A/N: I really feel like this is their song – it's by La Rocca, once again, incredible band. Mostly angst and LP undertones. I know I have about six other stories I should be updating, but I just needed to write this down. Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors – I don't have the patience to read over my own work. Feedback is always appreciated; I'd love to know what you think.

Some You Give Away

what ever happened

to the promises you made?

those little notions of your breakthrough day

He was never a romantic. His mother used to say that he was rough around the edges. That implied that there was something softer, kinder buried beneath the surface. Maybe there was, but he never let it bubble up, never exposed that side of himself to the world.

Only to her.

She changed him, transformed him. Completed him, sort of like a soulmate should.

There was a delicacy about her, slender wrists and endless legs, noticeable collarbone and golden locks of hair with a gentle curl. Her eyes were tempests, everlasting stormy battles of grief and angst, hiding the fact that her heart was battered and bruised. And yet, she wasn't weak.

She looked like she needed saving, but she didn't.

Unmistakable strength – he'd never met a girl with so very much. Her stubbornness matched his, and that alone impressed him. She didn't put up with any bullshit from him, subtly coerced him into calming down, easing up, relaxing into niceness.

He felt an unfamiliar ease around her. He'd always been confident and charming, but with her, he didn't feel that he had to be. She took him as he was. She loved him for it.

Never before had he even thought that he could find that perfect combination of emotional connection and physical attraction. But he found it with her and God, it was good.

She was drop-dead gorgeous, legs that could make any man salivate and curls that he loved to bury his fists in. The first time they slept together was at his place, and he woke up the next morning to see her dressed only in her bra and her boyshort underwear, topped by one of his hooded sweaters, unzipped. She was sitting in his bay window, sketching idly on a random piece of paper, the Los Angeles sun illuminating her profile.

And he thought: I love her.

Later on, he chalked that strong, startling thought up to the slew of crazy chemicals released in one's brain during sex. But much later on in their relationship he realized that it had always been true. He loved her, he really did.

He loved moving in with her, having her arrive home an hour after him, drop her things and crawl onto his lap, her skirt sliding up her thighs. He loved how much of a disaster she was in the kitchen, how cute she looked with flour smeared on her nose. He loved how well she could pick up on his moods, how intuitively she knew what days to come home with a new CD and a six pack, what days to tease him by wearing his t-shirts and tackling him into bed, and what days to light candles and curl up with him under fleecy blankets. She joked about that, saying that they'd found their 'groove', and he loved her for that, too, for understanding the wonderful way in which they were coexisting.

But he wasn't a romantic. He'd walked away and she'd moved forward – or maybe backward. He was as rough around the edges as he'd ever been. She was his most serious relationship, and it amazed him, even though he had been the one to break it off, that nothing they'd shared mattered anymore.

Everything he'd ever pictured in their future, every whisper that was hidden between sheets of lost in her curls, every possibility and promise…all the meaning, words meant to capture emotion: lost.

He wasn't a romantic for a reason. He now saw sweet nothings for exactly what they were.

Temporary expressions of love that meant…nothing.

my one mistake was in making some room

leaving doors unlocked

that you pushed through

and taking too much time

The first time he saw An Unkindness of Ravens was the second time he set eyes on her. He didn't pay much attention to it then. He mentioned it flirtatiously but didn't really register her answer. The only thing he could think was, I can't let her get away again.

He didn't notice her attachment to An Unkindness early on in their relationship. He didn't know whether she purposefully hid it from him or if it just never came up. He noticed a copy stashed in her purse once, but he didn't give it a second thought.

It was only after they moved in together that he started finding copies all over the place, noticing how often she read it, how delicately she handled it, like it was a piece of her heart.

And it hurt him. He was in love with her, and the thought of picking the book up to read it terrified him. She was earnest when she said I love you, too; honest in her happiness and affection. But he didn't want to know how much she had loved in the past, just in case her love for him could not compare. He had never been so vulnerable before, never had he trusted someone so completely. He was afraid, so he pulled back. Allowed the return of his rough edges.

There were days when he thought he might ask her about it. But his fear would make him defensive, she would fight back, and it would turn into a confrontation. It frightened him, the thought that this might be a fight they couldn't get past, that she would give answers that he couldn't bear to hear.

