Family, a greek fanfic

The first time she pictures a family, she is lying in the crook of his arm, counting the constellations of freckles that adorn his taut forearms. His fingers, bejeweled with rings on every one, gently pull through her hair, lulling her to rest. Before her cat green eyes droop shut, she grins, coral lips pulling into a satisfied smile with an imagined picture before her. Three children: two girls with her eyes and his freckled forearms, darting through a lush green back yard, avoiding the littlest child. A boy with smoky cocoa hair and ungodly blue orbs, face twisted into a smug smirk. A bout of laughter sits on her tongue. She and he stand on the back porch, watching the scene play out before he runs into the yard, running in time with hers, his, their children.

All she can do is smile. Her face hurts, and even then she knows, this is it. Him and her, always. Not a doubt in her head as he presses his lips to her forehead. She is eighteen years old.

The second time she pictures a family, she is throwing blazers and pencil skirts onto the kitty shaped rug with frustration. Blue, lavender, black, grey. All so drab and ugly, without life, without color. Ash is unhelpful, sitting back filing her nails, and muttering under her breath that Casey looks best in red or yellow. She CAN'T wear red or yellow. She isn't ALLOWED to wear red or yellow. But it's a sacrifice she's willing to make for him, for this.

A senator's son. Her parents are proud. (But won't she get to work?) She wants kids for sure, but now the scene has altered. Four kids: three boys with toe-head hair and evergreen eyes, alabaster skin and long, long legs for kicking soccer balls and running cross county. Wait, when did they start organized sports? And wasn't there a girl? Oh, yes. One girl with Casey's innocent smile and Evan's eyes.

They were supposed to be blue. That's how she remembers it.

She gives up and settles on a lavender blouse and a black suit. (That's not all she settles for.) Then she cries for ten minutes and reapplies her make-up . Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice. She is twenty one years old.

The third time she pictures a family, she is typing a paper with Cappie about heroes and myths and storytelling. And she is beginning to wonder when she grew up. He is making her laugh when she doesn't want to, and she can feel her control spiral out the window along with all the air in his bedroom.

Two words. His bedroom. Two more words. Shut door.

And with one quick as lightning hand on her neck, hand on the curve of her hip, bodies pressedthisclosetogether. Two girls: her eyes, his freckles. Her coral mouth closing over his. One boy: smoky cocoa hair, ungodly blue orbs, Cappie's signature smirk. His hand sliding over familiar pulses on her back. Grass yards with back porches. Noses touching together.

I know where I want to be in ten years, do you?

I want to be with you.

(There once was a girl who fell in love with a boy who thought she was every color imaginable.)

(She is twenty one years old when she realizes she looks better in yellow or red).

The fourth time she pictures a family, only one word rings in her mind: sacrifice.

And she pretends not to care that all her children will be evergreen eyed and toe-head blonde.

(Evan tells her she looks nice in lavender.)

She is twenty one years old.

The fifth time she pictures a family, she is wearing a turtleneck and a jumper. And she is down trodden by past events. (Stripped of Evan. Not smart enough to listen to Cappie.) Rebecca Logan is glaring at her and smiling at the Kappa Tau tent, giving Casey flip flops of monumental proportions. What IS she doing?

Lizzie waggles her fingers at their sudden line of boys waiting to be kissed. (Of course Cappie would bail her out. He'd been doing it for years.) Back and forth, kiss and go. They laugh upon meeting, his eyes probing hers (I want[ed] to be with you.) It lingers just onesecondtoolong.

Then he's off and running. After Rebecca Logan. And Evan is standing in front of her. (No family, no future, no kids, just give me my lavaliere back.)

She wonders if one person can be a family because it seems like her only option these days. She is still twenty one years old.

The sixth time she pictures a family, it isn't hers, but it should be. Cappie is kissing Rebecca, and Casey feels an emotion she's never going to admit. Ever. To anyone. But the next morning, she literally runs into her family (re: brother, Rusty), and spills forth all the churning umm…jealousy.

(I shouldn't have let him get away. Three kids. My kids, his kids, our kids. Now his and Rebecca Logan's kids?)

She runs another mile, pulse pounding in her ears all the way back to the house. Cappie and Rebecca, Cappie and Rebecca, Cappie and Rebecca.

