, feeling younger than her years. There’s reassuring words; you’ll be right, kid and for what it’s worth, she actually believes him.
Friendships don’t fall apart overnight. There’s the slow crumble and decay; like cities left deserted, unattended by those who oh so carefully built them up from nothing. It can take months, years to end; to cut the ties and delete the numbers until all that’s left are a few photos where you think you might have been happy.
For a spell, at least.
It starts with part truths and half lies, secrets becoming common knowledge. It starts when Bradley accidently tells Ed about Donald; when Ed breaks up with Jess and when Jess drunkenly tells Alison that Aubrey’s been fucking Chace for months.
Dianna is the last to know. She’s not really all that surprised.
IV.
Dianna adopts a dog and tells Jess she’s done with fucking for companionship.
This is after Elijah. But we won’t talk about that, will we?
The fact of the matter is that the decision came after a breakdown, the place a Barnes and Noble car park, her keys locked in her car and number one, two and three on her speed dial all out of the state.
“He’s gigantic.” Jess states, petting the dog awkwardly.
“He’s gorgeous.” Dianna grins.
“You don’t do anything conventionally, do you Di?”
“Not when I can help it.”
Jess can’t help but smile.
Aubrey gets blown off by Dianna via Lea. It’s clichéd, that’s what it fucking is.
“She can’t come to the phone,” Lea says haughtily, “busy and all that.”
The thing about Lea? She might be nice. She might be the sweetest girl to ever grace this good earth. If she is, Aubrey’s never seen that side. She’s fiercely protective of her friends, views Aubrey as a threat or some bullshit that she’ll never understand.
Sometimes, her gender is a fucking joke.
“You’re a terrible liar, Michele,” she sighs, “just put her on.”
Just tell her she doesn’t want to talk to her! Aubrey hears in the background. It’s not Dianna, some other Glee skank and there’s laughter and she hears fumbling on the other line.
“Aubrey?”
“What the fuck is going on, Agron?”
The line is quiet. There’s a murmur of voices, then a sigh.
“I’m mad at you.”
“No shit,” she snaps across the line, “so what did I fucking do?”
There’s another pause. This time, Aubrey sighs.
“Is this about Chace?”
It’s quiet. This is ridiculous.
“You didn’t want him!” Aubrey blows up, “you had Bradley, and you had your other ‘serious’ actors! You didn’t want him!”
“Aubrey…” she whispers, swallowing.
“No, forget about it. Clearly I’m at fault. You can have him, I’m done.”
She hangs up, throwing her phone across the room. It does not break.
Aubrey couldn’t care less.
There’s parties. There’s no Dianna. Aubrey is thankful, hates playing second fiddle and this year’s female hottie typecast? Quirky brunettes with snarky personalities.
It’s a good year.
She makes out with a Twilight star; the one with the band with the stupid name. He’s entertaining; with borderline hipster personality who looks like the hot guy from Criminal Minds.
But he’s not. And there are always better prospects than a hipster with piss poor taste in movies. So she brushes him off with a thanks, that was fun, glancing around the room for her next victim.
He comes in the form of Cory Monteith.
Monteith is a suave motherfucker. She likes that; likes that he knows exactly what to say and that he doesn’t take the ‘fame game’ too seriously.
Plus he’s a drummer. Aubrey likes drummers a lot.
There’s hesitance on his part, what about Dianna, he’ll murmur, his lips on her neck and her hands undoing shirt buttons with practiced ease.
What about her, she’ll reply and she’ll only feel a twinge of guilt. Her night with Cory will be fun, as will the subsequent nights that follow. But eventually she’ll get bored and he’ll get too invested and everything Dianna prophesised will, in fact, come true.
Ed and Jess get back together. As it always is, no one’s real surprised. You run in the same circles for long enough and history will always, always, always repeat itself.
Aubrey and Dianna start talking because Andy Samberg wants to fuck her.
(Those words exactly.)
Aubrey’s sick everyone’s obsession with her, wishes she were vapid or bitchy so she could hate her with good reason. The fact is, this one she resigns herself to, is that they could do a lot worse.
Wingman to a tee; haaaave you met Andy escaping from her mouth and the déjà vu makes her head hurt.
This time round, she’s here with Kevin, who Aubrey doesn’t know, but he’s a nice guy and the conversation is easy and when Andy and Dianna go off somewhere more private, she doesn’t mind being stuck with him.
“It’s not personal, you know,” he says, offhand. She glances at him curiously; he’s not her type, she knows too many cute, dorky guys with glasses that the novelty has long worn off.
“What’s not personal?”
“Why they don’t like you,” he shrugs like it’s fact (close enough, really). “We’re just really protective of her, you know?”
Snappy comeback on the tip of her tongue; she chokes and he knows it.
“I know that feeling.”
Tapping glasses, they drink to nothing and everything. Mostly, they drink to themselves.
No one talks to Chace for a while. Until he gets busted for possession.
(That’s number one.)
Cory gets over Aubrey and starts dating Taylor Swift.
(That’s number two.)
Bradley visits LA.
(Of course, these things come in threes. This is when she’ll smirk and mutter that life/fame/love/shit just got very real.
No one finds the funny in this one.)
V.
Aubrey has never been to Texas. Aubrey has never wanted to go to Texas or be in the position where she has to go to Texas.
The lures of mug shots are just too tempting. She thus finds herself in Texas.
She doesn’t say very much, but he’s grateful.
“Does everyone know?” he moans as she teases him, smoking a joint while hanging out of his bedroom window, because some habits die harder than most.
“Yup.” She exhales, “They think it’s funny you got caught.”
“Fuckers,” he laughs.
There’s a Burn Notice marathon on USA, in a haze they decide they want to do a movie where their spies.
“Like Mr and Mrs Smith?” he asks and she laughs.
“Fuck no. We’ll meet in a different time; I’ll be from the future, you’ll be from the past. You’ll smoke too much and I’ll drink too much and you’ll be preoccupied with Nazis and I’ll be preoccupied with robots. You’ll be amazed how everything turned out so well and I’ll be devastated how everything will eventually go to hell. And we’ll both be obsessed with the concept of frozen yoghurt.”
