Fic: Stand Where You Are
disney rpf. demi/selena. 8,585 words. Years later, they find each other again
soundtrack
There was a time when Selena was the first person she'd call when something like this happened. More often than not, she wouldn't even have to because Selena was already there. Selena had always been right there. Until the day she wasn't.
Now, in light of this new announcement, when she should be screaming and jumping for joy, she just stares at the phone in her hand. Her fingers are poised over the buttons, waiting to dial. It hasn't hit her until just now, but she has no one to tell.
--
She buys her first house, her first real house (not in Fiji or Italy or Hawaii, but right there, in Texas), and she has a housewarming party. She decides last minute that it shouldn't so much be a party as just dinner, so she only invites her family.
They all come over with plants for presents and champagne for toasting. It's so much fun, all of them together for the first time in a long time. She let's herself get lost in it, tricks herself into maybe feeling as happy as she seems. It works for a while, but not long enough.
“So,” her mother says, up to her elbows in dishwater and suds. “Tell me?”
“What?”
“Why so sad?”
She looks over at her mother and blindly reaches for the next plate to dry, trying for nonchalance. She smiles, “I'm not sad, Mom.”
“You forget, Demetria,” her mother starts, “that a mother always knows when she's being lied to.”
Demi recalls all those years ago, the very beginning when this all started, and she thinks No, Mom. You don't.
--
When she turns twenty-one, she's not much in the mood for celebrating. Her sister shows up at her door wearing something low-cut and sparkling. She has an outfit scarily similar on a hanger in her hand and she holds it out like a present with a Cheshire grin: “Time you were corrupted, baby sis.”
Oh, Demi thinks, that time's long passed.
One thing she didn't expect at all, was that she'd be a sad drunk. Sloppy, sure. Loose, maybe. But she didn't think she'd be one to hunch over her Jack and Coke (light ice, thanks) in a vinyl booth and cry. The tears came so suddenly that she doesn't even realize she's crying until Dallas points it out.
“How can you be sad on your birthday!” It's more an accusation than a question.
“Far be it from me to interfere with your good time,” Demi says. She makes a vague sweeping gesture between her sister and the floor. “Go. Dance. Have fun.”
Dallas hesitates for a moment before focusing entirely on her sister. “No, come on. What's wrong?”
“Everything, just-“ Demi sighs and reaches for her glass. “Everything.”
“I'm going to need more specifics than that.”
Demi doesn't give anymore than that and retreats into contemplative silence. Dallas gives her shoulder a rousing shake and only manages to spill Demi's drink.
“Well, at least come dance with me. We'll party.”
“No,” Demi says. “Just come find me when you're done.”
“You're just going to sit here a cry all night?”
“It's my party,” Demi mutters. Her sarcasm is still intact, at least. “I'll cry if I want to.”
--
They still talk, Demi and Selena. Neither of them really has the strength or the desire to cut the other off completely. So because they're still carrying torches (well, they're only embers now, waiting to be stoked), or because they're just masochistic that way, they still talk.
Talking, though, is a loose term for it. The clipped phone calls are few and far between. More often than not, they ignore the calls and let them slip to voicemail. Somehow, it's easier for them talk when the audience is dead air. Their words are lighter when the ears they're reaching for are farther away.
Hey, Demi. We heard about the nomination, congratulations! It's really exciting, we're all so happy for you. Okay, well, just wanted to let you know we're rooting for you. I'm-I'm proud of you, Demi.
They email, too, sometimes. Messages typed in haste, and not proofread, pop up occasionally and are seldom deleted. They are pretty run-of-the-mill, hi how are you sort of things, but they send them anyway because it's something. It's something.
Then they send cards at the holidays and on birthdays. Sometimes they send gifts, but not always. Sometimes the cards are late, but not always. It bothers Demi a little (a lot) that they've been reduced to that. It bothers her that when she's in a store and sees something she just knows Selena would love, she just puts it down and walks away. They don't buy each other presents just because anymore. They just scrawl Merry Christmas and sign their names on generic Hallmark 3x5's. They don't write “love” anymore, either. No matter that it's truer now, more than ever.
--
There was a time when they made mistakes they thought they couldn't fix and said things they could never take back. Looking back on it now, it seems stupid that they had let it be the end of them, but then it had felt like the whole world had broken apart. This bottomless chasm had opened up between them and stranded each of them on either side. Time had pushed wide that hole and whenever they made progress, as soon as they got close to the edge, one of them would trip over her own lies and more ground would crumble away beneath their feet.
Demi still writes songs about it. She's filled notebooks and napkins and anything she could put a pen to with sorry words about pain and fear and broken hearts. For a long time, the only one she'd share her bed with was her guitar.
Her last album was full of songs about doing wrong and being done wrong. It went over well enough with critics, someone had called it a “triumphant victory over love and loss.” The fans weren't so easily impressed. This victory was Pyhrric, if anything. And anyone who knows will say that a Pyhrric victory is one earned at too great a cost.
