I Will Try to Fix You [open]

[ALEXANDER FORTESCUE]

How long had it been, then?

It was funny. He couldn't remember.

How long had it been since he'd felt those strong arms around him, the brush of that stubbly cheek against his, and how long had it been since he'd heard that perfect voice tell him how much he loved him, and how long since pot-smoking in trees, and how long since he'd wound his arms around him and told him not to go?

How long had it been?

Alexander had lost count.

At first, he'd counted the days. Then he'd counted the weeks. And then he'd just stopped, because counting hurt too much and goddammit, he wasn't designed for heartbreak, he just wasn't. He should have known, should have known that it was stupid to let himself get attached to someone like that, let them hear him say 'I love you' like he was some sort of stupid sap out of a romantic comedy. He wasn't. He was a seventeen-year-old boy and he had his whole life ahead of him.

He didn't fucking have time to sit around brooding and pining for Max Petulengro.

Alex hated Central Park. He hated the whole place because it reminded him of street musicians singing songs for him and first encounters with ferrets. But he was here anyway, here because he needed to be here, because Alexander Fortescue was too strong and too carefree and too masculine to fall apart over a boy.

He pulled up the hood of his purple hoodie over his blonde curls and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep his fingers warm. The day was chilly. He usually so hated cold, but today, it seemed welcoming, if only because it made the wrapped coin tied around his neck freeze against his skin.

I never thought I would be heartbroken and not the heartbreaker, he thought to himself, reflecting quietly on the past few months: the waiting, the crying, the rage, the tantrums, the binge drinking. His grades had really taken a hit; he didn't care about anything anymore, least of all school. Let Julius take his allowance away. Let him. Alex didn't care. He didn't fucking care about anything, because his worst fears had already been realized.

He was completely, indisputably, utterly alone.

And it killed him.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Click.

Angel hopped around Central Park alone, playing with her camera as she walked. Today she had no buggies to keep her company (The were at home watching Miss Spider's Sunnypatch Friends on DvD), and no Jack to either (Detention, without Angel the little cheater). So she decided to amuse herself. Though not a particularly good photographer, there was something special about freezing a moment forever. She clicked this and that, searing it into her camera film, where she would develop in her bathroom and continue to line her ceiling with miscellaneous things.

Her patchwork converse tapped against the Central Park pavement, as the crisp snowy air burned at her nose. As it was winter, she had dawned wool stockings over her usually bare legs. The shirt dress she wore was rather petal-like and whimsical, fair pink with polka-dots. Over that was a gray sweatshirt, which kept her warm enough, though the Californian could not help but to shiver a little. As always, Angel wore an array of earrings, today sporting a few with feathers.

Despite living in New York for nine months out of the year, she rarely went to Central Park. If any episode of Law and Order ever old her anything, it was that people got raped and murdered like crazy here. While she was not afraid, it certainly was not worth her time if there was nothing to be gained. Currently though, what was to be gained was a cure for boredom, as she was never one to sit in such a hateful state for long.

Angel clicked a photo every minute or so, her bangles falling up and down her forearm like a wooden bird tapping water at rhythm. Sometimes of a the canopy above, where light shined through. Sometimes of a squirrel with a particularly luscious tail. Sometimes a close up of ants marching along. Sometimes of a really fat mime. Sometimes of a boy looking quite sad, all on his own.

Peeking over the camera, Angel watched him for a moment. He had one of those pretty faces that boys shouldn't have. Long eyelashes and large eyes, with full lips women had to use make up to give the illusion of having. Never one for shyness, Angel approached him, her gaze similar to a curious cat who had spotted a fluffy dandelion. "Did you know the average spider can travel up to 1.17 miles per hour?" She smiled at him, her dark eyes glittering at this new (and thus interesting, for now) person, pushing her chocolate brown hair behind one of her studded ears. "I'm Angel. You go to my School, right? Baum?" Voila, magic, tadah, ice broken.

Maybe today wouldn't be a total bust after all.

[ALEXANDER FORTESCUE]

Alex had taken to smoking.

And it wasn't the good kind of smoking that he used to do with Max and Cassie down in the sewers, the kind that would make him deliriously happy and somehow philosophical, despite the fact that Alex hated philosophy. No, it was the nasty kind, the kind that smelled bad and got into everything he owned and got him bad looks from adults because he was a year too young to buy cigarettes legally. It was the kind that punched holes in peoples' lungs and strung them along for years before rewarding their devotion with lung cancer.

He knew it was bad, and he didn't care. He did it because it was bad for him, and because it relaxed him, sort of eased all the knots in his head. Alex had never given a shit what people thought about him once he'd stopped caring about his brother's opinions. He had cared what Max had thought of him, but clearly, Max didn't think enough of him to come back. So that didn't matter, either.

"Zut." The French curse was laced with frustration. Biting down on one plump pink lip, he pulled out a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his hoodie and a lighter from his pocket. He ignited the business end of the cancer stick and took a drag.

The feeling of the toxic smoke in his lungs felt like dying to him, and he loved it.

He ambled along for a little longer, watching the smoke drift from his lips up into the white winter sky with a sort of detached interest, until his reverie was interrupted by a girl.

She was toting a camera, snapping pictures of things that seemed to be unrelated, and she was wearing a dress that was shockingly short for this time of year. Not that Alex would really know, he didn't wear dresses, but still. It seemed a bit impractical despite the wool stockings.

Still, he wasn't one to judge. She could wear whatever she wanted. He didn't care.

However, she did seem to care about something: bothering him.

