By Rhiannon, for deathbecomesher.
The café near the house is small and dark, and the lighting is strange, single green-shaded lamps hanging low over the tables. Zach likes it. He goes there on evenings, sits at one of the tables that are too fashionably small to hold much more than a cup of coffee, and watches as people come and go.
It is raining this evening, one of those California winter rains that comes down slow and thin, but steady, and soaks your clothing through with such guile that you're almost surprised to find it wet and clinging by the time you get from your front door to wherever you are going. Zach had pulled off his sweatshirt upon arriving at the café and tugged his camera out of its sodden case, checking it carefully for evidence of damage before balancing it carefully in the small amount of space left on the table beside his coffee.
The door opens, letting in a burst of damp nighttime air. A man and a woman stand on the threshold, laughing breathlessly. The man's hair is wet, dripping water into his eyes; he holds a sodden newspaper above her head, in an inadequate attempt to keep her dry, and the edges of the paper are dripping, too. As Zach watches, the man shakes the water out of his hair, and leans forward to kiss the woman, ducking his head under the edge of the newspaper he still holds.
Zack watches the play of green-tinted light across their faces. He snaps a picture.
When his coffee is finished and the rain outside the café as slowed, he packs his camera into its mostly dry case, and goes home, blond head stooped to keep the rain off his face. He keeps his eyes on the wet pavement, and doesn't pause to see if there is anything worth shooting. He knows every inch of this walk.
He arrives home, shrugging out of his sweatshirt again to avoid dripping on the floor. Summer is asleep in their bed.
Her hair spills across the pillow, and her face is turned away from him. The light from their bedroom window paints her pale blue and gold, makes her look even more fragile than she is. Breakable. He tries to be moved. He lifts his camera and takes a picture. The noise of the shutter wakes her.
"Zach?" she mumbles, still not quite awake.
"Yes."
She's fully awake, now. She doesn't sleep deep. Sometimes she doesn't sleep at all. She's worried that it will be like last time, all bad dreams and chunks of her life just /missing/. "What's wrong?"
He considers telling her that nothing is wrong. "I don't know."
She rests her head back against the pillow, and he can see her tremble, blue eyes wide in the darkness. "Of course you know." Her voice wavers.
Later, after he's packed his things, he leaves Summer curled in on herself in one of their dining room chairs, her shell pink robe wrapped around her like a blanket. He had taken another picture of her before he left. She hadn't even looked up, had turned her head away so that all he got was a picture of tumbled white-blond curls.
Boxes of clothes and photography equipment are piled into the back of his car. The rain has stopped now, but the roads are slick, water gleaming like oil beneath his headlights. He drives aimlessly for what feels like hours, until he finally pulls up in front of Jenny's house. The lights are dark, but he doesn't have to worry about waking anyone but her. Jenny has been alone for years.
He knocks, and she opens the door. She does not seem surprised to see him; perhaps Summer had called. They were still friends. In spite of everything, Jenny was still the glue that held the rest of them together.
When she kisses him, he doesn't pull back. They've danced this dance before, and he wonders if Summer would call Jenny if she knew.
When she kisses him, he kisses back, mouth insistent, her skin achingly warm against his, still cool from the air outside. The fabric of her nightgown is soft against the palms of his hands, and he pulls it over her head with very little fanfare. She stands there in the hallway of the house her parents had left her, the house where the first Game had started, nipples hardening and green eyes defiant.
They go into the bedroom, and he isn't sure if he pushes her or she pulls him; what matters is that they get there.
Soon they are spread out on the bed. And Zach does not mind that when she lowers herself onto him, she throws back her head and screams Julian's name. And Jenny does not mind that when he comes inside her, he is watching her through the lens of his camera.
Fin.
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