“No frozen yoghurt in the future, huh?”
“Nope. It’s all in pill form, duh.”
“Will this be a love story?” he asks quietly.
“It’ll have to be,” Aubrey whispers, “I mean, what else will they have to live for?”
“Sounds nice.” He mutters lazily.
“It won’t be,” she says stubbornly, “it will end in tragedy. We have to get our Oscar’s somehow, Crawford.”
There’s a beat and laughter ensues.
Cory has a party and invites Aubrey because there are no hard feelings.
Of course.
She arrives and there are too many Glee kids and she remembers why she doesn’t go to these kinds of parties. Not enough corners to hide in. If you bail, someone will surely see you leave.
Taylor is there. Aubrey wants someone to tell her that this is an elaborate joke.
“It’s not,” Dianna will grin, as they watch the songstress sip tentatively at a drink and play with her hair too much. Aubrey scowls.
“Isn’t she in that purity ring club?”
“I didn’t ask,” Dianna smiles, “but her mom’s picking her up. If you’re nice enough, she might give you a ride.”
Aubrey regards her carefully.
“Do you think he’s fucked her yet? Wait!” Aubrey exclaims, “Do you think if it ends badly, she’ll write a song about it? What the fuck rhymes with ‘Cory’?”
Lea stalks over, drink in hand.
“I hate her.”
Aubrey smirks and Dianna says nothing, lost in thought. Lea continues her rant.
“She can’t sing - she has no range. Her songs are stupid and why the hell would you date someone with the same name as you?”
Jonathon tells her to calm down, breath or drink or anything. But Lea is in full bitch mode and Aubrey can see how this is entertaining when it’s not directed at her.
“Story.” Dianna says suddenly. They look at her like she’s grown another head. “Cory rhymes with story.”
“What the fuck have you been drinking, Agron?” Lea demands.
“Clearly she needs some of it,” Jonathon jokes. Aubrey chuckles.
The night will progress in much the same fashion; Lea will say something nasty and Jon will placate her and Aubrey will find this the most hilarious thing in the world. Dianna will be a million miles away.
“What’s up with you?” Aubrey will ask, Lea’s eyes narrowing carefully.
“Bradley called me this afternoon.”
There’s a pause.
“He’s coming to LA and wants to meet up while he’s here.”
Dianna’s face doesn’t give away much. There’s not much to go by and Aubrey’s never had a lot of tact and is used to relying on visual cues.
Lea sighs.
“What are you going to do?”
Dianna shrugs with a smile. The track changes suddenly and huddled in the corner, they notice the stares of others and Lea squeezes her friend’s hip. A glance between Aubrey and Lea, a nod of respect and something in her clicks.
She might understand this stupid town after all.
New York is partying till dawn. There’s a rooftop thing; they’re the only ones worth going to in this town and it’s comedy people and the young indie crowd because apparently, they go hand in hand.
Aubrey fits in perfectly; Dianna a little less, but she has musician friends here, which counts for something. There’s an odd mix; the SNL crowd, as expected, the guy from Criminal Minds (hear that? That’s Plaza’s heart skipping a beat…). There’s murmurs that Zooey Deschanel is here, but she’s so much of an enigma that no one is really too sure. There’s a Mad Men star or two. And there’s Alison Brie.
Alison is drunken hugs and tispy friendships and knows pretty much everyone. She has a steady boyfriend and seems to be the only girl that Aubrey’s ever met that doesn’t cheat.
Dianna’s the maestro of networking; disappears for half the night, comes back with new facebook friends, business cards and sore feet.
“That guy from Twilight is here,” she mumbles, “and in case you were wondering, I’m avoiding him.”
“Which one?” Aubrey asks, craning her neck to look around.
“Jackson something,” Dianna frowns, “About a year ago I got really drunk and slept with him. It was suitably awkward.”
“I made out with him once,” Aubrey muses, “it wasn’t too bad.”
“You kids,” Alison trills, like she’s decades older and centuries wiser, “you’re all like the Disney lot, just a lot more fucking and a lot less writing shitty songs about it. You need hobbies. Why not bass guitar? Or knitting?”
“Busy schedules, Brie,” Dianna grins with a flick of her hair, “this is an easier alternative.”
The sun rises signalling the end. The duo stumble back to their hotel, grab a bagel and, on route to the airport, still half drunk, wave the city goodbye.
“I missed you,” Bradley says quietly. Dianna will believe him.
That’s the thing about Bradley and Dianna that they won’t work out for another five years or so; it’s undeniable. They might date other people, oceans might separate them but they will keep coming back to the same place and the same moment and it will be like time stood still. It’s the type of love depicted in books and movies and songs and it will be epic and it will happen to them and there will be consequences. Those that don’t know them will smile happily and say they deserve it. Those that do will frown and say they don’t. They will make each other insanely happy and terribly sad and they will keep revisiting history over and over again. They will keep fooling themselves that this time, maybe, it will work.
And it might. It just might.
At night they’ll lie in bed, bodies entwined and she’ll watch a show about football in Texas and a relationship will hit too close to home and she’ll will herself not to cry. Her life will be one be airports and goodbyes and mixes that it will physically hurt to listen to.
But tonight he’ll say the right words and the silences will be perfectly still and she’ll wake up and the sadness will be hidden by perfection.
Coffee with Dianna means coffee with Jessica and Lea and Aubrey rolls her eyes. Because this crowd? Chalk and cheese, people, chalk and cheese.
(And then there’s Jonathon Groff. Who Aubrey would most definitely fuck if he were not, well, gay.)
“There’s some Young Hollywood party,” Jess glances up from her Blackberry. “Anyone going?”
“Does Young Hollywood really need another party?” Aubrey rolls her eyes. ”What about something different, like a giant game of kickball? Or a ghost tour?”
They look at her like she’s grown another head.
(Most days, it feels like she has.)
VI.
The ending can come swiftly. Josh Schwartz dispenses advice like a candy machine; warns them that it could all end any day and six seasons might look like a lot, but once it’s over it’s over. Steady work is both a whisper and a dream.
Jess is careful. Picks projects strategically. Everything is calculated.
