Madeline's grown to hate her mother's annual Halloween party. When she was a kid, it was amusing to see adults dressed in idiotic costumes, even more amusing to run through the house without parents paying attention.

Back then she was simple minded, easy to amuse. Back then, she had Louise to laugh with.

Now, her parents look more pathetic than funny. And Louise's interest lies more in hanging off the arm of her latest boyfriend.

Madeline hates how miserable she feels - she could hate Louise's way of ignoring what's right in front of her, but she can't. She never could, even if she spent months dwelling on that night where she said everything and it amounted to nothing in particular.

But, really, that's her fault too. She wears masks, masks that sink into her skin and rob her of all honesty.

Really, this is all her fault.

* * * * *

Paris isn't one for festive gatherings, particularly when the holiday has no meaning outside of forcing people to buy ludicrous costumes and cheap candy. But that's hardly the point - the point is that her mother forced her to come to this party, by extension forced her to stand alone in this corner waiting for the party to end.

Everyone she knows is here, with the exception of Rory. She assumes she wasn't invited, but she supposes she could've just blown it off in favor of a hayride with her perfect boyfriend.

She exhales sharply; she hates it when her inner monologues turn bitter in public places. She has no notebooks in which to scribble away her frustrations, no work to focus on in favor of her life or lack thereof.

She just has these people and their ridiculous costumes. There are several pumpkins, many fathers in ill-advised Harry Potter costumes, and a bevy of witches.

As for herself, she's wearing a pair of black slacks and a blue sweater. If anyone asks, she's a teacher. If they don't, they can just think she has no celebratory spirit.

That's closer to the truth anyway.

* * * * *

Madeline looks at the revelers with a hollow feeling in her stomach. Everyone's happy, so much happier than she is.

Well, except for Paris. But being sunnier than Paris isn't a great feat. She thinks it might be in the Guinness Book of World Records under the title, 'Smallest Accomplishment Ever.'

Sometimes, though, she wonders about Paris. What would happen if she relaxed for more than a few scattered moments? Does she really find any guy interesting? Sure, there was Tristan and an apparent date in D.C. - but other than that, not much.

Sometimes, she thinks Paris isn't that much different from her. She'd talk to her about it if she thought Paris would participate in the conversation.

But now, she just needs someone to talk to in this sea of melancholy, even if it's nothing meaningful. Even if it's just saying, "This party sucks," over and over, it's better than being alone.

* * * * *

"Paris."

She looks over to see Madeline decked out in a witch's costume. "Very original," she remarks dryly.

"I just wanted to hold a broom. You know how I love my broom holding."

Paris nods politely at Madeline's oddity and tries to ignore the fact that it sounds like something Rory would say in one of her weirder moments.

"Are you having a good time?"

"Super," she says in a pseudo-happy tone. Then, worrying that she's being too harsh she adds, "No offense."

"None taken. If it were up to me, we wouldn't have this stupid party."

Paris is a little taken aback by the bitterness in Madeline's words. "It's not that bad," she says to lighten her mood. "There's a certain humor to be found in the idiocy of supposedly professional people."

"I used to think that," she sighs. She shakes her head. "Anyway. What are you supposed to be?"

"A teacher."

Madeline nods, a tiny smile curling her lips. "A teacher? Quite a nice excuse to wear semi-regular clothes."

"Thank you," she responds, a small grin of her own happening beyond her will. Louise catches her eye. "Exactly what is Louise supposed to be?" When she turns back to Madeline, she notices tension lining her previously soft face.

"French maid," Madeline responds coolly. "We have a French maid, you know."

"Fascinating," Paris replies. Off Madeline's quiet, she continues. "What's wrong?" The question comes somewhat begrudgingly; she has enough of her problems without taking on another's load. But this isn't a stranger - this is somewhat of a friend. That, at least, affords her some courtesy.

* * * * *

Madeline shrugs. "I have no problem with my maid," she responds.

"Madeline?" Paris inquires with a semi-stern tone. "I didn't think that she was your problem."

Another shrug. "I don't much care for her boyfriend of the moment," she says, and that's part of the truth.

"He'll be gone soon enough," Paris responds emotionlessly.

Madeline knows that she didn't mean anything bad by it, really; it was just a small truth wrapped up in nonchalant comfort. But her head snaps around as the question, "What does that mean?" falls from her lips with accusation dripping from each syllable.

Paris is unfazed. "I just meant that Louise hardly has the greatest track record with--"

"You don't have any track record," she snaps back. "Maybe you shouldn't talk."

"You don't have much of a track record either. You hardly see me holding that against you."

Their eyes are locked in a stare of epic proportions. Well, it's epic for Madeline - she assumes that Paris finds herself caught in such a duel several times a day. So, it's really no surprise when Madeline looks away first.

"It's not your fault," Madeline says. "I'm being a major bitch. I'm sorry. It's just..." She gestures towards Louise with her broom, then realizes the idiocy of holding a broom in the first place. She leans it against the wall in-between her and Paris. "Never mind."