On the rare occasion when he mustered up the courage to make the weighty inquiry, something would happen. He'd come home to find that she'd set up a romantic dinner for them or that a call had some in, informing him that his new movie was a go, and she wanted to go out – or stay in – and celebrate. Then there was the time he found her curled up in bed, crumpled tissues in hand, crying because her father had called to cancel the trip he'd promised to make.

And then there was the fateful day he was sure they'd finally talk it over. He was revved up for a fight, or tears, or laughing it off. But she was sitting on the edge of the couch when he arrived at home, wringing her hands, and she spoke before he even had a chance to wonder what was wrong.

I'm late.

She'd taken two tests but was too afraid to look, to find out. She sent him to the bathroom, gnawing at the thumbnail on her left hand.

When he walked back out to her and looked into her emerald eyes, he felt disoriented, off balance. He shook his head, unable to speak. Two negatives.

She sighed, relieved, and sank back down to sit on the couch. Tears sprang up into her eyes almost immediately. She tried to laugh about it, excusing it as stupid emotion, but he knew, he understood how she felt. They were young, flighty; their love was real but unstable. Now was hardly the time for children. But they had felt the same sense, the same surge of momentary hope.

He sat down with her and pulled her into his arms, let her weep into his shirt for the next couple hours. They moved only to wake their way to bed, where a fresh, brief burst of tears spilled from her eyes. They woke up the next morning, hesitant and quiet, hurried off to their respective jobs before they could say much to each other. It took them a couple days to return to normalcy.

She told him, that night, before she fell asleep, that she loved him. They way she said it stayed forever in his mind, changed something within him, made him love her back even more. They never spoke of the pregnancy scare again, and never again did he think about mentioning Ravens.

The truth of the matter was that that day lingered in his mind as a huge what if? Had she actually been pregnant, things would have been monumentally different, of course. But more significantly, had he asked her about the book, things would have been different. It would have settled things, once and for all, one way or another. Because he never asked, the distance between them only increased.

He may have been the one to walk away from their relationship, but there were moments when he wondered if she'd ever truly been there.

some you lose

and some you give away

some you lose

and some you give away

He watches her now, sitting alone at the bar as he nurses his third drink. She doesn't know he's there; at least, if she feels his gaze, she doesn't show it.

Tric. She clearly feels at home here. Tree Hill was never one of her favourite conversation topics – this town was the keeper of every painful memory she possessed. This club is undoubtedly what makes her feel safe here, the root of her happiness.

Well, this club and the man she dances with.

Said man twirls her around playfully before pulling her close to him again, kissing her temple, then her cheekbone. She tilts her head back and her eyes and sparkling.

He's too far away to read her lips, but he knows that she says I love you.

I lost some friends out

on that empty road

get back together

it's always them you know

One of his favourite things about being with her was the roadtrips they'd take periodically. When work was too monotonous or they were feeling down, they could look at one another and instantly grin.

They'd fake sick, apologizing profusely to whomever had been counting on them that day, coughing to cover their laughter. It would be a Monday afternoon or a Thursday morning, and off they'd go, packing nothing, no destination in mind. Top of the convertible down, she'd prop her bare feet up on the dashboard as he drove.

The most memorable of those trips occurred on a Tuesday night right after one of their biggest fights. He snapped at her after having heard the news that his latest endeavour had crashed and burned – and she'd snapped back. It escalated to the point where she got teary and he stormed out.

She came into his office that evening, footsteps tentative, hands clutching the failed script that was the cause of his anger. She held it up pointedly.

Shooting her a guilty look, he said, That's a lot of my paycheck. Gone.

Oh, baby, she said softly, perching on the arm of his chair. That's okay. You don't have to hide that from me – don't have to protect me. But you don't have to get bitchy about it, either. He blushed, chuckling and looking down. Her hand laid gently on his cheek, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Whatever happens, we'll get through it together, you just have to let me in. She smiled angelically. Let's get out of here.

And so they did.

for what you don't get you leave

a mark on my back

like the piece that doesn't fit

in the jar that's cracked

He brought out her impulsive side, and he was proud of that. He delighted in the playful way she lifted her eyebrows when she was being daring, the glimmer in her green eyes.

When they took their trips, they leapt before they looked, with attitudes of why not? and whatever. If they had extra money to play with, they'd stay in an upscale hotel, break into the pool for a midnight swim, snuggle under luxurious sheets, eat all they could at the complimentary breakfast, and stay in their room, drinking wine and watching corny movies on pay-per-view until the last possible second before checkout time.

