who is the lamb & who is the knife?

game of thrones : doreah - woman in chains (so free her)

doreah — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 21:31:12 GMT

medium: tv
fandom: game of thrones
subject: doreah
title: woman in chains (so free her)
warnings: major content warnings for sexual/child abuse
genre: non-specific
notes: doreah has a backstory -- and it is an ugly thing. (more potentially triggering notes/discussion under the cut), This is a companion/follow-up mix to Branded As A Jezebel.

NOTES: Doreah is an overlooked character, and for understandable reasons. She is a very minor character in one small part of a much larger story. But I still have managed to develop an incredible devotion to her, especially her TV counterpart which is whose canon I'm basing the majority of this on. We are not given a particularly large amount of info about her, but what we do know is enough to make me feel deeply for her plight. As a young child of nine, she was sold by her own mother to a brothel and was forced not only to learn but to eventually, at the age of 12, to start having sexual encounters with all sorts of men. And yes, in Lys they have a goddess of sex they worship and I don't doubt that some of the pleasure houses had women in much better spirits and positions (Note: Lys is NOT the Summer Isles, just to be clear. I never got the impression it was as female-empowered and progressive. In Lys, the pillow houses are the biggest commodity, followed by poison and slavery is rampant. Yeah. This place isn't all fluffy pillows and flowers). And any brothel that buys a 9-year-old girl and immediately begins grooming her for prostitution is not one of those upstanding places imo. I would think Lys is like any city: there are good businesses, mediocre ones, and really shady ones -- but considering the overwhelming slavery present in the Free Cities (oh the ironic misnomer), I will assume the shady ones are the vast majority. (Basically, this short documentary [Prostitutes of God] is what I think of in regards to Lys, and all its facets, including the Goddess worship & the variability in attitude/conditions/etc. and to Doreah herself in terms of children being sold by their parents to brothels -- but we'll see when that ASOIAF history book comes out how far off this idea is. Warning: It is difficult to watch, especially the last 3rd. There are also many other documentaries on the subject, if you wish. The problem of child sex trafficking and forced prostitution is by no means limited to this area.)

Doreah grew up here; she was essentially locked to this place until Viserys/Illyrio purchased her for Dany at the age of 24 (She's nearly 20 in the books). 15 years she was there. She is then raped and beaten and threatened with death twice by Viserys. Eventually however, Dany frees her and when Doreah has a choice she not only puts herself between a sword and her khaleesi, but follows her into the Red Waste of her own free will. (And book!Doreah is very aware of the peril there, being the one that warns Dany first, she is terrified of the Red Waste -- and yet follows Dany despite this.) [This mix does take into account 2x10 as well. It's complicated why. And her relationship with Daenerys.]

Essentially Doreah was a child prostitute sold by her mother into sex slavery until she was 24.

I don't care what universe you live in, this is not okay. This is not the life for any child or woman (or man). And without going into an intense character study about Doreah, she desired 2 main things: freedom and protection/revenge against those who hurt her. Basically: agency, something that had been stripped from her as a child and never returned until Dany found her own [I have issues with how this was presented in the show, since it was sort of taken away by Dany in Qarth but that's another rant]. Listen to her story of why she loves dragons and I think it's clear. In the books it is suggested she wants a family, not to be a bedslave. And Roxanne Mckee herself believes that Doreah is grateful for the life Daenerys gave her (freedom from the sex trade, life with Dany & dragons (both of whom represent what she desires most for herself)).

These are the basics of what inspired this mix. If you'd like more details, I'll be posting a really ridiculously long essay on her one day (most of which has likely been covered at one time or another in tag rants/posts)... but a lot of this is inspired by the disgusting stereotypes, judgements and beliefs I've seen relating to Doreah, solely on the basis of her being a sex worker. It rips at my very soul to see this shit. [As you may tell by this rant. I fully reject the deleted scene, btw. It was so disgusting. But that's covered in that rant. And I have serious issues with 2x10 as well, but I have a lengthy ramble about that as well. I can understand that slightly better -- but not for the reasons B&W claim. Long story for another day but I think it could have been such a complex and angsty mini-plot if they had done it properly. I've seen some pretty bad character derailment in my days, but none quite so asinine, unbelievable, dehumanizing, and offensive as what happened to Doreah in the deleted scene.] So, I figured I'd give a little insight because I just love her -- especially in the sense that her journey is relatively minor to the main characters' but it is meaningful. I do think she has many parallels with Daenerys; they are more similar than I think a lot of people realise and their relationship (whatever angle you choose to see it from) was a lovely thing. But way more on that in my eventual tumblr meta. Also, In a conversation with a friend, I basically summed up part of my reasons as this,

Doreah is strong as shit to go through this and still be a caring person, still a believer in stories and possibilities. She's a girl who turned around and OWNED her shit and didn't let a decade+ of abuse shame her or her sexuality and taught another oppressed girl (Dany) to use her sex/inherent power to gain her own agency -- something Doreah only had a small taste of, and which ultimately then freed her too as a result! It's like a near-synchronous experience of women freeing each other using only what's within themselves, and learned from each other. FFS. I AM SO PROUD OF MY BB I WANT TO CRY.

