Roots to the Tree, an Austin and Ally oneshot

I do not own Austin and Ally. Reviews and prompts are appreciated.

The radio is tuned into oldies, and he can hear the faint echoes of the Beatles coming from the car speakers.

Eight days a week...

He wishes there were eight days a week. All those extra days, all those extra chances.

All those missed opportunities.

He could have fifty two more days in the year, and still, it wouldn't make a lick of difference. Because his nerves hold him down to the ground like roots to the tree and he hasn't the green thumb to get himself out.

Nor the courage.

He calls the first day Monday. The day where they go back to school, waiting inside a gymnasium divided by a row of volleyball nets.

"Choose your teams wisely. You'll be playing with them for the next three weeks." The teacher blows his whistle loud enough to pierce his eardrums. It makes him cringe.

The sound of her voice massages his face back into the semblance of smile.

They pair up with some classmates, Dez included. She can't serve for the life of her, but they can. After winning the game by a narrow margin, he pulls her aside.

"Toss it like this and then," he catches the ball, "bam."

"Toss and bam?" she mimics, walking over to join the group in hearing their new assignment.

"Bam." He takes her arm, hits the imaginary ball with more force. He tells himself to let go.

When it comes to the actual gameplay, she catches on quickly. Her serves sail over the net with ease. This makes her happy.

Happiness makes her smile.

Smiling makes her a distraction.

The ball sails toward him, and he hits it hard. Right into the side of her head.

"Ow." It scampers away, but no one bothers to go after it. They're all too busy watching the scene that unfolds.

"Oh my God, Ally, I am so sorry." He rushes across the court, moving her hand away to inspect the damage. Ignoring the beating of his heart, he lets his fingers glide across her. She winces.

If this is how the next three weeks are going to go, with all this smiling, there's going to be a problem.

Better get her a helmet.

Day two brings Tuesday. The day where he's sitting in his English class, and his teacher instructs them to write a love poem. There are a few boundaries past that, not that he was paying all too much attention between ignoring the pain of four impacted wisdom teeth and doodling in the margins of his notes. Just at least four stanzas, with some sort of rhyme scheme, that's what he remembers.

So essentially, he's writing a song.

About Ally.

Because who else would a love poem be for, that dog that ran away when he was six?

"Quit daydreaming about Ally," Dez warns him.

The teacher moves onto the lesson, and his thoughts follow. Mostly. As long as no one asks to borrow his notes, sees the doodles in the margins.

When did her name start occupying those hearts?

He's just going to color those in now.

Scribble, scribble.

He can still see her name through the shading.

He can still feel her cheek under his hand. Slightly bruised, all because he got distracted by that smile.

That smile has been missing all day. Not a frown, per se. Merely a blank expression that doesn't contort her face into something painful.

He's doodling in the margins again. That's her face, and her noodle hair (in the picture, not real life, as he can't even draw a hand turkey). He wants to tear the page out, rip it into a million pieces.

Too bad the assignment is written on this page.

Maybe it'll be inspiration, since the poem is going to be about her.

'Oh your hair looks like noodles, every time I doodle..."

He's rewriting the assignment.

Wednesday follows. It's the day before his teeth get removed, and he's planning to make the most of it before he gets put on a soft foods diet.

"Double cheeseburger and curly fries." It's going to bust his gut, but he needs a heavy dose of meat before sucking down pints of yogurt for the weekend.

They grab a table, and she sets down her hot dog, grabbing napkins.

Grease slides down his chin.

It's followed by ketchup, plopping onto his shirt.

"Here," she says, handing him a napkin. He struggles to find the stain. Of all days to wear red.

Maybe this would be easier if he took his shirt off and washed it in the sink.

He's pretty sure there's a 'no shirt, no service' rule posted somewhere around here.

"I'll worry about it later."

"No, I see it. Hold still." She leans across the table, careful not to block her source of light.

The ketchup is wiped off his shirt. All feelings of calmness wipe from his demeanor.

He swallows hard, nearly choking on a piece of his burger. "Thanks."

"Yeah." Her voice has more air than substance. Did she feel the spark too?

Another bit of ketchup slides from his cheeseburger, and she doesn't wait for him to struggle. Taking a new napkin, she wipes the condiment away. He shifts his weight. Her fingers slip against his chest.

They're shaking.

So is he.

Four days into the week, on a day he likes to call Thursday, he's sitting in the waiting room of the dentist. She's with him, holding his hand.