She sleeps with Donald again. This time she doesn’t tell a soul. There’s too much history; two lost and lonely souls in New York City a million years ago, music so loud you can’t tell if your heart is thumping or if it’s just the bass.
But there was a connection. And there is still that spark.
She likes cities with songs; likes it when people sing them with the type of emotion that only a fair share of the good times and bad times can bring. Except that California song. No one sings that anymore.
Jess doesn’t have much to do with Aubrey. They don’t hate each other, but they aren’t friends. But when Aubrey shows up at Chace’s, there’s a murmur in the air and a lot of confusion.
They don’t touch. They drink and they talk, but they don’t touch.
“You with Chace now?” Jess will ask casually. Aubrey will laugh.
“You with Donald?”
There’s no spite, just a ‘let’s call a truce’ and Jess concedes, because common ground is easier and you always know where you stand.
“Touché.” Jess laughs nervously. Aubrey raises a glass.
(If Jess could pinpoint the exact moment she started playing the ‘game’ this would be it.
This would be it for Aubrey, too.)
Before you begin to marvel at the drama and the romances and the tumultuous lives there is one piece of information that should be divulged.
Chace and Dianna make amends. By chance, as it happens, a surprise encounter in the street and she blushes and he stutters and there’s Starbucks and, miracle of miracles, no paparazzi.
“You weren’t the one,” he says sheepishly, “I thought you were, but you’re not. I’m sorry for putting that on you.”
She smiles.
“I know. It’s okay.”
She looks at him carefully. He’s older than he was in Australia, unshaven and slightly unkempt and she leans over and brushes the hair away from his face.
“I’d like us to be friends.”
He grins.
“Yeah. I’d like that too.”
You think of endings and you think of finality; you think of the happy conclusion or the bitter end. You don’t think of things continuing on; slow and steady, a marathon, not a sprint.
For Dianna, it’s really all beginning. Aubrey too; there’s Judd Apatow and Edgar Wright and the comedy blast doors busted wide open.
“I’m watching Heroes,” Aubrey will laugh and Dianna will groan. “Did you ever fuck Milo Ventimiglia?”
It goes like this. Circles and repeating history and making the same mistakes, but better the second time around.
“You’re unrelenting.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
There are fake friends and acquaintances. More importantly there’s the ability to know the difference. When you have everything, there’s one thing you want more than anything else -
“No, no I didn’t.”
- it’s honesty.
Aubrey believes her.
(It’s raw and it’s pure and it’s the most important trait of all.)
...
Dianna smiles serenely and Aubrey looks bored. And Chace? Confusion should be his middle name.
“Let’s get out of here,” Aubrey mutters, “this party sucks.”
“You think they all suck,” Chace grins, nudging her playfully.
She punches him back. Hard.
“Well then,” Dianna smiles, “What next?”
What next indeed.
RPF. [Starring: Dianna Agron, Aubrey Plaza & Chace Crawford. Guest Starring: Jessica Szohr, Cory Monteith, Bradley James, Lea Michele and Alison Brie. And Not to Mention: Donald Glover, Mark Salling, Kevin McHale, Ed Westwick, Michael Cera, Amy Poehler, Andy Samberg, Adam Brody, Anna Paquin, Taylor Swift, Robert Pattinson, Jackson Rathbone, Jonathon Groff, Aziz Ansari, Elijah Wood and Milo Ventimiglia.]
R. 6222.
[a/n: OH GOD. So this was written over three days. OH GOD. I don't even know how it started...I suppose I'll blame tumblr, and the pictures of Chace Crawford and Dianna Agron and then how I want Dianna to be bffs with Aubrey Plaza and...OH GOD. Listing all these people, I feel like a giant crazy. Most of these are only briefly mentioned/alluded to, which I should stress. Particularly in regards to above mentioned people of Twilight fame and T-Swift. NEVER MIND. LET'S JUST SAY I'M CRAZY. IT'LL BE EASIER IN THE LONG RUN.
I met you under neon, all of the lights were flickering,
off and on.
Everybody's coming down or throwing up or sleeping round.
I remember why I left this town.
Rich Kids, Washington
"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."
- Arthur O'Shaughnessy
Dianna taps her fingers against her champagne flute. Aubrey looks more noticeably bored. It’s another party, but not the good kind - there’s a Kardashian and a Hilton and all the wrong types of musicians.
“One of the Twilight kids is here,” Chace scoffs, handing Aubrey a drink which she downs like they’re at a high school kegger. His hand lingers on her back, which Dianna does not miss, but ignores politely all the same.
“Which one?” Dianna asks absently. Aubrey scowls.
“The one that hit on you in London. Not the one you made out with.”
Dianna’s turn to scowl.
“You made out with him too.”
Chace laughs.
“Yeah. Yeah she did.”
They’re too young to write a memoir, too old to keep a diary and in this town, if you’re young and pretty it’s a dangerous combination.
There’s no Mickey Mouse contracts. Purity rings are for the kids that can’t get laid and the pot is always good and the alcohol always flows and the good times never, ever stop.
To say it all started with them would be a blatant lie. Truth be told (now keep that out the media), they’re just the current flavour of the month.
The future is practically transparent: soon his show will be cancelled; in a few years her show will lose it’s main star. For the other one, people will gradually lose interest until there’s nothing but the memories.
They live it all while they can.
It’s a story of boy meets girl. And boy is a giant douche.
Girl isn’t really all that surprised.
“She’s got a pilot happening,” Jess will scowl. Chace will laugh.
“Don’t they all,” he slurs, “don’t they all.”
Six months later he’ll watch her pilot in a stone haze.
Her hair will make her look like an angel.
(He’ll eventually learn she’s anything but.)
Then there’s Aubrey. She is sarcastic, she is cynical. She speaks in a monotone and beautiful and quirky and when he meets her, she will tell him to fuck off.
She will fuck him in the bathroom an hour later.
Afterwards they’ll smoke a joint and she’ll tell him how she hates his stupid show and he’ll confess that he loves hers.
“Well then,” she smirks, “I might just have to keep you around, won’t I?”
I.