Consider also this rather succinct and effective summary of life of a whore in Lys, and the Free Cities (save Braavos) in general:

In Free Cities the attitude towards prostitution is slightly different, there appears to be less ignominy in engaging the services of a whore. This may be because many of the Free Cities practice slavery and where there is slavery there will be sexual abuse and exploitation, many whores are of course also slaves. In the Free Cities slave-whores bondage is indicated by the tears tattooed beneath their right eyes.

The practice of slavery has also created a thriving business in trained male and female bed-slaves, particularly from Lys, although whether all enslaved whores are also trained bed-slaves is unlikely. Many slaves are forced into prostitution during childhood. Most have little or no hope of escaping this way of life and are crushed by the abuse and despair they endure, such as the one visited by Tyrion in Selhorys. Her back is crisscrossed by ridges of scar tissue. After he is finished with her a drunken Tyrion deliberates her:

“

This girl is as good as dead. I have just fucked a corpse. Even her eyes are dead.
She does not even have the strength to loath me.^[3]

”

[source]

And then consider what we saw of Doreah. She was not crushed. Not only did she survive, she then turned what she had been forced to be around on its head, excelled at it, and used it to free Dany and herself from the very system that created it. Like, holy shit. She basically used the tools and the system against itself to deconstruct what she could and inspire Dany to continue that work -- until they both won, and she got what she desired (freedom from the system, and the ability to make her own decisions -- such as following Dany into the Red Waste). (Yes, it's only in a very small bubble but still, it's something.)

She is a keystone character in Dany's early story. Without her, Dany would never have earned the same respect from Drogo. Yes, she would have eventually become pregnant and his attitude to her (as a vessel to carry his son) would have changed. But their relationship would not have existed as it did. Or worst case scenario, if you recall, Dany thinks about killing herself because of those days in the khalasat before Doreah's teachings. And who knows if she would have found the strength within herself -- at least as soon as she did. But even aside from her usefulness to Dany's arc, Doreah as a person on her own merit may be a minor character, but she is full of things I find admirable, compelling, tragic, and beautiful. If you can't see her beauty too, then I can'r berate you, I can only feel sorry for you that you're missing out on such an overlooked yet superb, resilient woman.

Are you a slave, khaleesi? Then don't make love like a slave.

Since this deals with both her possible childhood & her grown-up life, there is content in the songs

relating to sexual abuse of children, rape, human trafficking, and the sex slavery trade. Especially in * tracks.

1. twigs ; ache
{re: dany}
i'll come when you ask me. your love, make my night go boom. that's why i need you.
in the end to the beginning, you're suspending me up with a feeling.
from up here i do surrender. in the trust that i find, i hear together

2. conjure one ; zephyr
{re: dany, qarth}
once i make my play there's no rewinding so bring on the fire, bring on the ice

3. mary coughlan ; whore of babylon
the one that you always slandered
until a child i became, they whored and adored me again & again & again
i turned into a prison, who knew too much
when they're drunk they call me a star

4. juliet simms ; roxanne
{dany for doreah}

you don't have to put on the red light
those days are over, you don't have to sell your body to the night

5. angel haze ; cleanin' out my closet *
when I was 10, shit, i believed i could fly,
i would just flap my fucking arms and meet with the sky
now the power that he held was like a beacon in mine
so now i got used to it, i put up with the shit
i thought of offing myself, i thought of killing these niggas
wanted to smash like the fucking world and burn it's leftover part
wanted to rip it out and just fucking step on my heart
but there's a fucking reason behind every scar that i show,
i never got to be a kid so that's as far as i grow
i had to deal with my shit i had to look at my truth
to understand that to grow you gotta look at your root
i had to cut off the dead i had to make myself proud
& i'm just standing breathing living proof look at me now
i made it through everything {full lyrics}

6. laura mvula ; she

who’s gonna take her home this time?
she knew that this time wouldn’t be the last time.
every day she stood, hoping for a new light
she closed her eyes and she had a small voice say
you don’t stop, no, you belong to me
she cried, maybe it’s too late.
always taking ten steps back and one step forward
she’s tired, but she don’t stop, she don’t stop, she don’t stop. {full lyrics}