The doctor calls his name. He unwillingly unravels his fingers from hers.

"You'll be fine, I promise." One quick squeeze of the knee, and he's off. He glances back at her on his way through the doorway. There's a textbook on her lap. Her eyes aren't focused on it. They're on him, smiling.

He hopes he dreams of her when he goes under.

Instead he dreams of some stupid tree, rooted to the ground. It grows apples, and there's a crotchety old bird on the branch, not letting him near the fruit.

"I just want an apple!" He tells the bird, reaching for one.

"If you want an apple, you have to take the whole tree." He finds it peculiar that the bird speaks english. Even odder, he doesn't get why he needs to take it all to get one piece.

He asks the bird this.

"It's a metaphor," the bird explains, though he doesn't have a clue what it means. He wakes before he can ask.

Cheeks more swollen than a chipmunk, he returns to the waiting room. Ally closes her book.

He hugs her, wonders why she couldn't have been in his dream instead of that bird. The one that returns when he falls back asleep at home, with an answer to his question.

"What's it a metaphor for?"

"You can't get a kiss from the Ally without getting the entire girl." The bird leans against the bark of the tree.

"I don't want just a kiss. I want Ally."

"Then why can't you tell her that?"

"Because I'm scared." So scared he's shaking.

No, that's his mother, trying to wake him. "Everything alright sweetie? You were talking in your sleep."

Please say that Ally has gone home. She did not need to be privy to that conversation.

He doesn't know what is in these pain meds, but he's feeling pretty loopy.

He's just going to deal with the pain.

Friday brings more pain than he cares to deal with. The pill sits on his bedside table, taunting him. Chances are he'll take it, and there'll be no side effect. None that bring creepy birds into his dreams anyhow. That's his sub-conscience talking.

"How are you feeling?" Ally raps twice on the door, stepping across the threshold.

"Remember how you felt after I hit your face with the volleyball?" He twists open his water bottle.

"That bad?" Her backpack, overstuffed with what is most likely his homework, gets set on the chair.

He drowns the pill with his water. "Worse."

His stomach growls.

"Hungry?"

"I'm starving. All I've had is yogurt." There's a pyramid of empty cups on his table.

She offers to make him mashed potatoes, leaving him to work on his english homework. He's gotten through two stanzas, having slept the rest of the morning. And yes, his dreams were invaded by the bird. He's called him Poe the Raven.

For all he knows, the bird is a crow. All he knows is that it's black, and haunting his dreams with a stream of metaphors.

"Why not uproot the tree if you want the apple?" he had taunted.

"I can't move the tree." He motioned around to show that he had no tools with him.

"Then use a bulldozer."

"Is this still a metaphor?"

"The poem boy. Use the poem to uproot the tree and get the girl."

She re-enters the room, and he stuffs his homework away. He'll show her the poem when he's finished.

By Saturday he's found the words to complete his assignment. The confidence doesn't appear as easily.

He's bored resting all day, despite the pain coursing through him, most likely dry socket. He won't know until the dentist reopens Monday.

Grabbing his guitar, he strums out a melody.

The poem becomes music. Words he won't, can't share because his mouth hurts too much to sing.

He texts Dez.

He has a plan.

Sunday closes the week, with her at the foot of his bed, watching a video. It's karaoke, though she hasn't heard the song before.

"It's for english class. It was due Thursday."

"It's beautiful."

Of course; it's based on her.

He smiles, takes another bite of the ice cream she's brought him. It's only vanilla, as he can't have the add-ins, but it's better than more yogurt.

Well, it was better, until he got brain freeze.

"You coming back to school tomorrow?" She asks, watching him massage his temples.

"My appointment is for eight a.m. so I should be there by lunch." The headache dissipates.

The empty bowl gets set on his table. The spoon rattles as it drops inside.

When the sound stops, the room grows quiet.

Too quiet, to the point where she has to push play again to break the mood.

This time she sings along.

This time she asks who the song is about.

How long can he pretend not to have heard her?

Can it wait until tomorrow? That hypothetical someday, that eighth day of the week that never comes.

Maybe tomorrow will be someday. Maybe there will be eight days this week.

Maybe the tree will finally uproot. Poe will fly away.

He'll get his apple.

Though right now, he could go for a second bowl of ice cream.

"It's about you."

Then again, maybe today is someday.