"I hardly think you need to apologize to me."

"Whatever. I did it anyway, so my bases are covered."

* * * * *

Paris watches her companion with incredulity; she's not quite sure what will come next. It's like the way she feels when she's around Rory, except muted by the lack of immediate fire.

She realizes she's thinking about Rory again and chastises her mental functions. This is not who she is; she is not the pathetic pining princess waiting for someone else to love her. That's not important to her.

She's brought back to the present by Madeline's voice. "Why don't you have a track record?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, I know why I don't go out that much. What's your reason?"

"I'm focused on my goals; personal relationships aren't part of that right now," she responds quickly.

"Really? There's nothing else?"

"No," Paris says. "Why would there be?" she adds defensively.

"No reason." Now, Madeline seems surprised and coy all at the same time. Somehow, this conversation is putting her though millions of emotions within a minute. "When are you leaving?"

"Without knowing the exact time, I'd say too late for my tastes."

Madeline is unworried by the negative implications. "So, I guess I'll go mingle."

Paris doesn't know how to say, 'Don't go. I feel screwed up and lonely standing in the middle of this stupid party all alone.' So she says, "Have fun," with a decided lack of mirth.

She watches Madeline go, watches her walk through the crowd until her only destination could be the staircase leading to the second floor.

Her instincts tell her a jumble of things. Madeline wants to be alone. Madeline wants someone to talk to. Madeline is sick of wearing her cheesy outfit. Madeline is as lonely as she is.

With that, she makes her own trek up the stairs.

* * * * *

Madeline slams the door to her room, although she can't imagine anyone notices the sound. Nobody ever really notices her. She's just another student, Louise's friend, the youngest and least exceptional of three daughters. She's nothing much.

She punches the bed before falling to her knees. She feels like she could cry, but she doesn't. The suppression is strong with her, she notes with a smile that probably looks wretched. On the plus side, no one can see it.

She sinks into a sitting position, listening to the strange crinkle of her witch robe. She's not sure how long it is before the door opens; just a few minutes, she thinks, but that might just be her mind messing with time.

"Paris?" she questions uneasily. She remembers the last time Paris was in her room. They were all eight or nine, and the Gellars were, to quote the bizarrely sophisticated language that she used even as a child, "trying to make more room in my life for playtime so I can form comfortable and lasting relationships with my peers." She even remembers the way her eyes rolled, how she was more interested in drilling them on the times tables than playing with dolls.

"This is she." Paris takes a few tiny steps into the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.

"You remembered where my room is. I'm flattered," she says with a small smile.

"I don't forget many things. What are you doing up here?"

"Just causing mischief."

She pauses, then, "Is there something wrong?"

"No more than usual." Another comment that's a slice of the bigger truth. She wants to tell her the whole thing. Tell her because she might understand, tell her because she just wants someone to know. But, if Paris doesn't understand or doesn't care, she's back to square one, where she's alone and sinking into her own version of teenage despair.

"You usually act that bizarre?" Paris responds. Strangely, her tone is not unkind. "You have your fair amount of quirks, but something else is going on."

"It's been going on for a while," Madeline responds. "I just don't let many people notice."

"And why did you let me notice?" Paris challenges.

She has an answer, but she can't quite say it. "Maybe you're just perceptive," Madeline responds.

Paris hesitates for a moment before settling next to Madeline. She must actually care about this if she's going to do something as undignified as sit on the floor. "I may have a decent sense of things, but most of them don't involve emotions. You've been hitting me in the face all night."

"Figuratively speaking."

"Naturally."

Madeline draws her knees to her chest, a position that Paris mirrors. She wonders if the mimicry is purposeful or just some unconscious movement. "It's Louise," Madeline says softly.

* * * * *

Paris raises an eyebrow. "What? Did you have a fight involving the thick-necked man she's wrapped herself around all evening?"

Madeline shrugs. "Not really."

She holds back the other scenarios for a Madeline and Louise fight, fearing that they might be dancing on the side of mockery. "What is it then?"

Madeline closes her eyes, then opens them again. "Do you promise not to freak out? Or tell everyone? Or treat me differently?"

"One, I really doubt that whatever's going on between you and Louise will cause a turmoil to rage within me. Two, I don't run around gossiping. Three, I can't imagine greatly rethinking my interactions with you. Unless this involves murder, in which case I make no promises," Paris states.

"So, that's a promise then?" Madeline's smile is tight and hard to read.

For some reason, Paris finds it strangely charming. "Yes."

"I love her," she says softly.

"Louise?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Paris isn't quite sure what to make of this. How could she have not noticed this sooner? How could Madeline have been so hard to read?

How could anyone be as good at pretending as herself?

"She doesn't know?" Paris asks.

"I told her, but we were drunk and she didn't really feel the same way. So, I just acted like I didn't remember. Now, I'm right back in...wherever I am."