7. take no glory ; beautiful slave *

they’ve taken all that i had, smuggled in for a lucrative trade
beaten, bartered, broken in until i obey
i used to be childlike innocent and safe
now i’m someone else's treasure, a stranger's pleasure
can anyone hear me? will anyone break these chains?
who will free me? from this dark place?
i'm just a beautiful slave
given into this sleepless bed
{in this song, i just imagine dany is "god" and "jesus".
i actually hate this band but this song is painfully good.}

8. phillippe kelly & vanina sicurani ; woman in chains

trades her soul as skin and bones (you better love loving & you better behave)
sells the only thing she owns, woman in chains
it's a world gone crazy keeps woman in chains
so free her

9. les miserables ; lovely ladies

come on dearie, why all the fuss? you're no grander than the rest of us
life has dropped you at the bottom of the heap
join your sisters, make money in your sleep; that's right dearie, let him have the lot
don't it make a change to have a girl who can't refuse
easy money lying on a bed
just as well they never see the hate that's in your head

10. tori amos ; me and a gun *
and do you know carolina where the biscuits are soft and sweet?
these things go through your head when there's a man on your back
& you're pushed flat on your stomach it's not a classic cadillac
it was me and a gun and a man on my back but i haven't seen barbados
so i must get out of this

11. sarah slean ; i know *
liars, with money and girls, the kind you fit in your pocket
i can't save them from this darkness.
my sisters, i love them all
and i know, doll, made of paint and china
your worth lies only in these but you're real to me
there are some things i can't forgive, some things i just can't forgive
some things, jesus, i thought we had an understanding
the fact that you can buy a woman makes me want to die; where were you last night?
and i know what you want, i know it all too well {full lyrics}

12. a fine frenzy ; riversong
the boulders, i know they heard me cry but they were stone-faced
and they stood aside so i went on at the river’s pace with my eyes closed
you’ve got to find where you belong
how does it feel to be so certain, without question of your purpose,
your position, of your place, of your home?

13. bridget rogers ; stay
{dany/doreah}

not really sure how to feel about it, something in the way you move
makes me feel like i can't live without you. it takes me all the way. i want you to stay.
oh the reason i hold on cos i need this hole gone
funny you're the broken one but i'm the only one who needed saving

14. sinead o'connor & mary j blige ; this is to mother you
{dany/doreah, works from both POVs}
this is to be with you, to hold you and to kiss you too
for when you need me, i will do what your own mother didn't do
all the pain that you have known, all the violence in your soul
all the wrong things you have done, i will take from you when i come

15. matthew ryan ; the broken side of time

i'm on the broken side of time 15 years out of my skin, out of my mind
and there's no explaining why i went where i've been
except that some of us are little more than burnt fuel on the wind
my first kiss was stolen, my first love was drunk
i'm on my back on the ceiling where the first pain was sunk
and when i say that i don't mean that i was lifted or free
i was more like a dead dolphin at the bottom of the sea
i've been inches from the surface since i was kid
but i'm holding my breath and i'm quiet and loud
been on the broken side of time, afraid until now

16. right away, great captain! ; fur stop caring
{qarth}

cos even if he didn’t die we’d be right where we came alive again, pursuing absolution
assumed that you would beg me and from the shadow to the light
the god i know could not be tired but i am such a separate story
stupid is as stupid does and stupidly i pulled the plug on you
i am not me and i am not me

17. pete yorn ; lose you
{2x10}

i’d settle for less, it’s another thing for me
i just have to wander through this world alone.
stop before you fall into the hole that i have dug here
rest even as you are starting to feel the way i used to
if i’m gonna lose you, i’ll lose you now for good.

18. the heavy horses ; thirty year night {2x10}

i try to forget what i’ve done; darkness sweeps down from above, consumes my soul
scribble a note say sorry it happened this way,
inhaling my last breath so free knowing not what to say
my heart bids my soul a farewell
oh, lord, take me home

19. sarah slean ; john XXIII
from the dawn of time they taught her why,

not to ask the questions and to never cry
i know it's been quite a long time since
i sang a hymn without guilt in my eyes
my weary heart is looking, restless
not for a pardon but just one promise
all the fate that one can deserve
it's enough to wonder why you punish your girls

