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Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> Paramore

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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Fences
By dead-fingers-in-my-veins

 


“Fences” by Paramore

She was pretty when she was angry.

Of course, Hayley was always pretty, but it was different. Under her pale skin lurked a heat more fiery than her hair. Every clever line she spat was like a flick of a switch blade and she could do it all by smiling so sweetly, her hazel eyes not even flashing, not a perfectly coiffed hair out of place.

She was elegant pop-punk perfection. Her hair was of a different era: Bettie Page's, painted red. Her lips were like daggers: Macbeth's, stained red. Her dress was of a child: a princess, stained red.

The room was white, yes, but dim. The expansive, Southern Gothic ceiling lined with silver flying buttresses draped with lace suddenly seemed inordinate and paled in comparison to her radiant skin, radiant voice, radiant personality. She was sweet, she was playful, she was secretly sinister and a beguiling menace.

I shifted in my scuffed up black Vans and shot a furtive glance at Zac, who was talking to Ashlee- because even being in the most successful alternative rock band perhaps in the entire world right now couldn't prepare you for Hayley's wrath.

“We're doing just fine without you,” she sniffed, her voice lower but still even. Ashlee was making wild gestures with her hands, fingers fluttering through her bangs and pointing to her sister. Ashlee's hair was so white, like snow against her tan skin. When she began, her hair was brown and black and even bright, like Hayley's, but never as bright.

“Although,” she said quickly after a moment, “your sins can be pardoned if you can clean up your act.”

I turned to where she was looking. Oh Lord, a camera was out. I tallied non-existent retweets and wildfire rumours of Ex-Paramore Guitarist Rekindles Failed Romance with Hayley Williams, sneering siren and belligerent bombshell.

You're always on display for everyone to watch and learn from, don't you know by now?

I turned away from her, to the portrait of Frida Kahlo on the wall.

Don't look up, just let them think there's no place else you'd rather be.

I remembered something from history class. Diego Rivera, her husband, cheated on her and she returned the favor. I didn't look at Hayley until the photographer moved on to Ashlee and Zac. A different scandal awaited him. My brother didn't care and Ashlee was free. Who knew? With Zac as bassist and Ashlee on vocals, we could take the world by a storm… but it would never be the same.

Without warning, I hooked my arm in hers and lead her to the balcony. She would never admit it to anyone, not even her mother, but I knew as well as she did that despite our clear distance, she found it incredibly romantic. She was suddenly embracing her femininity, critics and fans alike accused - not to say they never admired her beauty. But of course, her femininity was always there.

She was once afraid and deep down inside she was still a scared little girl from Franklin, Tennessee, trying to keep up with the boys. She didn't want to sparkle or glitter or Auto-Tune or dance for her keep. She shied away, a swipe of eyeliner and a dab of mascara for glamour- although sometimes even that distinguishing border was crossed. She didn't want any more glamour than that- a fitted shirt or a short skirt for taped performances.

And it's obvious that you're dying, dying, just living proof that the camera's lying.

She called it “building fences.”

If you let me I could show you how to build your fences, set restrictions, separate from the world,” she explained. She knew that fame could change you or at least change you on the outside.

The constant battle that you hate to fight; just blame the limelight.

My reverie was broken by her sharp but not far from angry voice.

“Why'd you bring me out here, Josh?”

I didn't answer. Yeah, yeah, you're asking for it.

“Josh?” she asked again, a prickle of fire stinging my ears. With every breath that you're breathing.

I looked up from my shoes to her. Even in the moonlight she was mesmerizing. Unattainable nonetheless, of course.

“Joshua.” I flinched at the use of my full name. It was amazing the control this woman had over me. Just breathe it in…

I shrugged, struggling to find the words, scratching the back of my head and religiously smoothing my hair in the perfect direction. “This is your night.”

So smile.

She let out an incredulous laugh.

“So I give you a hard time. Break your heart,” she listed in disbelief, “Clearly hurt your tragic, precious little feelings. Kick you out of the band, out of my life and out of the apartment … and you take me to the balcony because it's my `night?' Are you well?”

“Do you want the truth?” Yeah, yeah, you're asking for it.

“No.” With every breath that you're breathing.

Not surprising. She was brutally honest. Ironically, that's why everyone loves her so much. Honesty. Relatability. Interesting lyrics. Her eyes. Her tights were a big point… Oh, and her hair.

“Why not? Just breathe it in. Yeah…

Yeah, well you're just a mess. You do all of this talking… Now let's see you walk. Are you ever going to start making music again?”

Her question surprised me and she was genuinely wondering, although I was certain she knew the answer. I was the music, she was the lyrics- and if anything, we shared the lyrics and I came up with the guitar melodies and she came up with the vocal melodies and harmonies. Nothing - not even our friendship or romantic relationship—rival the intensity of our musical relationship.

I shook my head.

I shrugged, not looking at her. I looped my arm in hers and she clung to me shyly as we returned to the party. A somber expression crossed her perfect features.

“What's wrong?” I asked under my breath, handing her a drink.

“You're not going to make music? Ever?”

I gave her sad little smile. “I don't know. I have those dubstep demos…”

We both shuddered and laughed. “I might have a Misfits cover band with Zac and a few friends…” I trailed off. She still looked sad.

“Why do you care?” I asked suddenly. “You're Hayley Williams, cross-over savior of the music world, activist, philanthropist, fashion icon, role model and dream-maker. You're the second coming—or at least the third after Joan Jett, and Debbie Harry. I am the most hated man in music after Justin Timberlake in 2004.”

I lowered my voice. “I ruined Paramore. I am the inspiration for `Ignorance.' We broke up and therefore tween girls burn old posters in effigy.”

For the first time that night, she had nothing to say.

This is your night,” I insisted. “So smile. `Cause you'll go out in style.”

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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