Disclaimer: I do not own Victorious. Lyrics and title belong to the song Highway Unicorn (Road to Love), property of Miss Lady Gaga. Enjoy.

Highway Unicorn

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We can be strong, we can be strong, out on this lonely run on the road to love

We can be strong, we can be strong, follow that unicorn on the road to love

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She's six and he's seven when they meet at the playground.

He spots her from his throne atop the big kid slide. Carefully, using the steering wheel he had installed on his castle, he parks in the sand. Parking in the lava would only kill him, duh. Her pigtails aren't anywhere near perfect- one is way too close to her ear while the other is high on her head, clearly a sign that she does her own hair- and frankly, brunettes are always waiting for their king, at least according to Disney. And she's a really cute damsel in distress, but girl have cooties, so he's not allowed to touch. He runs to her.

"Hey." It's a bit more enthusiastic than intended. The massacre halts for a mere moment as she turns her head to her shoulder, eyeing him without much interest.

"Hi."

She doesn't say anything else after, porcelain skin etched into a pink frown, a pair of tiny, beady eyes searing their way into her spine. He ruffles his way around her, facing abnormally cut bangs. He asks her why she's shy, why she won't talk.

"Because there's tape in my belly and all of the words are stuck there."

He learns that the words are near her heart on good days, but never near her mouth. He inches down into criss-cross-applesauce, fiddling with the laces of his Rugrats sneakers.

"Do you have a bike?" He focuses on the pale parts of his thumb, and yet, he can name the exact moment her shoulders bob up and down. Yes! His face lights up in the way it always does when he is served Lucky Charms (he only ever eats the marshmallows, though), and he's never smiled at a girl before.

"I have one, too! And it's green cause dinos are green and it has a big bell and-"

"We gonna go or not?"

She tries really hard not to laugh when he flushed red, or when the wind pins a leaf into his side swept hair. She stretches out for his wrist- possibly for 'help me up' purposes- and thank God it wasn't his hand because, well, eww! She tugs him along through the grass, tickling their exposed ankles with feather-like accuracy. He falls, once, only some ripped skin and grass stains to show for it. His eyes do get watery, but he blinks them back because she never let go. Plus, there's no time for mourning when the girl with the sky-eyes is going to play with you.

Then, her bike comes into view.

They step in front of it and she wrenches her fingers open, releasing his wrist, his veins thanking Buddha or Mother Teresa or anyone else that's credited with being able to breathe again. She sits her hands on her hips, vainly letting her retinas lick over her bike's sleek surface. He looks at her quizzically, not knowing what the hell is so damn great about it.

"It used to be pink before," she starts, slight nod thrown in his direction, "but I really, really wanted a blue one so I colored on it with my most favorite blue crayon ever." She smirks, and he visually darts from her to the vehicle two feet away from him with the training wheels.

"But it's purple. Kinda."

"But it's better than pink."

He studies her; her nose, her pig tails, and her Loony Toons tee.

"You're talking." His mommy would yell at him for thinking such thoughts, but he thinks it's pretty when her cheeks flame her bike's pink and her lips are kissed with the tiniest but biggest smile he's ever seen. Ever.

He canters though the jungle of weeds, limping just a tad, until he reaches the pavement. He tiptoes his way to his forest-y means of transportation, rolls it with him as he sprints away, all the while ignoring his mother's pleas to be careful.

His matching helmet is already strapped on snuggly on his over sized head when he reaches her again.

She's seated firmly on her bike.

They pedal away, side by side, racing occasionally and oddly enough, he lets her win. Every single time. And he likes winning a lot- he's a winner. Sometimes, they giggle at that strangely shaped stone, or at the bike's tattooed black butterfly near her back tire. That is, until their beloved training wheels, the ones essential for survival, get netted together.

She's off her steed in one swift movement.

She is enraged; of course she is, why shouldn't she be- boys have cooties. She won't let it show though. She's the boss, and the boss must maintain complete and utter control. He's not as cool, but rather desperate, pulling at his hair until his scalp slaps his brain. But she calmly stalks her way to the tangled mess, surveying the damage. She seems a bit too placid when she lifts her grimy little gray shoe to stomp, stomp, stomp on his little black wheel using both seats to keep balance. She continues her rampage till the black appendage pops off, freeing her white one.

He doesn't cry or mope or throw a fit- now she'll remember him.

She hops back on her bike and rides off into the distance, a slow pace ensured so he can catch up. He won't be able to forget her now, even if they never did ask for names.

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Ride ride, pony, ride ride

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He's eighteen and she's seventeen when the rebel.

Their friends are fresh out of High School. They're fresh out of the tattoo parlor, We don't remember days and We remember moments inked across their inner arms. They left out the By Cesare Pavese part, too. Her hair's grown out, smoother (tamer) strands forever splattered across her nose. With turquoise locks still in place, she's opted to go back on black to virgin brown. And glued to her hip is him- an overgrown obsidian mane and tan as ever skin. Other than a trim here or there, he has stayed the same, still with that boyish grin plastered on his lips.