LISTEN || DOWNLOAD (pw: lysene)

game of thrones: daenerys/doreah - kisses for the beast (score)

doreah — Fri, 02 Nov 2012 05:49:28 GMT

medium: tv (/books, vaguely)
fandom: game of thrones/asoiaf
subject: daenerys targaryen/doreah
title: kisses for the beast
warnings: it's a ficmix, technically. for an as-of-yet unpublished/unfinished fic.
genre: instrumental/orchestral, liquid chillstep/dnb
notes: in my world, this ship just will not die. and because of that, i'm writing a rather lengthy fic to deal with my issues concerning these two idiots. this mix is the result of my writing process. granted the actual playlist in my itunes is currently sitting at over 170 songs (and counting) so i whittled this down to a mere 40. (i honestly tried to go smaller but i just couldn't.) it's a summary of my story told through music. essentially there are no spoilers here (none for the series, none for my fic) although some of the titles are rather fitting. well, at least no huge spoilers (tho under the cut there is one or two). the fic itself revolves around 3 POVs and follows TV!canon mostly, but takes place post-ADWD. (as such there's some rather large assumptions about the direction the show will take the story and how closely it'll stay to the books.) honestly tho, this mix can be enjoyed with no concept of its basis. it's all instrumental (ok mostly. there may be a liquid dnb track or 2 in here) and can be appropriated to whatever you would like. so just enjoy the music, if nothing else. i just really wanted to share this music cos i really like it. that's all.

and there are a lot of songs with beautiful choirs and forlorn females wailing in non-english above a crescendo of epic orchestration (a la lisa gerrard). if you're into that sort of thing. i am.

for a little bit of context --SPOILERS FOR ADWD-- the story follows dany's journey through the dothraki sea as a captive in khal jhaqo's khalasar, and features the reappearance of my favourite handmaid (i will not accept that vault, HBO. i refuse), and as such is doreah's own journey as well, dealing with the aftermath of qarth and all that. mixed in is a dothraki slave who befriends both doreah and dany. essentially it's about facing the past, betrayal and the potential for forgiveness, and the ultimate cost of that. it's not fluff. this doesn't really explain the premise all that well, but oh well.

PART I ::

1-20 //
strassenkater : orchestral with vocals 112
the cello companion : a world of dreams
placyde : road to understanding (consor remix)
stellamara : prituri se planiata
optimum vulnerability : lost dreams
armand amar & levon minassian : amen hayr sourp
hilario abad : dothrakis
dario marianelli : the skies do not fall
joseph loduca : no life without you
whiteboi : trouble with me
ariunaa : talijn mongol ajl
larry groupe : torment of the soul
the unfinished : my hope is your suffering
emily underhill : fly
dave metzger : the dream
marcello de francisci & lisa gerrard : the secret language of angels
tom twyker, johnny klimek & reinhold heil : cloud atlas finale
oliver sadie : wrong fate, accepted.
apollo sunshine : we are born when we die
nikos kypourgos : my deepest story
{{ DOWNLOAD ]]

PART II ::

21-40 //
lisbeth scott : in the darkness
ron herrema : accompaniment for a cinematographic scene
bethurum : running
rameses b : lone wanderer
craig armstrong : escape (full version)
hans zimmer : now we are free ft. lisa gerrard
olafur arnalds : Þau hafa sloppið undan Þunga myrkursins
baka beyond : meeting of tribes
mark mancina : sitka's funeral
tom twyker, johnny klimek & reinhold heil : all boundaries are conventions
azam ali : dandini
dan schatzberg : icarus rises
trevor morris : a howling wilderness/the death of jane seymour
phil rey : warrior soul
nox arcana : dragon riders
the cello companion : threnody
oliver sadie : finale ft. zefora
william erasmus : another hero fallen
alan menken : the prophecy
m83 : echoes of mine
{{ DOWNLOAD ]]

as always, change hxxp to http please!

[fic] AFTERBURN: part iii [dany/doreah]; r

doreah — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 00:55:36 GMT

Notes in Part I.

you're going to tremble

The simple word pounded repeatedly at her skull. Its meaning violently rattled her heart in a way she had not expected when she had asked the question. Doreah was powerful, regardless of her own self-perception. The feeling from the previous morning boiled up inside Daenerys again. There were only so many ways that she could distract herself from her debt owing and it felt as if her river had run dry. There was a feeling of something else nipping at her mind, spurring her body just a few inches closer. It was time to repay the debt. It was said that happiness had no price, and it was true that Doreah had never wished for payment nor even known what she had done. But nevertheless, happiness was worth if not money, reciprocation.

“What is it you would like most in the world?” Daenerys was fairly certain she would not be able to abide by whatever flight of fantasy Doreah concocted in response, but it would give her a better understanding. Instead of a wild idea springing forth, her handmaiden appeared to thoughtfully consider the question.

“I would like to be free.”

The answer was not what Dany had been looking for and the repetition of Doreah on this theme frustrated her. If anything, it seemed too easy, particularly because it already was true. “You are. I have sworn that to you. You are free to leave as you wish, and if you stay, I will never again ask you to lay with a man for any purpose.” She paused and shifted uncomfortably under Doreah’s blank recognition. “You know this. What else?”