--
Part Two
soundtrack
There was a time when Selena was the first person she'd call when something like this happened. More often than not, she wouldn't even have to because Selena was already there. Selena had always been right there. Until the day she wasn't.
Now, in light of this new announcement, when she should be screaming and jumping for joy, she just stares at the phone in her hand. Her fingers are poised over the buttons, waiting to dial. It hasn't hit her until just now, but she has no one to tell.
--
She buys her first house, her first real house (not in Fiji or Italy or Hawaii, but right there, in Texas), and she has a housewarming party. She decides last minute that it shouldn't so much be a party as just dinner, so she only invites her family.
They all come over with plants for presents and champagne for toasting. It's so much fun, all of them together for the first time in a long time. She let's herself get lost in it, tricks herself into maybe feeling as happy as she seems. It works for a while, but not long enough.
“So,” her mother says, up to her elbows in dishwater and suds. “Tell me?”
“What?”
“Why so sad?”
She looks over at her mother and blindly reaches for the next plate to dry, trying for nonchalance. She smiles, “I'm not sad, Mom.”
“You forget, Demetria,” her mother starts, “that a mother always knows when she's being lied to.”
Demi recalls all those years ago, the very beginning when this all started, and she thinks No, Mom. You don't.
--
When she turns twenty-one, she's not much in the mood for celebrating. Her sister shows up at her door wearing something low-cut and sparkling. She has an outfit scarily similar on a hanger in her hand and she holds it out like a present with a Cheshire grin: “Time you were corrupted, baby sis.”
Oh, Demi thinks, that time's long passed.
One thing she didn't expect at all, was that she'd be a sad drunk. Sloppy, sure. Loose, maybe. But she didn't think she'd be one to hunch over her Jack and Coke (light ice, thanks) in a vinyl booth and cry. The tears came so suddenly that she doesn't even realize she's crying until Dallas points it out.
“How can you be sad on your birthday!” It's more an accusation than a question.
“Far be it from me to interfere with your good time,” Demi says. She makes a vague sweeping gesture between her sister and the floor. “Go. Dance. Have fun.”
Dallas hesitates for a moment before focusing entirely on her sister. “No, come on. What's wrong?”
“Everything, just-“ Demi sighs and reaches for her glass. “Everything.”
“I'm going to need more specifics than that.”
Demi doesn't give anymore than that and retreats into contemplative silence. Dallas gives her shoulder a rousing shake and only manages to spill Demi's drink.
“Well, at least come dance with me. We'll party.”
“No,” Demi says. “Just come find me when you're done.”
“You're just going to sit here a cry all night?”
“It's my party,” Demi mutters. Her sarcasm is still intact, at least. “I'll cry if I want to.”
--
They still talk, Demi and Selena. Neither of them really has the strength or the desire to cut the other off completely. So because they're still carrying torches (well, they're only embers now, waiting to be stoked), or because they're just masochistic that way, they still talk.
Talking, though, is a loose term for it. The clipped phone calls are few and far between. More often than not, they ignore the calls and let them slip to voicemail. Somehow, it's easier for them talk when the audience is dead air. Their words are lighter when the ears they're reaching for are farther away.
Hey, Demi. We heard about the nomination, congratulations! It's really exciting, we're all so happy for you. Okay, well, just wanted to let you know we're rooting for you. I'm-I'm proud of you, Demi.
They email, too, sometimes. Messages typed in haste, and not proofread, pop up occasionally and are seldom deleted. They are pretty run-of-the-mill, hi how are you sort of things, but they send them anyway because it's something. It's something.
Then they send cards at the holidays and on birthdays. Sometimes they send gifts, but not always. Sometimes the cards are late, but not always. It bothers Demi a little (a lot) that they've been reduced to that. It bothers her that when she's in a store and sees something she just knows Selena would love, she just puts it down and walks away. They don't buy each other presents just because anymore. They just scrawl Merry Christmas and sign their names on generic Hallmark 3x5's. They don't write “love” anymore, either. No matter that it's truer now, more than ever.
--
There was a time when they made mistakes they thought they couldn't fix and said things they could never take back. Looking back on it now, it seems stupid that they had let it be the end of them, but then it had felt like the whole world had broken apart. This bottomless chasm had opened up between them and stranded each of them on either side. Time had pushed wide that hole and whenever they made progress, as soon as they got close to the edge, one of them would trip over her own lies and more ground would crumble away beneath their feet.
Demi still writes songs about it. She's filled notebooks and napkins and anything she could put a pen to with sorry words about pain and fear and broken hearts. For a long time, the only one she'd share her bed with was her guitar.
Her last album was full of songs about doing wrong and being done wrong. It went over well enough with critics, someone had called it a “triumphant victory over love and loss.” The fans weren't so easily impressed. This victory was Pyhrric, if anything. And anyone who knows will say that a Pyhrric victory is one earned at too great a cost.
--
Part Two