They're shy with each other, and yet, just itching for a firm grip on their opposite's windpipe.

On a whim, they packed their luggage; flannels, skirts, boots, rings- anything that fit- the occasional booze not out of the question. Google became their thrift shop, cheap airline tickets, paid for by her father's green thumb. He didn't even try to protest. They strolled out of the door, hand in hand, their bag's wheels acquainting themselves with the pebbles behind them.

They managed to get a couple hundred bucks off of his convertible at the airport (thank you, tourists), and briskly entered the sliding double doors. With only a few minor glitches- and ignorant security lady, name tag Julia, proclaimed to the heavens that a certain girl's piercings were metal without going through the metal detector and they were, of course, silver- they were safely aboard the plane.

Now, they've nestled together high above the concrete of New York City. Still, however, she's not quite sure why she did indeed flee with him. Especially after the whole 'no more scissors' ruling. To be fair, it was not her fault, he was the guilty party on all accounts.

It started off at one of those restaurants where all of the rich people with the push up bras go to. It wasn't her fault that he decided to take her to the place with the hazel eyed, dirty blonde curled ballerinas. Likewise, she wasn't to blame when his eyes drifted way too low to the places under their collarbones.

So, naturally, like any other good girlfriend, her mind was set on teaching him a well deserved lesson. In nothing but and ill fitting shirt and some cotton shorts, she set her plan into motion. It was simple, really. Nothing to it. All she had to do was stick her pointed fingers into a pair of crimson scissors and grab a fist full of his hair. He woke up to a right-side buzz cut. To be honest, she doesn't really know why he was being such a grudge holder about it. It grew back eventually. New and improved and better than ever. She actually did him a huge favor, if you ask her.

But she gets what she wants, and nothing will stop her from getting it. She got her hands on a pair of scissors because she has people for it. He found out about it and spent roughly two hours deliberating the matter. His verdict was to give her the safety scissors they used to use in preschool. They shook on it, probably only because she later sharpened the blades, though.

And just like before, a whim makes her fingers go to work pulling and knotting the calf-high lacing to her royal colored boots. A whim drives him to seize her hand, lead her to the elevator, and sketch kisses on her knuckled with his lips. They feel an urge to sprint through the lobby, squealing and laughing like school children. She also decides to flip off the door man with a perfectly polished finger until they less than gracefully reach the parking garage. Not quietly, but successfully nonetheless.

It's her turn to lead him to spot B-7 because he's only ever remembered the locations of his hair care products. She stops short of a night sky Ducati; caramel metal peppering its ebony exterior. They got it for a bargain- only two grand. The motor only needed a few valves tightened to run smoothly.

"Get your helmet on." He looks at her expectantly, actually waiting for her to do as commanded.

Oh, the irony.

"There's only one helmet. Why should I sink to that level and suffocate my precious brain cells while yours get to be manhandled by the wind?"

"You want your cells to get manhandled?"

"I want them to experience life!" Her arms branch out high because he's such a loser.

"Jade-," as if her name could pass off as a threat.

"Beck-," she'd love to see both names with boxing gloves on and barricaded inside of a ring. He sighs, partly because it's incredible how she can manipulate her voice to mimic his so closely, and, to tell the truth, it's very sexy when she bosses him around. He knows by watching her with her hands on her hips and a determined scowl on her lips that he lost.

"Well then." She smiles at him as she straddles the bike right behind him. She was right after all. No one did where the helmet.

Her arms vine around his torso, scratching her way across his Mugler jacket until its hide begs for mercy. They jerk forward toward the exit, too forcefully, but it's probably only because he loves the feel of her chest pressed up against him. She rams her knee into his thigh, but it was so worth it. The rev past the entrance, maybe getting shot by the cameras in the process by the way, and possibly alerting the traffic police of a seriously hazardous duo when they run the stop sign because really, who has time for those? Even he won't run the red light though, not per her request, of course.

She lays her chin on his shoulder, ear nailed to his throat because she wants to feel his pulse, and memorize it and hear it.

He holds her hand. So close to her vein.

Everything goes green and she closes her eyes because, right on cue, he has to let go. He's a superhero, she thinks, because he senses when her eyes flutter open, and her pupils glaze over lights and Broadway stars.

"One day, we'll be plastered on those billboards, okay? Me n' you." She really wants to believe him, so she smiles.

"With shitloads of leather, right?"

Just the feel of her voice against his skin is enough to leave him dry. He swallows hard and vigorously nods his head, barely recalling how he owes her an answer. He's just worried that he'll soon forget how to drive the damn motorcycle and stop when it's green and go when it's red.

"Love you."

"Mmhmm." If he squints hard enough, he can pretend that she says it right back.

He sighs, laughing all the while, and she giggles, grilling her teeth into his spine.

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Get your hot rods ready to rumble, cause we're gonna fall in love tonight

Get your hot rods ready to rumble, cause we're gonna drink until we die

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Fin

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