The khaleesi followed Doreah’s darting gaze around the room to the pens holding her dear dragons. “No dragons,” she said quickly before Doreah could ask and was met with a laugh and nod from the brunette.

“Anything?”

“Yes. Anything,” she repeated, and adding for good measure with a small smile, “Other than a dragon.”

Moving slightly closer, Doreah stared hard into periwinkle eyes. She obviously had thoughts twirling all around her head yet was keeping them quiet. It made Dany nervous, but the way she was looking at her shifted those nerves into something else. Something crackling and it left her a little bit breathless. Suddenly Doreah broke the moment, shook her head and frowned.

“What is all this for, Khaleesi?” It felt similar to a trap. The confusion about Dany’s motivation added to the uncertainty.

“Your happiness.”

The words appeared to strike hard at the brunette. They had been so unexpected. Her eyes went wide momentarily, before her forehead furrowed further at the idea. “I don’t understand…”

Dany still refused to divulge her true reasons, only her intentions. She could not tell Doreah about her dream of a childhood she had never known, a happiness never experienced except in sleep by her side. “You do not need to. You and I are not so different, Doreah. Now please, what would make you happy?”

Still, the handmaiden resisted. Her suspicions were unwarranted but they were also inevitably ingrained from years of mistrust and abuse in Lys. It had been a lost childhood just the same. When no answer was forthcoming, Dany sighed.

She too had known nothing of love. She had experienced only fleeting kindness that had been stolen from her, leaving in its wake only the image of a red door and a brother obsessed with vengeance to compensate for the helplessness and rage he felt inside, his fists and words striking at the only thing he could control. Sold to a man she did not even know in exchange for more promise of bloodshed, her last remaining family betrayed what little trust she had built. Then she had been fucked, unwillingly and savagely, before she had ever even experienced her first kiss from a boy. But somewhere in that horrid mess sprung a new love, one that had only been made possible through chance and Doreah’s guidance and likely would not have blossomed otherwise, ignited the smoldering embers of something she had considered long lost. Not merely sexual, it had been about freedom too. No longer would she bend to the will of her brother nor the lack of self-confidence. Her sun and stars, her Khal gave her strength beyond her dreams as he fed her sweet drops of power and respect. She lapped hungrily at the choices suddenly open to her. With Viserys’ death, she was set free. There had been great suffering in order to receive it but it nonetheless became truth.

She and Doreah had both been captives, now both were free women. It struck her suddenly how intertwined those fates had been. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Dany gingerly touched her hair where braids had once been. She had victories too. Not in war, no, but for herself. Doreah’s footsteps padded closer as she followed her khaleesi across the room.

“I can only think of one thing that you have not already given me,” the brunette said softly, finally succumbing to the request.

“And that is?”

Doreah smirked. “It is not something one should ask of their queen.”

“Then do not think of me in such a way. I am your friend and you are mine.” Her impatience was getting the better of her now and Doreah’s talking around the issue was tiresome. Dany reckoned this was the price to pay for having clever handmaidens.

Letting a long breath out, Doreah steeled her nerves. “Khal—.”

“Daenerys. Dany.”

“Pardon?”

Daenerys shifted slightly, uncertain if this was the best move. “Try again, my friend. My name is yours to speak.”

Flustered, Doreah silently rolled it around on her tongue. It was strange, far too personal, yet achingly sweet. She had never heard anyone call the khaleesi by such an intimately familiar name. Even her full name was rare, as her title was what was important. It was what identified her. It could even have been a odd trick. The sharing of something deeply personal would prompt reciprocity of the same, and Dany would finally be able to lay to rest her debt. Tilting her head to the side, Doreah tested the word on her lips. “Dany.”

Daenerys merely smiled at the sound with a silent indication to continue. However, even the intimacy of the name could not loosen Doreah’s tongue immediately. Even though she and Dany had often spent nights alone in the khalasar just talking with each other like close friends, it had always been a struggle to admit the parts of her past that had torn at her heart. This was no different. But she preserved, almost spellbound by the magic of being granted the ability to talk freely. “When I was 16, I fell in love with a boy,” she began hesitantly. “He was the son of a butcher in the market where I would occasionally accompany the other courtesans to buy wine for the men in the pillow house.” Doreah paused, gathering together the shreds of memory. “He knew what I was. Of course, he did. It was obvious. But he never looked at me as everyone else had and soon going to market was something I did with great enthusiasm. Each time, he would be there and we would talk more often and I would sneak off from the other ladies in order to spend time with someone who actually appeared to like me for me, someone who saw me as more than just a whore.”