They meet because Michael Cera wanted to fuck her. Not those words, he mutters something about her being magnetic or enchanting or some romantic bullshit that Aubrey knows doesn’t exist in real life.
(But she’s here with Cory Whatshisface and she definitely wants to fuck him.)
She plays wingman to a tee, haaaave you met Michael? and Dianna smiles and the four of them chat in that way that you do when the only thing you have in common is fame and fake facebook profiles.
Michael shakes his head. Aubrey smirks because she is not ‘the one’ and as his heart sinks her spirits soar because she likes proving him wrong.
“What’s wrong with it not being true love?” Dianna will slur serenely, and Michael will stand straighter. “Pretend is much more beautiful than reality. That constant searching and longing is a lot more lovelier.”
She will not sleep with Michael that night. Aubrey will find out months later, a rooftop party in New York City, that she slept with the hipster-slash-musician Twilight star instead.
(Aubrey and Cory Whatshisface - that’s another story.)
There are music festivals. There is Jessica and Dianna. And there is Alison Brie.
Not quite young Hollywood, but not as old as her comedy contemporaries. There is Mad Men, of course, and there is a show on NBC with the guy from The Soup and Donald Glover, who Jessica slept with before she started sleeping with Ed.
Times have changed. The young ones, they don’t want the CW roles. They want the shows with the SNL alumni or the CBS crime shows. They want HBO and Showtime, but they don’t give you those roles if you look like you stepped out of an American Apparel shoot. They give them to the foreigners, the ones with stage notoriety; the ones with BBC costume dramas to their names. The ones with the awards.
Alison is nice. She looks like a Disney princess, but drinks like a sailor and dresses the way she does because she can.
It will not be friendship. It will be connections and people knowing people and Jess will sleep with Donald again and they will keep her secret; solidarity of a sisterhood that thought ‘hey, why not?’.
Dianna captures it all on film. Ed will find out by accident.
But really, it was Bradley’s fault.
In Australia she sees Chace again. This time, he leaves a better impression. But not quite.
Mark tries to sleep with her, Dianna’s strict ‘no sleeping with co-workers’ rule reigns supreme and after the tour he gives up. She doesn’t hold it against him.
Australia is sightseeing and Sydney nightclubs and boys with cute accents who have never heard of her show. Australia is dust storms and the true unrelenting impact of nature and falling into a hotel bed at two in the morning with a little piece of home on her lips.
“Where have you been all my life?” he mutters drunkenly and she’ll roll her eyes at the clichés and kiss him all the same.
(In the morning her head will hurt and he’ll struggle to remember her name.
“Does it matter?” she’ll sigh and he’ll look hurt and she won’t really care.)
Australia is one-night-stands left open ended, boys who break hearts and a girl who never gave hers to begin with.
“You’re not allowed to date my colleagues,” she murmurs over bitter wine at an after party. Aubrey laughs, doesn’t miss the possessiveness and passes her a flute of good champagne instead.
“Any in particular?” she mutters dryly and Dianna scowls.
“Don’t make me into some kind of bitch,” she states, matter-of-fact, and Aubrey kind of sits up straighter because ‘Lady Di’ does not swear. At all.
“I don’t want to date Cory,” Aubrey snaps, “This isn’t high school. I just think he’d be fun.”
“And it probably will be. But then it will end bitterly and you’ll hate him and he’ll have a broken heart and I don’t want to be that girl that plans parties based on which of her friends can’t stand each other.”
Aubrey looks at Dianna in that funny way she does when she doesn’t know when to be sincere or make a joke. Dianna doesn’t try to be sentimental around her, doesn’t try that touchy-feely adoring friend bullshit. They don’t even really acknowledge that they’re friends. Ever.
They don’t even have very much in common.
But Dianna’s the sanest person she knows, highly aware of the fact that ‘this’ could end anytime. That one false step, one bad relationship and all your dreams can turn to dust.
“Okay,” Aubrey says quietly, “I won’t.”
Jessica hates Lea and Lea hates Aubrey and Aubrey wants to fuck Jessica’s boyfriend.
They say young Hollywood is catty. They really don’t know shit.
II.
Ed does not know Bradley. Ed didn’t really know anyone; a handful of musicians, a few semi-serious actors. Ed said ‘fuck you’ to the British way of acting; West End and period dramas.
LA, he felt, was always more his speed.
Unfortunately for Ed, no one takes you seriously if your main acting credit is a CW villain. Especially in London, where if it’s not on the BBC, then it’s probably not worth watching.
Instead of swanky nightclubs, there’s a small pub he used to frequent; local bands and good beer and Dianna is too tipsy too quickly and she stumbles-
-this is how she meets Bradley.
Bradley leaves a perfect impression. Bradley is polite and funny and pretty and is on a show that doesn’t make her want to bang her head against a wall.
Jessica and Ed leave early, you’ll be right a courtesy while Ed drags her away. In a foreign atmosphere in a foreign country? Sure.
These are the moments Dianna lives for.
There’s the Twilight guy; the British one and too much straight spirits and Dianna doesn’t like the attention. Bradley sweeps in, sorry to keep you waiting, babe, on his lips and whisks her away.
“What are you, my knight in shining armour or something?” Dianna giggles.
“Something that that, darling,” he laughs, “something like that.”
“Sounds dreamy,” Lea swoons across the ocean. Dianna laughs, contrasting conversations (Plaza’s four word text message: did u fuck him???) and contrasting friends. Lea’s had a lifetime of dreams coming true and expects nothing less.
“He is.”
“How’d you get such a good picture?” Lea demands. (What Lea wants, Lea gets and Dianna, ever the generous friend is willing to comply).
“Got his number,” Dianna smirks, “took a picture. Easy.”
“He looks like a Prince.”
“He plays one.” Dianna answers and Lea sighs.
“And he’s charming?”
“Positively.”
“You should fuck him.”
Dianna cannot help but laugh.
There’s an airport lounge.
And there’s Chace and Aubrey. Separately, of course; she’s doing the media circus rounds with Aziz and he’s by himself, but where there’s screaming girls there’s a Hollywood hottie and Aubrey’s curiosity gets the better of her.
Like always.