Most of the time, they got a room at a reasonably cheap yet clean hotel, kicked back on dingy chairs to watch the sun set, went out to a random club and danced their problems away, beats thumping through their bodies and upping the patterns of their hearts, the cadences of their breathing. He loved the way she danced, free movement of her limbs, hair bouncing on her shoulders, heels sliding gracefully across the floor, hips swaying with his.

When they were feeling particularly poor, adventurous, or just plain lost, they'd sleep in the back of his convertible. Their impulsive spirits, the gentle chill of the night air, and the rebellious, adolescent feel of making love in the backseat filled him with a perfectly balanced combination of contentment and euphoria. Her nails left trails of his back, but it certainly wasn't pain worth complaining about. Once, however, her nail caught and made a particularly painful scratch, one that made him wince and had her gasping, God, babe, I'm sorry; are you okay?

That scratch left a scar, one that catches his eye in the mirror occasionally. A reminder of how very passionately she felt about him. He no longer has the girl, just a knick in his skin.

In the morning, they'd wake up with the sun's rays causing the light, dewy layer of sweat on their skin to glisten. She would push her hair out of her face and stretch her arms above her head, mumble about getting home to shower and eat and work and shop.

No, he would pout, attempting to tease her in an effort to cover up his vulnerability. Can't you just lie here with me for one more minute?

And she never, not once, said no.

forgetting what you've been told

Once, drunk off champagne from a movie premiere, he said to her, I'm gonna marry you.

She eased him into bed, laughing breathily. Is that right?

Yeah, he said seriously, using the knuckle of his right index finger to trace the curve of her jaw, trailing all the way down to the valley of her breast, where her hand landed over his, halting his movement as her fingers cupped his affectionately. You're perfect.

With a soft smile, she leaned down to kiss his forehead. Thanked him, and told him to sleep it off. I love you.

They never spoke of it again. The next morning, she handed him a mug full of black coffee and kissed him like it was any other day. She probably didn't even remember, not now, years later.

some you lose

and some you give away

some you lose

and some you give away

you give away

yeah, yeah, yeah

Her friend, the impeccably dressed brunette he knew at first glance was Brooke Davis, says something, leaning in over her martini. They burst out laughing, shoulders shaking and hands flying up to cover their mouths.

Her fiancé approaches and Brooke makes herself scarce. He leans in and says something that makes them both smile. It's a moment of casual camaraderie that quickly morphs into something more. Their faces are close, eyes smoldering as they breathe each other's air. He pulls her close for a kiss, his hand cupping her cheek. It's clearly one of those kisses that makes the world fade away.

The world, including the heartbroken man who watches her from afar, gulping down alcohol so that he can avoid looking at everything he gave up.

I left some candles

by the side of your house

'case you got lost or needed showing out

He planned to propose. Consulted the heroine of his latest movie about pretty rings, learned how to make her favourite meal, bought candles in all the scents she liked back. He'd always assumed that girls liked flowery, fruit-like smells, like lavender, violet, grapefruit.

Not his girl. She liked vanilla, apple cinnamon, pumpkin spice. She told him once that those smells reminded her of his childhood, perched on the kitchen counter while her mouther made all her father's favourite desserts in preparation for his homecoming.

The smells of home. He wanted her home to be with him.

He called his mother, feeling ridiculous, almost childish in his giddiness, and told her of his plans. She practically squealed, and when he protested out of embarrassment she said, Oh, honey, you picked the right one.

He thought he'd do it on the night before they left for Sundance. It was already a sort of celebratory trip, and it would be the perfect adventure, an escape that provided them the opportunity to rejoice.

So he bought the ring, a darkling diamond (girl's best friend), princess cut (because she deserved it) with an antique flair (suited to her love of all thing's vintage).

He wanted it to be special, devised what he thought was a foolproof plan. He was waiting for her when she got home. She looked tired, almost defeated, when she walked through the doorway. He jumped up to greet her. You're beautiful, he murmured after a kiss, because despite her weariness, she was.

She laughed away his words and kissed him again gently in thanks. He told her that she looked like she needed to escape for a little while.

Let's get out of here.

He pulled off the highway not too far out of the city, smirking as he noted her mystified expression. He'd found the perfect place for a picnic at dusk, hidden from the highway, a dip in the land that bordered a lake. The orange and pink light of the late evening made it appear almost ethereal.

Blanket, wine, and basket of food – he revealed them to her with a flourish, setting out their dinner. She didn't say anything when he was done, simply wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug, pressing her lips over his heart.