Doreah looked down and touched the bandages on her arm, folding and twisting the loose ends absently. “He was the only boy I ever kissed purely by my own choice. And that is all it ever was. His father witnessed it, shamed me publicly in front of everyone, including his son. And I never saw him again.” She had never been able to hold onto to anything for very long; that was the life of a slave.

A gentle quiet fell across the girls. The dragons were twittering and clucking softly amongst each other in their cages and the birds outside had mostly taken their leave for the day. Distant sounds of people in the streets occasionally bounced off the stone, but otherwise, there was silence.

“You want me to find him for you?” Dany asked, quite sure that it would be an impossible task at this stage. Lys was miles in the opposite direction.

Doreah let out a soft chuckle and shook her head, a small smile sneaking over her lips. “No, the only thing I wish is to kiss someone else by choice. That is all.”

The request was so chaste and small that it made Daenerys feel guilty. Here she was commanding blood-thirsty armies, raising fire-breathing dragons and going after an iron throne, and next to her was a girl whose most pressing wish was just to be kissed without pretense. She did not like how barbaric she suddenly felt in Doreah’s presence, the same girl who was meant to be the more worldly, cunning and sensual one of them both. Doreah was the one who had pleasured multiple men and women at once, who artfully taught her the ways to make love to a man, who had seen and done things Dany could not even fathom, and yet she sat here requesting no more than a kiss. It reminded Daenerys at once of the kisses she had never received until being stripped brutishly of her youth as well.

“How can I—,” she stared before being cut off by the other girl.

“I want it to be with you.” There was Doreah’s brazen confidence again. It was pleasing to have it return. “But it must be your choice as well.”

If she had blinked, it would have been entirely probable that she would have missed the almost imperceptible nod of acceptance or the way Dany’s eyes took on a slightly anxious sheen. It was not a warning sign. No, it reminded Doreah very much of that time in the khal’s tent as she instructed Dany in the ways of love. The look was a bit scared yes, but in an anticipatory way, more due to the fact that it was unfamiliar rather than unwanted. Looking doe-eyed into a new world was not normally a benefit afforded to grown women, but as they had both lost a significant part of their pasts, it would have to come sometime.

Kissing Daenerys Targaryen was unlike that boy in the market, and certainly nothing like anyone else she had been required to please. Young boys were awkward and inexperienced in some way, even the best of them. They were wetter, harder, more insistent from the start. That was not a particularly bad thing especially when done in love, but it was different. Older men were selfish and pushy, if only to get their moneys worth. Unlike either option, Dany was meek at first, tentative, the vestiges of her youth flaring up again, but Doreah soon felt more pressure, fingers coming up to lace in her hair. She felt soft fingertips instead of hard fists and in response, her own hands danced lightly over the curvature of Dany’s waist, hidden underneath layers of fine cloth. Everything about this moment truly betrayed the gentle heart that Daenerys so adamantly insisted did not exist within the confines of her chest.

It had meant to be brief but she became lost somewhere between supple lips and pliant fingers. No man, no matter what the price he paid, had ever kissed her as Dany did. In fact, the more she was paid, the less they cared. It struck Doreah suddenly that Dany did care. She pulled back slowly hoping to gauge some sense of that from her face. The look she saw on the khaleesi’s face was so reminiscent of so many, many months before when they had been alone together, the only time their mouths had been as close as now. Doreah titled her head to the side as a grateful smile slid over her lips and she ran a light hand through Dany’s hair and across her cheek. She was satisfied.

“Thank you, Kh—.”

Her words were silenced by the touch of Dany against her again, a bit harder this time but much more brief. When Daenerys broke the second kiss, she breathed in deeply, stealing Doreah’s breath. “Dany,” she reminded the handmaiden insistently before diving over to kiss her once more.

This had not been part of Doreah’s request and she was taken aback momentarily by the urgency in Dany’s body. They had both been alone for so long and she knew well that everyone had urges, especially girls shifting well into the peak of their womanhood and especially when they had been untouched and lonely for so long. That was natural. It was not that which surprised her; it was more so her own reaction. She had become well-accustomed to the foreplay involved in sex, the mechanics of pleasure. She had felt arousal in the past of course; it was not difficult even when it was merely a job. Desire however was a rare emotion. The two were often confused she found, and when love was on the table, it too confounded what was really happening.

Almost as if coming to the same conclusion, Daenerys backed away, the tips of her fingers touching her own lips in wonder. “I apologise,” she whispered. She appeared confused about her own actions.

