Even If. {A Jacksgap Fanfiction}

You Cheeky Little Arrangement of Atoms and Cells.

Song for the chapter: Fix You by Coldplay. Play the song when you see the # sign.

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"How are you feeling?" Jack asked me, though I could hardly see his face in the darkness.

"I'm fine," I lied.

"No you're not," he chuckled and walked with me into my house.

"I guess you're right on that part," I smiled weakly.

He flicked on a light, but decided that the light was too bright, so he turned on a couple of lamps around the living room and front room, making me feel cozy.

Once the lights were on, he looked at me, now sitting at my kitchen table, red-eyed, and exhausted, he shook his head and began rummaging through my cabinets.

"What are you doing?" I chuckled.

"What you need," he pulled out two plain white mugs and hot chocolate mix, "is hot chocolate."

I smiled at his weirdness, but let him continue, for two reasons. One being that he looked cute while doing it, and two being that hot chocolate was exactly what I needed.

We stayed silent while he pulled out a sauce pan and filled it with milk, turning the heat up, letting it boil. I watched as he arranged everything with delicate care, making sure not to spill hot chocolate mix or break the mugs as he went along, and I realized that I was sort of like the mugs at the moment. He needed to deal with me delicately, or I would break, and then, all I'd be to him would be a bunch of shattered pieces that he'd have to step over, careful not to hurt himself.

After a few minutes of him getting everything ready, he poured the hot chocolate into the mugs, grabbed a handful of little marshmallows out of my pantry, and sat me down on the couch.

Once I was seated, he grabbed a throw blanket out of the blanket chest and spread it over the both of us, and we drank, and I refrained from thinking of too much.

We were silent, but the silence wasn't awkward, it was comforting.

After a couple of minutes, he spoke up in a soothing, soft voice.

"What are you thinking of, right now?"

I sighed. "I'm just tired of being a bunch of broken pieces."

His brow furrowed in confusion, and he waited for an explanation.

"You know, that Tyler Knott Gregson poem?" I asked him, and he shook his head.

"'I am so tired of feeling like a shattered vase across a slippery floor and I am so tired of watching you tip toe around the pieces so you do not cut yourself on me,"' I recited in a small voice, staring down at my hot chocolate.

Jack didn't say anything, so I continued.

"I told everyone else about my situation at school, but I didn't tell them the situation with my mom," I told him, and he raised an eyebrow, a look of worry flooded over his features.

"When I was little, my life was normal, just like everyone else's. My family was slightly poor, but we were getting along. I remember my mom taking me along with her to her favorite libraries and book shops and reading her favorite books with her before bed, though I never understood them," I smiled at the memory,"and every night, I would sit with her in our big brown leather recliner by the fire, no matter how hot it was outside. She would read me poetry, and classic novels, and some writing of her own. Though she never thought she was any good, her works and the things she read to me, inspired me. I used to think that someday I would be a writer, of some kind, just like my mother. She was beautiful, but I remember thinking she looked prettiest with her hair up in a ponytail, wearing casual clothes, when she was with my father. My father was very handsome, and I remember I had a friend and her mom was single, and she was always calling up my dad, asking him to go on lunch dates with her, and I used to think it was strange when other ladies on the street and in the stores looked at my dad like he was the cutest guy they'd ever seen. His hair was slightly shaggy, making him appear younger then he actually was, and he wore those glasses that guys wear now as a fashion statement. And he loved my mom. We used to go on picnics, and I remember my dad tucking me in every night, and walking me to school every day, no matter what the weather, so we could have extra time together, before he went back home to write. He was a writer too, though I never really got to read any of his books, because I was too young, but he must've been a good one, I just know it. But when I turned ten, my dad ran off with some other girl he knew from college, leaving me with my brokenhearted mother. There were days when she was so depressed that she couldn't get out of bed in the mornings, and there were days when she cried so hard that she'd end up getting sick. Then she started drinking more than her average glass of red wine for dinner, and she started turning to more heavier things, like beers and vodka, and she used to tell me that when she drank, it made her forget all about daddy, and all the bad things, so I let her keep doing it. After awhile, she started forgetting what day it was or to feed me dinner, until it got so bad that she would sleep for almost a whole day straight, leaving me to fend for myself. I used to call my daddy in tears when she wouldn't respond when I talked to her, and he just told me that he would keep sending us checks, so we could get through everything, but I haven't heard from him in person since then. He stopped sending checks when I was 15, and so I asked the librarian if she had any work. She was a good friend of my mom's and I called her Nan, even though we weren't related. She let me work and I made enough money for us to scrape by. Add in everything I was dealing with at school and with my health, my life pretty much sucked. I counted the days for when I could leave the house and go to university. The only thing that got me through was my music. I used my dad's old guitar and put some of my mother's old poems to lyrics, and that's what started everything. Soon enough, I taught myself how to compose, and I started doing that. That's why music is so important to me. And that's why I don't talk about home."