a/n: Today, the 17th of June, marks the two-year anniversary of my entry into the chaotic world of fanfiction. I first entered through curiosity, accidentally finding the site after trying to look up an eBook. But, as time grew on, I began exploring this vast trove of stories, reading and writing, growing as a person. However, FFN is not just a tool for writers and readers. I have matured, gained amazing friends, made enemies and fought in wars. I have read stories that touched my heart, and fics that brighten my day. Fanfiction is the light in the dark, the sun amidst the clouds, an unpolished gem in the rock. It has taught me so much – taught me the value of friendship and loyalty and trust, the meaning of kindness and compassion, the acts of courage and humility. I thank it for shaping me into the person I am today.

disclaimer: I own nothing.

dedication: To fanfiction.

summary: "I'm no Prince Charming and this ain't a fairytale." – Ray/Stella.

cinderella

there's no such thing as a happily ever after

When he found her, it was already dark, the stars twinkling overhead as she stared into nothing, a lighter in one hand and a empty plastic bottle beside her.

She heard the metallic creaks as he climbed the bleachers, his brand-name shoes squeaking on the polished steel as he ascended the steps, pausing at her row. She could barely see him – all the lights were off and no one was inside the school.

It was a Sunday night – even she shouldn't be there.

"I never pegged you for an arsonist."

In response, she flicked the lighter open, watching the flame dance for a few seconds before closing it again. She could feel his presence as he walked down the row above hers, sitting down behind her and staring, like her, into the black expanse of the field.

It wasn't a conclusion far off the mark. Stella wasn't afraid to play with fire and considering the events of the recent weeks, she had more than enough motive to torch the school down. In fact, coupled with the fingerprints on the bottle, which was emitting a faint smell of kerosene, all the evidence towards the fire burning in the building behind her pointed straight at her.

Not that she cared.

"I thought it was you, at first," Stella's voice was cracked – broken from the smoke she'd inhaled and the files she burned, "But I quickly ruled you out."

He chuckled, "You shouldn't underestimate me, Princess."

The familiar anger and tension began building up and Stella almost looked forward to it, to the comfort and familiarity of arguing with her oldest rival.

"But it wasn't – you're too honorable to do such a thing."

"There's honor amongst thieves," he reminded her.

"No," she shook her head vehemently, "You want to win on your own terms – on the power of your music and your lyrics and your songs. You wouldn't steal just to prove a point."

"Wouldn't I?" The words were enigmatic, but Stella knew the boy sitting behind her better than anyone – better than his best friend and girlfriend of the week, better than his band and his fans, better than his family and his school.

"Don't make me spit lemonade in your face," Stella said, mock-angrily, calling his bluff. Ray sighed.

"What would you have done in my place?" she asked him, a bit defensively.

Ray fell silent and leaned back, looking up at the inky night sky and the stars twinkling above them. The field – his field – stretched out below them, a black hole waiting to devour them alive. Waiting to devour their pseudo-friendship, swallow the secrets of their clandestine Sunday night meetings on the highest rows of the bleachers in the soccer stadium.

"The same," he drawled out, "But I'd hide the evidence. Burn the bottle, throw away the lighter, lock the gates after I left."

"Impossible crimes are what police live for," Stella snorted, "They'd solve it by the end of the week."

"Instead, leave all the evidence pointing towards you," Ray nodded, "Ingenious. No one'd ever suspect that you torched the Music Department, and framing you would start a suspect list of your enemies."

"Something the best place to hide is in the spotlight," Stella said, thinking of stages and microphones and the feel of a guitar in her hands, looking out over a crowd and realizing how easy it is to vanish.

Ray stood up, hands shoved into his pockets, and Stella knew that she'd touched a nerve, brought back memories of his older brother and the spotlight that ruined him, the drugs and drinking that finally took his life.

She didn't bother apologizing – it wasn't what they did. To them, 'I'm sorry' meant 'I'll do it again' and sympathy was only pity in disguise. This – whatever they had on the topmost rows of the bleachers every Sunday night of the school year – was stronger than apologies and insults.

This was Stella and Ray and the stars and the moon and the field he loved and the bleachers she cheered him on.

"What're you going to do now?" Ray asked, not bothering to sit back down. She knew he was angry, he knew that she knew but he felt like reinforcing it anyway.

"Sit back and watch the fallout," Stella replied calmly, wrapping her hands around her knees as a particularly strong gust of wind made her shudder. She wished she hadn't used up the kerosene – she could do with a fire right now.

Ray's varsity jacket dropped down on her, smothering her with warmth and the sharp smell of freshly mown grass that clung to him like a second skin. Stella inhaled deeply, burrowing herself inside the too-big jacket, savoring the seconds before he took it back.

"What happens if you go to jail?" Ray asked again. He sounded much closer, as if he was going to break the invisible line that had been there since the first night they'd come, as if he was going to cross into her row and sit next to her, effectively neutralizing all their years of rivalry.

Stella laughed, sharp and humorless, "You'd come and bail me out, won't you, darling?"

"I'm no Prince Charming and this ain't a fairytale."

"I know," Stella shrunk into his jacket and hid a small smile, "You're Ray and I'm Stella and this is nowhere near a fairytale but fuck it – we can still have our happily ever after."

This was the tower and she was the dragon, her sharp wit and cutting insults protection against her fragile heart, the Princess locked up. He was the Prince, the foolish, foolish boy that persisted in his struggle, who tried to defeat the dragon and rescue the Princess not once realizing that he'd have to be rescued in the end.

But, then again, this was two fucked up music fanatics meeting every Sunday on the field he worshipped, underneath the sky that kept their secrets, in the night that whispered their story.

le fin

a/n: This was completely random and I don't know what happened.