Chace spots her first; she makes the introductions and Aziz glances at her knowingly and she smirks. He grins and nudges her shoulder.
“Headin’ to LA, Crawford?” Aubrey drawls and he nods.
“Then to London,” he answers and looks at her intently. They both know who’s in London.
Except Aziz.
“Who’s in London?”
“A girl,” Aubrey smirks and Chace rolls his eyes.
“Ain’t it always?”
“Ed and Jess are there as well.”
Aubrey mouths Gossip Girl to Aziz who cracks up laughing, but stops suddenly.
“Wait, is Jess that hot one?”
Ignoring him, Aubrey turns back to Chace and almost feels sorry for the guy. He’s not half as bad as they make him out to be. Not half as good, but no one deserves to be jilted in a foreign country.
(Correction: Aubrey can think of a few people. Okay, a lot of people. Just not him.)
“Don’t go, man,” Aubrey shakes her head slowly. She doesn’t offer an explanation.
“Why not?”
“Just…listen to me, okay?” she sighs, “There’s not going to be a sequel to ‘Australia’. It was a one-time thing.”
“You guys aren’t talking about the Hugh Jackman film, are you?”
“Just tell me, Plaza.”
Aubrey sighs. She didn’t want to be a part of this. There’s a reason she went into the comedy game rather than the young and pretty business. Hates the drama that comes with the bed hopping, hates the kids that play Russian roulette with their emotions. Hates that they think their life is a movie just because they act in them.
This is her world. And she wants to shake it and tell it to grow the fuck up.
“She met some guy,” she grimaces, “he’s British and an actor; in that show Merlin. And even if you go over there, even if your bed hair is perfect and you wear your most charming jeans and blazer combo, you’re not gonna stand a chance.”
There’s a pause and Aziz looks between them both, wide eyed.
“Huh.”
The announcer calls to board and Chace chuckles. Aubrey looks confused.
“Dude?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “that’s cool. Thanks.”
They watch as he walks away and Aubrey feels a small tinge of guilt.
“Harsh, Plaza.”
She scowls and doesn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the flight.
Chace makes it complicated.
Here’s the thing with Aubrey: she’s not a complete cynical bitch. She respects emotions and those that have them. She’s been known to possess them on occasion. She’s got a conscience, for sure. And when she catches Crawford by-passing the paparazzi and fans, she starts to feel kind of shitty.
That night she texts him: where are u, Crawford?
Half an hour later, he texts her an address. It’s a nightclub and she groans.
“Plaza,” he slurs when she arrives. She rolls her eyes at his female entourage, each trashier than the rest. Glaring at them, she raises her eyebrows.
“You want to fuck off for a few, ladies?”
With a few choice expletives and gestures on their part as they leave, Aubrey plants herself beside him, taking a sip of his beer.
“You’re ruining my buzz,” he complains. She laughs, because it’s a lie. He’s clearly stoned enough not to care, hair dishevelled, still in the same clothes as at the airport. The waitress brings over a few drinks and she grabs the only beer, leaving the cosmopolitans and daiquiris for him.
“We both know that’s impossible,” she smirks and he laughs, throwing his arm around the back of the couch. The music is too loud and it’s neither of their jams. They drink to fill the silence.
“Aziz thinks you can do better,” she offers, “her show is fucking gay.”
Chace bursts out laughing, falling over her in hysterics. She grins, rolling her eyes.
“Aubrey,” he smiles, looking at her a bit too closely. She looks down nervously and his hands brush the hair out of her face. It’s too tender, too intimate and she can’t find a way to joke her way out of the moment.
He kisses her too gently for the setting; more nervous fumbling than erratic groping. Her hands reach for his neck, tugging gently at his hair.
“Let’s get out of here.”
(Breath hitches in her throat.)
“Okay.”
A new decade, a new version of the starlet. They aren’t sun kissed beach babes, just as they aren’t all artificially blonde. They’re a different city every night, champagne and intelligent conversations and cynical humour. They’re modest and romantics and sleeping is the same as giving up.
They like their power ballads LOUD. (Sing it like it might be your last.)
And if it is your last, make it worthwhile.
III.
Paris is for lovers; this week is no exception.
And they only have the one. Her shooting schedule is more intense than most; he starts on season three soon.
It’s hotels with Eiffel Tower views, too much champagne and site seeing when they’re not making love.
It’s a funny word, love. Sneaks up on you and drowns you until the point where you can barely breath (and honestly, don’t think you’ll ever want to).
In the catacombs she wears a funny hat and he tells her he might be falling in love with her. Amidst the skulls and bones of the long, long dead she wonders if all those centuries ago another girl felt the same way she feels about another boy.
(Something about that thought makes Dianna smile.)
Paris ends in the rain underneath the Eiffel Tower.
But Paris is not the ending. You’d best remember that.
They shoot on the same lot one day. Amy Poehler plays the role of gracious comic idol; the young ones crowd and fawn and Aubrey will smirk because her job? Best ever. Period.
“Sup mama,” she deadpans and Dianna laughs, hand over the fake baby bump.
“Hot, yeah?”
“Definitely,” Aubrey smirks, “Bradley seen it yet.”
Dianna laughs too loudly and with the distraction, Amy takes her leave. Aubrey hangs around, playing with Dianna’s phone while Mark tries to flirt with her and she tries to catch Cory’s eye.
Until a photo catches hers.
(Not that kind of photo. Keep your mind out of the gutter, okay?)
“God damn, Di,” Aubrey whistles, “this is your British boyfriend?”
Dianna blushes softly and the phone gets passed around; there’s ribbing and teasing, but it’s all good-natured and Aubrey feels sick because this young, tight nit group, finding fame together and being genuine friends?
It’s not normal.
“Yeah.”
“I thought he was the other one, Merlin or something,” Aubrey takes back the phone, “not whoever the fuck this is!”
“Prince Arthur,” Lea says slowly, all fake smiles, “so cute.”
“Hmm, I suppose,” Aubrey mutters, “I prefer pasty tall white guys in shorts, myself.”
There’s an exaggerated wink somewhere there, territorial glares somewhere else and Aubrey thanks whatever higher power out there she’s not the type of girl to care about making friends.