"These things don't last," Paris says. "Teenage love or lust, or whatever you wish to think of it as. It won't seem as vital in a few years when you look back on it." They're words she's been telling herself lately. For some reason, they don't sound as sensible aloud.

"That's great for a few years from now, Paris. But right now, it feels like a hell that I can't let anybody into."

"Except for me?" Paris asks incredulously.

Madeline looks over to her. "You noticed. And you asked. Nobody else does that." She looks away quickly.

Paris considers confiding in her; the thought puts knots in her stomach and pain in her head.

* * * * *

Madeline's not sure how she feels. Paris hasn't exploded at the news of her sexuality, but she's also turned deadly quiet. That could be because she has something she can't say; and that something could be enlightening or hurtful. She can't really be certain about other people.

Paris seems to be gripping her knees rather tightly. "Maybe you don't really love Louise. Maybe love is just an illusion created by our need to feel connected to others," is what she says when words finally leave her lips. Madeline doesn't find them particularly hurtful or enlightening.

"Then why did I choose someone who doesn't want to be connected to me?"

"Cruel twist of fate?" Paris offers. "I don't know. These things can't be understood. The trick is not letting it bother you too much."

"Do you let it bother you?" Madeline says without thinking.

"Let what bother me?" Paris asks defensively.

"Forget it."

"Just say whatever it is you want to say. I'm irritated anyway, so whatever you wish to discuss probably won't matter."

Madeline finds herself frightened by the idea of Paris wrath. "I just...I've noticed that you spend a lot of time with Rory," she mutters.

"Rory has a boyfriend," Paris states simply.

"So does Louise," Madeline answers. The tension is so thick, she can imagine a group of chefs slicing it up and serving it as a multi-layer cake.

* * * * *

Paris digs her nails deeper into her legs and the surprisingly thin fabric covering them. A few moments ago, she wanted to tell Madeline everything. Now, all she wants to do is tell her to go to hell.

She shouldn't be so frightened by intimacy, she thinks. She shouldn't be so angered by people seeing through her. Weights should be lifting off her, not settling heavy on her shoulders.

"It doesn't mean anything," she offers finally. "Rory is just this girl I'm not going to remember in ten years time. It's just not worth discussing."

"Yeah, it is," Madeline replies.

Paris looks over to her. "What is there to say?"

"That Rory and Louise are insane for not noticing our charms?" Madeline suggests.

Paris softens and loosens her grip on her flesh. "I really am loveable, aren't I?" she replies sardonically.

"You have your good points," Madeline retorts lightly.

 "So do you," Paris says. She's not quite sure what that means.

"It seems so bizarre to be having this conversation," Madeline chuckles.

"Why?"

"I'm saying things without the fear of consequences. And I'm not even drunk while saying them." She pauses. "You're...you're a pretty good friend."

Paris isn't sure what to say. Suddenly, she's thinking of Rory again, and that time she declared them to be friends. Then, Madeline's fingers are covering her own, and she supposes she shouldn't be thinking about other things.

But, on the other hand, Madeline's mind is probably on Louise. It all evens out in the end, she supposes, if such things ever get a fair tally.

* * * * *

Madeline is surprised that Paris lets her fingers be so easily entwined with her own. She's not sure what this means - she's grown confused about the meaning of  everything over time. But it feels nice to be herself without worrying about what lies she'll have to tell later.

Paris looks over at her. If this were a comic strip, a question mark would be in a bubble over her head.

Madeline's not sure what would be in her panel. Maybe some symbol of impulsive decisions, if one even exists.

"Paris?"

"Yes?"

"I..." she begins, but she can't really think of what else to say. So, she just leans in and presses her lips against the other girl's.

* * * * *

Paris isn't sure what to do. It isn't just because of her relative lack of kissing experience - and complete lack of experience kissing girls - but because she's not sure why it's happening.

After a moment, though, she gives in, lets Madeline deepen the kiss. It's soft, tender, and all the other cliched adjectives that could possibly be attributed. The feeling's right, even if Madeline's not the one who's haunted her thoughts for months.

It feels good. It's not everyday that she achieves such a feeling.

After the kiss breaks, Paris stares into Madeline's face. It's unreadable again, but she also finds herself admiring the beauty that's evident in the inches of skin.

She tries to quell her need to analyze, tries to suppress her desire to control the minutiae.

"So...what now?" Paris asks, trying not to sound like a district attorney demanding answers from a shady witness for the defense.

Madeline shrugs. "We go back to the party?"

* * * * *

Paris stares at her.

"Or, maybe not," Madeline says quickly, although going back to the party wasn't something she really wanted to do anyway. "We'll just stay up here for a while, I guess."

Paris is still staring, and Madeline knows that she hasn't really answered her question.

"I don't know," Madeline says. "We'll just figure it out as we go along."

She gives Paris's hand a light squeeze. It might be her imagination, but she's pretty sure she squeezes back.  She's not sure what'll come next, but she's okay with finding out.

* * * * *

For once, so is Paris.

THE END