"Did you know the average spider can travel up to 1.17 miles per hour?"

Alex stopped walking and regarded this new intrusion with half-lidded blue eyes, cigarette dangling from his lips. After a moment, he responded, "Non, I did not know zat." His accent was slightly muffled by the cylinder between his teeth.

The way her eyes twinkled made him flinch. The color was so close to his color, those eyes so intense and familiar and okay, okay, just stop making eye contact, Alex, everything is fine.

He looked at his shoes.

"I'm Angel. You go to my School, right? Baum?"

"Um. Oui," he muttered, taking the cigarette out of his mouth but still not meeting her eyes. "Yes, I go to Baum." You're being a pussy. Look her in the face, he scolded himself, but as he tried to look into her eyes again, he found that he could not. Their familiarity pained him.

"Was zere somezing zat you wanted?" he asked, his voice quiet and subtly resentful.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

It wasn't his answers that concerned Angel, to be honest, so she wasn't really listening. But she was watching, with her attentively intense brown eyes. Even if his words were pointless- for as much of a social creature as Angel was, she was not the trusting sort in the least- his actions spoke much louder to her. While his words dripped with indignation at her approaching him at all, he held himself guardedly, as if requesting not to be injured. Still, tactless Angel could not- and would not if she could- bite her tongue. "Am I interrupting your mopefest, bro?" She asked, eyebrow raising. Now, her words weren't vindictive or angry at his standoffish-ness. It was curious, much like a cat would be with a tantalizingly new string. Stealing his cigarette, she inhaled, letting it rest precariously on her fingers.

He needed to have a serious dose of fun. And if he wasn't the rambunctious sort, Angel would bet anything that Wes could use a more somber buddy. After all, the trifecta of Xander-Ripley-Angel could be a bit much. Jutting her hand out, she smiled brightly at him "I'm Angel. Angel Dihanie. And you, Sir, are incredibly French." She starting musing to herself, her tone thoughtful and her words bordering on ridiculous. "I bet you do classy stuff, huh? Like, eat crossoints from breakfast and use those toilets that shoot water up your bum. What are those called? No, don't tell me. Might be a bit personal. Oh, here, I didn't mean to jack your smoke." Setting the cigarette back between his lips, Angel hopped up on a ledge and began to balance.

"I wouldn't know anything about that. Dunno what fork is used for what meal or what order those meals are for anything." She eyed him, as if they were friends of twenty plus years and he was being oddly quet. "You don't talk much, do you? It's okay, my buddy Jack doesn't talk much either. Or maybe you guys do, and I just never shut the french up." She laughed at her own expense, twirling a little on the ledge she was perched on. Her shoe laces were brown from soaking in the slush around the park, and her patchwork converse were splotched and soaked through to her feet. Sure, she was cold, but she thought she looked awesome.

He had a rather chic quality about him. But, it was worthless with that rain cloud face. Climbing up on a nearby bench, she balanced herself on the back, wobbling a little. Grinning- that wide impish grin that had to be her trademark, with the single dimple below her bottom lip on the right side- she held her hand out to her newly claimed friend. "I bet you I could help you feel better." It was not a suggestive comment, but almost kiddish, like someone begging to be triple dogged dated to do something.

[ALEXANDER FORTESCUE]

Who did this girl think she was, barging in on him like this, taking his cigarette, asking if she was interrupting his...what was the word? “Mopefest”? Just who did she think—

Who did she think she was...?

It was something about that easy demeanor, about the dark eyes and dark hair and charming face, the unique and pretty voice, that sunk a knife deep into the pit of his stomach and twisted. She was so much like Max, and he’d only known her for a minute. Was the world this bent on torturing him? Was God raining down his holy wrath because Alex didn’t care about church?

That had to be it.

He stared at her hand for a moment, then took it, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I'm Angel. Angel Dihanie. And you, Sir, are incredibly French."

I love you, Angelface.

This wasn’t fair. This was ten times of not fair. Everything about her. Everything!

“Well, I would assume zat is because I am French,” he noted, hiding his discomfort behind a sarcastic tone.

"I bet you do classy stuff, huh? Like, eat crossoints from breakfast and use those toilets that shoot water up your bum. What are those called? No, don't tell me. Might be a bit personal. Oh, here, I didn't mean to jack your smoke."

His eyebrow raised farther and he took the cigarette back, turning away from her slightly and taking a deep draw of the smoke. “I ‘ate croissants, and I use ze normal toilets. I ‘ave lived ‘ere since I was young, I only keep ze accent because I ‘ate zis country and I want to go ‘ome.” There. Maybe that would put her off. He couldn’t have her here. She was like...like Max’s lovechild, with whatever woman for whom he’d run off and left Alex in the dust.

It hurt, it hurt.

"You don't talk much, do you? It's okay, my buddy Jack doesn't talk much either. Or maybe you guys do, and I just never shut the french up."

“I don’t ‘ave much of a reason to talk,” he muttered. “And you’ve ‘ardly let me get a word in edgewise, anyway.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the blonde curls. They had grown – they were getting a bit too long. But he didn’t really care enough about things to get a haircut anymore. His hair was long. Hair was hair.

He watched as she leapt onto a bench, following her with his eyes, one eyebrow still raised. Was she challenging him? What, to feel better? Was this a bet?

Luck wasn’t exactly in his favor right now. He shouldn’t have been making bets.

“Look, I ‘ardly even know who you are, and I don’t zink you can just waltz in ‘ere and make me feel better. It isn’t zat simple.”