Aubrey likes sneaking around with Chace. She likes hotel rooms and last minute flights and 2am phone calls and having secrets.
Most of all, she like that there are no commitments. This is not ‘forever’, this is not set in stone.
“Are you sleeping with Cory Whatshisface?” Chace asks one night, tracing patterns on her stomach with practiced ease. Pushing his hand away, she scowls into the darkness.
“Monteith. And no. Di won’t let me fuck her co-stars. Why do you care?”
He flinches at the mention of her name and Aubrey sighs loudly. Grabbing the remote, she turns on the TV, flicking channels until settling on some British sci-fi.
“I don’t,” Chace answers too quickly and Aubrey raises her eyebrows.
“Liar.”
He focuses too intently on the screen, ignoring her. She sighs, because this show? Pretty interesting. And she’s going to have to kill it by addressing their issues.
Switching it off, she sighs.
“What the fuck, Crawford?”
His turn to sigh.
“I met the guy the other night at…fuck, I don’t know where I was. He’s pretty cool.”
“So?” Aubrey smirks, “you want to fuck him instead?”
“Shut up, Plaza,” Chace scowls, “I’m just saying, he’s clearly more your type than I am. I don’t want to lose this arrangement.”
“I’m not going to sleep with him,” Aubrey mutters after a beat, “I promised Dianna.”
He looks at sceptically.
“And you’re actually going to keep that promise?”
She flicks the television back on, watching quietly as a young couple run for their lives and thinks that perhaps that tragic, ‘we haven’t got a chance in hell’ love is probably for the best.
It would be easier if it would just all end tomorrow.
“Yeah,” Aubrey mutters, “for Dianna I would.”
In New York he breaks her heart.
There’s Skype and an ocean between them. For the first time since she’s known him, he looks tired.
Lately, Dianna is always tired.
There’s this: long distance is too hard; this would be best for both of us. Let’s see how we feel down the road, pick it up from there.
She does not cry. She nods and smiles a small smile. Of course. There’s something here, but we can’t sustain it across an ocean.
Dianna doesn’t really believe what she’s saying. But she’s an actor and that is what she does.
At the hotel bar, she sips house red until Adam shows up.
“You look like you need something harder than that.”
She chuckles, fiddling with the edge of her phone.
“I probably do,” she murmurs, “this guy and I…well, I guess you could say we broke up. Or something.”
“Oh,” Adam nods, uncomfortable, “do you want me to get Anna?”
“Nah,” she shakes her head, “it’s stupid anyway.”
“Who was he,” Adam asks quietly, “co star?”
Dianna shakes her head.
“He’s an actor. Lives in England. I was silly thinking it would work.”
“Nothing silly about that,” Adam shrugs, “you’re not the first to be fooled by that thinking. Dating co stars - that’s silly.”
There’s truth in his words; she looks at him and reminds herself that she’s not the first to travel this path. It starts with a pilot, people screaming your name and ends with cancellation and a broken heart.
(Ends with you trying to fit the pieces back together and come out the other end with some semblance of a career left.)
“Was it worth it though?” she whispers, willing herself not to cry. Adam smiles.
“Yeah, it was worth it. The good times will remain the good times, bad times be damned.”
“That sounds okay.” Dianna says slowly, thinking it over.
Adam will laugh, clinking his glass against hers and she’ll duck her head, feeling younger than her years. There’s reassuring words; you’ll be right, kid and for what it’s worth, she actually believes him.
Friendships don’t fall apart overnight. There’s the slow crumble and decay; like cities left deserted, unattended by those who oh so carefully built them up from nothing. It can take months, years to end; to cut the ties and delete the numbers until all that’s left are a few photos where you think you might have been happy.
For a spell, at least.
It starts with part truths and half lies, secrets becoming common knowledge. It starts when Bradley accidently tells Ed about Donald; when Ed breaks up with Jess and when Jess drunkenly tells Alison that Aubrey’s been fucking Chace for months.
Dianna is the last to know. She’s not really all that surprised.
IV.
Dianna adopts a dog and tells Jess she’s done with fucking for companionship.
This is after Elijah. But we won’t talk about that, will we?
The fact of the matter is that the decision came after a breakdown, the place a Barnes and Noble car park, her keys locked in her car and number one, two and three on her speed dial all out of the state.
“He’s gigantic.” Jess states, petting the dog awkwardly.
“He’s gorgeous.” Dianna grins.
“You don’t do anything conventionally, do you Di?”
“Not when I can help it.”
Jess can’t help but smile.
Aubrey gets blown off by Dianna via Lea. It’s clichéd, that’s what it fucking is.
“She can’t come to the phone,” Lea says haughtily, “busy and all that.”
The thing about Lea? She might be nice. She might be the sweetest girl to ever grace this good earth. If she is, Aubrey’s never seen that side. She’s fiercely protective of her friends, views Aubrey as a threat or some bullshit that she’ll never understand.
Sometimes, her gender is a fucking joke.
“You’re a terrible liar, Michele,” she sighs, “just put her on.”
Just tell her she doesn’t want to talk to her! Aubrey hears in the background. It’s not Dianna, some other Glee skank and there’s laughter and she hears fumbling on the other line.
“Aubrey?”
“What the fuck is going on, Agron?”
The line is quiet. There’s a murmur of voices, then a sigh.
“I’m mad at you.”
“No shit,” she snaps across the line, “so what did I fucking do?”
There’s another pause. This time, Aubrey sighs.
“Is this about Chace?”
It’s quiet. This is ridiculous.
“You didn’t want him!” Aubrey blows up, “you had Bradley, and you had your other ‘serious’ actors! You didn’t want him!”
“Aubrey…” she whispers, swallowing.
“No, forget about it. Clearly I’m at fault. You can have him, I’m done.”
She hangs up, throwing her phone across the room. It does not break.
Aubrey couldn’t care less.
There’s parties. There’s no Dianna. Aubrey is thankful, hates playing second fiddle and this year’s female hottie typecast? Quirky brunettes with snarky personalities.
It’s a good year.