(She wears red to the Greek Ball. Evan blanches in disgust. Cappie grins at her over Rebecca's head.)

Three kids: two girls with her eyes, his freckles. One boy with smoky cocoa hair, ungodly blue orbs, and Cappie's signature smirk.

(Not one child gorgeously brunette all over.)

The seventh time she pictures a family, she has intelligent children (not that she isn't, just not like Stephen Hawking smart). They live in California and go hiking all the time. Two children: one boy and one girl with her cat green eyes and his jet black wavy hair, no chance of her golden locks sneaking past.

Casey can't even understand their homework, rather makes stacks and stacks of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and slices apples as the day is long. Max comes home from work, cooks a swell brain-food esque dinner of fish and veggies that makes Casey crave pie.

(She hates broccoli and remembers with a grin, as she pushes it around her plate, how Cappie use to call her drawings of trees the same sort.)

What's up, sweetie?

Nothing, Max.

She is twenty one years old when she decides that she screwed up at eighteen and forced herself to sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.

She eats a whole coconut custard pie on a red and yellow plate in the dark kitchen of the ZBZ house at two in the morning on a Thursday before throwing it all up in the bathroom.

The eighth time she pictures a family, Cappie and Rebecca have broken up. She still has her California egghead image and it sits well with her.

Rusty likes Max. He's smart. He loves her. (He gave her a lavaliere.) He's perfect.

(But is he for her?)

The ninth time she pictures a family, she and Cappie are pretending to cram for their Women's Studies class. Between lattes and sarcasm, truth is slowly leaking out.

(I can't just sit around waiting. That'll take forever.)

Cap, are you waiting?

I told you, it was an accidental boob graze.

I love Max. Why can't you find someone else that's just as perfect for you?

Because no other girl in the world compares to you!

She is twenty one years old when she realizes that maybe she doesn't have to sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice. All she had needed to do was stay, stay, stay.

(Three kids: two girls with her eyes, his freckles. One boy with smoky cocoa hair, ungodly blue orbs, and Cappie's signature smirk.)

The tenth time she pictures a family, she is single for the first time in she doesn't even know how long.

(That just leaves me…with me. No Cappie.)

The eleventh time she pictures a family, she is sitting in a dumpster.

Banana peels are on her shoes and rice is in her hair and she feels like she is living in India. But it's all worth it when she finds the Amphora lair. And that Cappie and Evan are friends again. It feels like freshman year later that night at Dobler's when they all toast in silent recognition.

It almost feels like sacrifice and stay can come together. For once.

(There once was a girl who fell in love with a boy who she thought was all colors imaginable.)

The twelfth time she pictures a family, it is Thanksgiving and she is surrounded on either side by Rebecca Logan and Cappie. It's a weird atmosphere: Evan welcome (incredibly loose interpretation of the word welcome) at the Kappa Tau house for dinner.

He's on her right side, tossing all the red jellybeans absentmindedly onto her plate. (She loves the red ones. He knows this.) Pinching a few between her fingers, locks of her golden hair lay in a wreck against her yellow scarf, and he is looking at her that makes her feel like a porcelain doll. Tentative hints of smiles play on their lips. And before she can call it a night, he's walking her back to ZBZ in the dusky November wind.

(You are beautiful inside, so lovely and I can't see why I'd do anything without you.)

(There once was a girl who loved a boy who loved her back and together they were all colors imaginable.)

It's just past two in the morning and he's standing before her, heart open, hands clasped to hers, begging for her to stay, stay, stay. He has sacrificed, sacrificed, sacrificed to get to here, to get to her.

With a kiss that makes the room blind, she agrees. Her heart beats in time stay, stay, stay.

The thirteenth time she imagines a family, she is nestled into the crook of his freckled arm, counting the constellations of freckles and giggling with a mouthful of coconut custard pie. He swipes at her coral mouth with his lips, drinking in her taste and the sweet nectar of stay, stay, stay.

And she finally gets it: Three kids: two girls with her eyes, his freckles. Her face against his broad chest. One boy with smoky cocoa hair, ungodly blue orbs, and Cappie's signature smirk. His hands playing figure eights on her naked stomach. Grass yards with back porches. Her face aching from laughter.

She is twenty one years old.