Title: every siren
Summary: His reasoning failed the day Stella Yamada walked into school in her faux-leather boots with no intention of starting a revolution but causing one anyway.
Warning/Spoiler: Takes place after the fiasco at Dante's but before Rizing Star.
Rating: T/PG-13
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ray/Stella, Scott/Mo

Author's Note: I really wanted to write and then I saw a Tumblr post asking for a Ray/Stella and thought – why not? But yeah, super short, super introspective. I kind of hate it, but what else is new. Reviews are always appreciated!

every siren

[i'd rather be a comma than a full stop]

It's a battle between intrigue and disgust.

His limbs are torn apart in different directions, stretching the breadth between possibilities and reality, while his temples sear in pain. Her jaggedly cut hair and studded boots and calloused fingers haunt his every thought, a ghost as irritating as her outspoken unconformity. He runs fingers through his hair, stopping at the bend between neck and head, mindless urges and feelings mingling together towards ominous conclusions.

Ray is disgusted by her. He's disgusted at the way she spins words with ease, at the way she effortlessly cracks the foundation of stereotypes and status quo. He's disgusted with her ability to bring change and bring it effectively. The smoothly defined route is suddenly filled with detours and u-turns; it's supposed to be a simple turn and stop. But she takes the map, shreds it apart, and pieces it back together in a whimsical pattern with no reason or sense.

A droplet of sweat falls from his arms to his legs and Ray grimaces. He needs to drag his feet to the shower, to wash himself from the excretion, to rinse himself of the dirt that cakes his limbs and the wrinkles in his brain. But his thighs tense as fatigue spreads to his nails. He glances at the clock and with a sigh he slouches against the backrest of the bench press. Weights hang on either side of the rod, framing the bickering angel and devil on his shoulders.

He's watching as his best friend slips away from him for a girl who's completely wrong for him. He's watching dorks and geeks suddenly finding their soulmates and best friends under the guise of empowerment and courage. He's watching as his every plan succeeds and yet he's left with a dull numbness that threatens to overtake the words that bleed out his mouth. Rapping leaves him with no happiness, no accomplishment anymore; he only wishes to see the girl with the guitar grind her teeth with a beaming face and clenched fists. And he wants the emotion directed at him. He wants to know that he's the one who causes her sigh in frustration, elicits such emotional responses that are channeled in Lemonade Mouth's mediocre numbers. He wants to be the cause, the problem: he doesn't care about the solution or the resolution; he wants to know that, in the end, when Stella's successful and grinning widely with a soaring heart, it's because of something he forced to happen.

The warped logic doesn't bother him anymore; his reasoning failed the day Stella Yamada walked into school in her faux-leather boots with no intention of starting a revolution but causing one anyway.

He stretches out his toes and calves, hoping to pump down fresh blood and will himself to the door. But as heavy as his legs feel, his chest pounds in an angry flutter, refusing to let him move. His fingers wrap around the cool metal on the chair; his bottom teeth graze his top as his eyes flutter shut. His fascination with Stella makes him angry – not that his obsession with messing with Lemonade Mouth can be equated to an intrigue with the band's lead guitarist. But seconds pass with increasing frequency and each moment wasted on Stella freaking Yamada and her stupid band is a wasted moment spent elsewhere.

His ankle pounds to a rhythm that sounds suspiciously similar to "Determinate" and he pulls back the heel of the rubber sole. Reminders of her are hidden in a never-ending scavenger hunt and there's a piercing in the back of his head as if he should know what it all means. But he ignores them and he doesn't, so he gathers some energy and stands up.

He promptly sits down again when his head starts spinning and the floor appears as comfortable as a foam mattress.

His forlorn swears are lost against metal weights and sticky mats. His temples pain against his fingertips, even as he draws circles on them with hints of pressure. Every muscle, every bone, every nerve screams in confusion and agony, shoving against the wall of denial. It's a signal, a siren begging for attention, lining a path towards a single thought. A sharp zap of pain burns in his head before fading to a constant throb; the wall cracks as thoughts of guitar strings and lemonade mixed with saliva and silver zippers cloud his mind.

And that's when the fatigue wins, leaving a crumbling mess of disgust and intrigue: the final realization renews his blood sugar and he stands up again. Limping towards the door, when he finally hits the showers, he tries his best to ignore the newest piece of acceptance that echoes through every action, every breath, every moment. But he fails for the first time, having neither the energy nor the willpower to lie to himself anymore.

He likes her and there's not a goddamn thing he can do about it.