She makes out with a Twilight star; the one with the band with the stupid name. He’s entertaining; with borderline hipster personality who looks like the hot guy from Criminal Minds.
But he’s not. And there are always better prospects than a hipster with piss poor taste in movies. So she brushes him off with a thanks, that was fun, glancing around the room for her next victim.
He comes in the form of Cory Monteith.
Monteith is a suave motherfucker. She likes that; likes that he knows exactly what to say and that he doesn’t take the ‘fame game’ too seriously.
Plus he’s a drummer. Aubrey likes drummers a lot.
There’s hesitance on his part, what about Dianna, he’ll murmur, his lips on her neck and her hands undoing shirt buttons with practiced ease.
What about her, she’ll reply and she’ll only feel a twinge of guilt. Her night with Cory will be fun, as will the subsequent nights that follow. But eventually she’ll get bored and he’ll get too invested and everything Dianna prophesised will, in fact, come true.
Ed and Jess get back together. As it always is, no one’s real surprised. You run in the same circles for long enough and history will always, always, always repeat itself.
Aubrey and Dianna start talking because Andy Samberg wants to fuck her.
(Those words exactly.)
Aubrey’s sick everyone’s obsession with her, wishes she were vapid or bitchy so she could hate her with good reason. The fact is, this one she resigns herself to, is that they could do a lot worse.
Wingman to a tee; haaaave you met Andy escaping from her mouth and the déjà vu makes her head hurt.
This time round, she’s here with Kevin, who Aubrey doesn’t know, but he’s a nice guy and the conversation is easy and when Andy and Dianna go off somewhere more private, she doesn’t mind being stuck with him.
“It’s not personal, you know,” he says, offhand. She glances at him curiously; he’s not her type, she knows too many cute, dorky guys with glasses that the novelty has long worn off.
“What’s not personal?”
“Why they don’t like you,” he shrugs like it’s fact (close enough, really). “We’re just really protective of her, you know?”
Snappy comeback on the tip of her tongue; she chokes and he knows it.
“I know that feeling.”
Tapping glasses, they drink to nothing and everything. Mostly, they drink to themselves.
No one talks to Chace for a while. Until he gets busted for possession.
(That’s number one.)
Cory gets over Aubrey and starts dating Taylor Swift.
(That’s number two.)
Bradley visits LA.
(Of course, these things come in threes. This is when she’ll smirk and mutter that life/fame/love/shit just got very real.
No one finds the funny in this one.)
V.
Aubrey has never been to Texas. Aubrey has never wanted to go to Texas or be in the position where she has to go to Texas.
The lures of mug shots are just too tempting. She thus finds herself in Texas.
She doesn’t say very much, but he’s grateful.
“Does everyone know?” he moans as she teases him, smoking a joint while hanging out of his bedroom window, because some habits die harder than most.
“Yup.” She exhales, “They think it’s funny you got caught.”
“Fuckers,” he laughs.
There’s a Burn Notice marathon on USA, in a haze they decide they want to do a movie where their spies.
“Like Mr and Mrs Smith?” he asks and she laughs.
“Fuck no. We’ll meet in a different time; I’ll be from the future, you’ll be from the past. You’ll smoke too much and I’ll drink too much and you’ll be preoccupied with Nazis and I’ll be preoccupied with robots. You’ll be amazed how everything turned out so well and I’ll be devastated how everything will eventually go to hell. And we’ll both be obsessed with the concept of frozen yoghurt.”
“No frozen yoghurt in the future, huh?”
“Nope. It’s all in pill form, duh.”
“Will this be a love story?” he asks quietly.
“It’ll have to be,” Aubrey whispers, “I mean, what else will they have to live for?”
“Sounds nice.” He mutters lazily.
“It won’t be,” she says stubbornly, “it will end in tragedy. We have to get our Oscar’s somehow, Crawford.”
There’s a beat and laughter ensues.
Cory has a party and invites Aubrey because there are no hard feelings.
Of course.
She arrives and there are too many Glee kids and she remembers why she doesn’t go to these kinds of parties. Not enough corners to hide in. If you bail, someone will surely see you leave.
Taylor is there. Aubrey wants someone to tell her that this is an elaborate joke.
“It’s not,” Dianna will grin, as they watch the songstress sip tentatively at a drink and play with her hair too much. Aubrey scowls.
“Isn’t she in that purity ring club?”
“I didn’t ask,” Dianna smiles, “but her mom’s picking her up. If you’re nice enough, she might give you a ride.”
Aubrey regards her carefully.
“Do you think he’s fucked her yet? Wait!” Aubrey exclaims, “Do you think if it ends badly, she’ll write a song about it? What the fuck rhymes with ‘Cory’?”
Lea stalks over, drink in hand.
“I hate her.”
Aubrey smirks and Dianna says nothing, lost in thought. Lea continues her rant.
“She can’t sing - she has no range. Her songs are stupid and why the hell would you date someone with the same name as you?”
Jonathon tells her to calm down, breath or drink or anything. But Lea is in full bitch mode and Aubrey can see how this is entertaining when it’s not directed at her.
“Story.” Dianna says suddenly. They look at her like she’s grown another head. “Cory rhymes with story.”
“What the fuck have you been drinking, Agron?” Lea demands.
“Clearly she needs some of it,” Jonathon jokes. Aubrey chuckles.
The night will progress in much the same fashion; Lea will say something nasty and Jon will placate her and Aubrey will find this the most hilarious thing in the world. Dianna will be a million miles away.
“What’s up with you?” Aubrey will ask, Lea’s eyes narrowing carefully.
“Bradley called me this afternoon.”
There’s a pause.
“He’s coming to LA and wants to meet up while he’s here.”
Dianna’s face doesn’t give away much. There’s not much to go by and Aubrey’s never had a lot of tact and is used to relying on visual cues.
Lea sighs.
“What are you going to do?”
Dianna shrugs with a smile. The track changes suddenly and huddled in the corner, they notice the stares of others and Lea squeezes her friend’s hip. A glance between Aubrey and Lea, a nod of respect and something in her clicks.
She might understand this stupid town after all.
New York is partying till dawn. There’s a rooftop thing; they’re the only ones worth going to in this town and it’s comedy people and the young indie crowd because apparently, they go hand in hand.