“Never do that,” Doreah stated matter-of-factly, offering a smile to ease the khaleesi’s obvious discomfort at her own wayward reaction. The curse of fair skin was the ease at which it coloured, especially into shades of crimson. Flushed as she had been from the kiss, Daenerys’ cheeks took on an even deeper pink hue. “If you ever stop trying for what you want, you will no longer be Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons.”

Dany allowed herself a modest smile in response, looking less uncomfortable. It was this innocence, this naivety that many would see as weakness but Doreah saw it more as opportunity. Although she was often overwhelmed and overzealous, it allowed Daenerys to take risks more seasoned warriors, like Ser Jorah, would balk at, and perhaps rightfully so. But more often than not, her methods worked. They were novel, unexpected and full of youthful nerve, as of yet unjaded by the constant ache of defeat. And, more importantly, it was precisely this same hot-headed innocence that allowed her hope to never extinguish.

“Your passion is why I admire you; it is the reason I follow you freely.” She resisted the urge to say more. It would only expose the full extent of her feelings. Like how she was always learning from her, how she was made to feel like a person instead of an object. Like how she always felt a swell of pride when her khaleesi took a stand, showed off her power and her warrior heart – one that Doreah hoped to one day have as well. Or how her heart felt lighter when Dany would do something no other queen or khaleesi would dare to do; like freeing slaves or stopping the rape of innocent women in war. Sometimes just the incendiary timbre of Dany’s voice, so surprisingly strong and sure, infused her not only with hope but also something deeper, and less definable. It was a kind of giddiness surrounded by intense satisfaction. On the fringes lurked something akin to what she believed love may actually feel like, but it was hardly necessary to name it. Only to feel it. These things about Daenerys --these words and deeds-- made her different and made her special. They filled Doreah with the same sort of inspiration. She knew finally that it was not how one begins a journey, but the steps one took during its course.

Shifting closer, Doreah carefully took Dany’s hand in both of her own. Reverently, as she had seen commoners do to high lords and kings, she brought the future queen’s fingers closer and brushed a kiss over them, maintaining eye contact. “As I will always,” she said finally, blinking slowly up at Daenerys.

The blonde said nothing, nodding once very slightly in acknowledgement of the vow as her fingertips slipped free and she traced the pad of her thumb along Doreah’s lower lip, as if touching the promise itself. Her own echo was carried back. Teal blue eyes met and held with her own lavender ones.

“If you choose, Doreah, and only if you choose,” she began as she lowered their joined hands to her lap. “I would welcome you to stay the night with me. Would you?” Although it sounded rather formal, and despite there being little doubt about the response, Dany displayed a shyness in her offer. There was no indication that it would proceed further than one more night but it felt heavy with intent all the same. Moreover, perhaps it was the consequence that gave Dany pause: a promise of a sleep without nightmares, a happiness sowed. It was a debt she would gladly take on again.

Very little could cause the past courtesan to blush, but just the slightest hint of pink shaded in Doreah’s cheeks as she nodded. A chance. A choice. Hers alone. Doreah took a deep breath, recognising finally the luscious flavour of her freedom.

Maybe she wasn’t highborn. Maybe she did not have the blood of dragons. But maybe it did not matter; she felt as if she did all the same.

Her first smile as a free woman stretched across her lips and she nodded.

T H E E N D

=}=

[fic] AFTERBURN: part ii [dany/doreah]; r

doreah — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 00:53:47 GMT

Notes in Part I.

if i stumble they're going to eat me alive

=}=

The contented sounds of whistling dragons filtered in through dreams of fire and platinum blonde hair. Heat seemed to fall in slices across her body as she came into consciousness, squinting at the harsh sunlight coming in streaks through the shades. These were the Khaleesi’s chambers, yet she was in the bed. Alone. Groaning with the effort of raising herself even partially upright, Doreah glanced around briefly, then down at her arms, covered carefully in bandages and poultice. Her bruised jaw felt less swollen and her skin was scrubbed clean. She could remember nothing of how this came to be.

It was then that she caught sight of the khaleesi across the room, playing with Rhaegal as the other two lounged in the sunshine being cast across the table. Her hair was strange, unkempt in some way but her demeanour was relaxed and carefree. Finally she turned towards the bed, a smile spreading across her face at the sight.

“You’re awake.” It was an obvious statement only leaving Doreah to nod in agreement.

“Khaleesi, how?” She had far more questions to ask but that seemed the most pressing for the moment. “I should not–.” With a wince, she tossed the blankets back taking quick note of the fine nightdress on her body, and stepped out. Her habits took over and immediately and despite her injuries, she began to adjust the bedclothes.

“Doreah.” The voice was gentle, patient. Even a little bemused. So unlike the previous night.

“Yes, Khaleesi?”