It was bliss for nearly two hours; they lost themselves in kisses and conversation. His nervousness built up as he toyed with the ring in his pocket and, for a moment, he doubted himself.

But then she giggled sweetly at something he said and all he could think about was how much he loved her.

Her cell phone's high-pitched ring broke them out of their tranquil world. He groaned in frustration and she shot him an apologetic look. He knew her boss' tendency to call at the most inopportune moments and had been hoping that she wouldn't have service out here in the "wilderness".

As though her boss could see her, she tugged the strap of her tank top back onto her shoulder and smoothed out her hair before she flipped the phone open. As she sat up and answered politely, her purse fell open behind her.

An Unkindness of Ravens tumbled out, a neon pink sticky note marking a page. His heart felt as though it had dried up, so abruptly it hurt.

They left soon after, returning home to his carefully chosen candles and rose petals scattered everywhere. She told him that he was incredibly sweet to her, but that she was too tired to do anything more than crash into bed and sleep.

He smiled and promised to join her in a minute. Instead, he stayed up, picking up every single petal and lighting all the candles. He laid down on the couch instead of joining her in bed. His eyes felt heavy and watery, as though he needed to cry. He told himself that the cause was the flickering candlelight taking its effect on his fatigued eyes, nothing more.

He tried to get past it, he did. But the very next day, as they were about to go, he found that damn book in her bag, and his empty, fragile heart finally cracked in two.

He left alone.

maybe we'll pass through L.A. again

older and better

with all the charm of friends

He contemplates the future as he orders his fourth drink.

He'd taken such pride in making the saddest girl in the world smile so brightly. In being the man she fell in love with. In stitching up the pieces of her shattered heart.

It wasn't fair of him to inflict another heartbreak on her. He knows that. But nothing's fair in love and war; were their love a war, she launched the first campaign. She broke his heart first, waged war on the most fragile part of him after he'd finally managed to let his guard down.

She's better. She's happy. She's in love.

He looks at Brooke Davis. Lucas Scott was the first person to ever break her heart, but they survived. They've some to place where their friendship is pure and mostly innocent and thoroughly symbiotic. They've found a new way to be with one another.

At the very least, he wants that with her.

it's unlikely if the truth be told

In an ideal world, when they're mature enough and whole again, they'd run into one another in the city that holds their history. She'd drop her book. He'd make a joke that was borderline inappropriate. And they'd both smirk.

But he knows in his heart that neither of them have arrived at that point yet. Maybe they never will be. He knows it as surely as he knows that he loved her.

I lost some friends

out on that empty road

I lost some friends

out on that empty road

I lost some friends

out on that empty road

yeah, it can't get through

to the people that I know

Lucas is a romantic. He's attentive and protective – in his eyes, she needs to be looked after, watched over, taken care of. He will do anything in his power to be that special person for her, to make sure that she feels safe and secure. There will never be a day that she doesn't feel loved. He will treat her as he always knows he should have, like the most precious thing in his life.

When she tells him she's late her mind will go on the same rollercoaster ride, but she will find in the end that she gets off at happy. She'll probably be pregnant for real: Lucas will drive her crazy with how caring he is, Brooke will branch off into baby wear, and she'll have a perfect little boy or girl with unruly blonde hair and sparkling, cerulean eyes. She'll have her family.

Her nail will never catch on the skin of her husband's back and leave him with any sort of tangible reminder. He doesn't need one – he'll have his girl, right there with him, forever and always, 'til death do them part.

She has already written off Lucas' drunken declaration – and it has pushed her relationship forward, not back. It's as it should be.

Lucas wasn't afraid to propose to her. Not when they were kids, not when their lives were a tangled mess and he needed her so badly. Ravens is documentation of their love, rather than a reminder of the past. It's treasured rather than torturing.

Both men have her history.

But sitting her now, watching her, he knows he has lost her future for good.

some you lose

some you give away

some you lose

some you give away

(what ever happened?)

She dances with her fiancé now, comfortable in his arms, swaying softly. She closes her eyes in contentment for a moment, then lifts her head from his shoulder to smile. He smiles back instantly.

He takes his only comfort from the fact that she will never forget how to smile again.

She opens her mouth, and his breath catches painfully in his throat. The words she speaks are his only in memory.

I love you.

He has to be okay with that: the lingering memory, the shock of pain. He may have loved her, but it was for that very reason that he let her go.