Aubrey fits in perfectly; Dianna a little less, but she has musician friends here, which counts for something. There’s an odd mix; the SNL crowd, as expected, the guy from Criminal Minds (hear that? That’s Plaza’s heart skipping a beat…). There’s murmurs that Zooey Deschanel is here, but she’s so much of an enigma that no one is really too sure. There’s a Mad Men star or two. And there’s Alison Brie.
Alison is drunken hugs and tispy friendships and knows pretty much everyone. She has a steady boyfriend and seems to be the only girl that Aubrey’s ever met that doesn’t cheat.
Dianna’s the maestro of networking; disappears for half the night, comes back with new facebook friends, business cards and sore feet.
“That guy from Twilight is here,” she mumbles, “and in case you were wondering, I’m avoiding him.”
“Which one?” Aubrey asks, craning her neck to look around.
“Jackson something,” Dianna frowns, “About a year ago I got really drunk and slept with him. It was suitably awkward.”
“I made out with him once,” Aubrey muses, “it wasn’t too bad.”
“You kids,” Alison trills, like she’s decades older and centuries wiser, “you’re all like the Disney lot, just a lot more fucking and a lot less writing shitty songs about it. You need hobbies. Why not bass guitar? Or knitting?”
“Busy schedules, Brie,” Dianna grins with a flick of her hair, “this is an easier alternative.”
The sun rises signalling the end. The duo stumble back to their hotel, grab a bagel and, on route to the airport, still half drunk, wave the city goodbye.
“I missed you,” Bradley says quietly. Dianna will believe him.
That’s the thing about Bradley and Dianna that they won’t work out for another five years or so; it’s undeniable. They might date other people, oceans might separate them but they will keep coming back to the same place and the same moment and it will be like time stood still. It’s the type of love depicted in books and movies and songs and it will be epic and it will happen to them and there will be consequences. Those that don’t know them will smile happily and say they deserve it. Those that do will frown and say they don’t. They will make each other insanely happy and terribly sad and they will keep revisiting history over and over again. They will keep fooling themselves that this time, maybe, it will work.
And it might. It just might.
At night they’ll lie in bed, bodies entwined and she’ll watch a show about football in Texas and a relationship will hit too close to home and she’ll will herself not to cry. Her life will be one be airports and goodbyes and mixes that it will physically hurt to listen to.
But tonight he’ll say the right words and the silences will be perfectly still and she’ll wake up and the sadness will be hidden by perfection.
Coffee with Dianna means coffee with Jessica and Lea and Aubrey rolls her eyes. Because this crowd? Chalk and cheese, people, chalk and cheese.
(And then there’s Jonathon Groff. Who Aubrey would most definitely fuck if he were not, well, gay.)
“There’s some Young Hollywood party,” Jess glances up from her Blackberry. “Anyone going?”
“Does Young Hollywood really need another party?” Aubrey rolls her eyes. ”What about something different, like a giant game of kickball? Or a ghost tour?”
They look at her like she’s grown another head.
(Most days, it feels like she has.)
VI.
The ending can come swiftly. Josh Schwartz dispenses advice like a candy machine; warns them that it could all end any day and six seasons might look like a lot, but once it’s over it’s over. Steady work is both a whisper and a dream.
Jess is careful. Picks projects strategically. Everything is calculated.
She sleeps with Donald again. This time she doesn’t tell a soul. There’s too much history; two lost and lonely souls in New York City a million years ago, music so loud you can’t tell if your heart is thumping or if it’s just the bass.
But there was a connection. And there is still that spark.
She likes cities with songs; likes it when people sing them with the type of emotion that only a fair share of the good times and bad times can bring. Except that California song. No one sings that anymore.
Jess doesn’t have much to do with Aubrey. They don’t hate each other, but they aren’t friends. But when Aubrey shows up at Chace’s, there’s a murmur in the air and a lot of confusion.
They don’t touch. They drink and they talk, but they don’t touch.
“You with Chace now?” Jess will ask casually. Aubrey will laugh.
“You with Donald?”
There’s no spite, just a ‘let’s call a truce’ and Jess concedes, because common ground is easier and you always know where you stand.
“Touché.” Jess laughs nervously. Aubrey raises a glass.
(If Jess could pinpoint the exact moment she started playing the ‘game’ this would be it.
This would be it for Aubrey, too.)
Before you begin to marvel at the drama and the romances and the tumultuous lives there is one piece of information that should be divulged.
Chace and Dianna make amends. By chance, as it happens, a surprise encounter in the street and she blushes and he stutters and there’s Starbucks and, miracle of miracles, no paparazzi.
“You weren’t the one,” he says sheepishly, “I thought you were, but you’re not. I’m sorry for putting that on you.”
She smiles.
“I know. It’s okay.”
She looks at him carefully. He’s older than he was in Australia, unshaven and slightly unkempt and she leans over and brushes the hair away from his face.
“I’d like us to be friends.”
He grins.
“Yeah. I’d like that too.”
You think of endings and you think of finality; you think of the happy conclusion or the bitter end. You don’t think of things continuing on; slow and steady, a marathon, not a sprint.
For Dianna, it’s really all beginning. Aubrey too; there’s Judd Apatow and Edgar Wright and the comedy blast doors busted wide open.
“I’m watching Heroes,” Aubrey will laugh and Dianna will groan. “Did you ever fuck Milo Ventimiglia?”
It goes like this. Circles and repeating history and making the same mistakes, but better the second time around.
“You’re unrelenting.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
There are fake friends and acquaintances. More importantly there’s the ability to know the difference. When you have everything, there’s one thing you want more than anything else -
“No, no I didn’t.”
- it’s honesty.
Aubrey believes her.
(It’s raw and it’s pure and it’s the most important trait of all.)
...
Dianna smiles serenely and Aubrey looks bored. And Chace? Confusion should be his middle name.
“Let’s get out of here,” Aubrey mutters, “this party sucks.”
“You think they all suck,” Chace grins, nudging her playfully.
She punches him back. Hard.
“Well then,” Dianna smiles, “What next?”
What next indeed.