Drogon took the moment to screech loudly in her direction and she involuntarily winced. She was not sure if it was a friendly sound or not, especially after what she had got the dragons into. Daenerys scowled momentarily at her dragon before refocusing her gaze. “Get back into bed.”

“My quarters are–”

“You have taken no issue with coming into my bed in the past, Doreah.” There was the slightest of smirks across her lips. The words were indirect yet pierced in exactly the right places. She wanted to argue with the implication, to remind the khaleesi that those were different circumstances and the current request was beyond what was considered appropriate for a handmaid. But then perhaps that would be equally inappropriate. And, in all honesty, she doubted many handmaidens would have found the previous requests any more appropriate to have so gleefully accepted. Irri certainly had not when she learnt of Dany’s more controversial requests of Doreah.

The thought of Irri stung. The competition that had existed for Dany’s affections and the resulting tension of quiet conflict was not lost on any of them but the thought of losing what amounted to a friend, as best as she could find anyway, was painful. Suddenly, her head felt heavy and she sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the floor just beyond her feet.

Lost in thought, she did not realise that she had been absent until a rather large black lizard nipped at her toe. It was Drogon and he croaked in protest at her when she jerked her foot away from him. She was still not certain what he wanted and as she tentatively placed her foot closer to him, she was surprised to hear him chirp softly and begin to climb her bare leg as she had seen the dragons do so often to the Khaleesi. When he reached her lap, he settled and made a feeble screech towards his mother.

“He still loves you,” Daenerys said, a small smile playing on her lips. “If you had wished them harm, or treated them poorly, you would no longer have any toes, of that I am sure.” Her voice was severe yet warm. She had accepted the apology that Doreah had tried and failed to get out previously.

She wanted to try once more, but looking at Daenerys made it clear that it would be unnecessary. “I trust you have reasoned that I meant no harm then, Khaleesi? That I tried to protect them?”

The light on Daenerys’ face fell slightly. “I understand a little. Not everything.” She sighed and stroked a tender hand over Viserion. “In time. Right now, you should rest and get well. Qarth is in disarray and I will need you by my side again.”

“Of course.” The request to resume her duties as Daenerys’ handmaiden was easy to agree to. The actual action of crawling back into her bed was quite another. It was awkward. Not only was the mattress itself far more pillowy than she was accustomed, but the idea that it was not meant for her made Doreah constantly question the idea. Should she insist on heading back to the servant’s quarters? She adjusted and readjusted the blankets and pillows, her forearms spiking with pain each time they rubbed too hard against the heavy bedclothes. Her body itself would not relax, twisting and turning as best she could in her tender state. To top it all off, she could feel Dany’s eyes on her the entire time. She willed herself to hold still and feign sleep.

Sometime between lying perfectly still and pretending to sleep, she had actually fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber. Waking many hours later, she heard the night bugs twittering in the garden nearby and when she opened her eyes, everything almost looked as if it was shimmering under the silvery light of the moon. As she contemplated whether or not it was just the cool breeze stirring the curtains or something more foreboding, she felt the bed shift of its own accord. It only took a moment for her to realise that Daenerys was asleep beside her. The knowledge made her uneasy, despite how comfortable it actually felt to be close to someone, especially someone who was not trying to shove his cock into any number of orifices where it was not welcome. As she gently tried to slip from under the thin blanket, she noticed the painful ache of her wounded arms was significantly less. Squinting down, she saw fresh bandages and sighed. She really had to stop being such a deep sleeper.

The pause to look over the handiwork on her arm had afforded the girl beside her chance to stir and then reach out. “Stay, Doreah.”

Jumping slightly at the unexpected sound, the handmaiden looked down to see Daenerys with her eyes closed, already drifting back to sleep. Even so, there were warm fingers gripping tightly at the loose fabric of her borrowed nightgown as if it was a treasured childhood toy -- or a fleeting hope. This had never been a scene she’d been able to witness. The khaleesi, innocent and unaware, likely lost in a world where dragons clouded out the sun and all the people of Westeros knelt at her feet. Or perhaps her dreams were more simplistic, because as Doreah peered down, she did not see a warrior queen at all. Barely even a princess. She only saw a young girl, naïve and alone. There was no mark of bloodshed and war, no broken heart, no fear. It struck Doreah as suddenly quite mad that this person would command mighty dragons and sit on a throne surrounded by the skulls of her enemies, obtained with fire and blood.

Sometimes, in the light of day and Daenerys’ blustering passion, it was easy to forget that she was still just an 18-year-old girl, looking barely more than a child at times even though she had experienced so much more. The moon itself seemed to honour her, bathing her fair skin in soft light, making it almost glisten. She had often heard Khal Drogo refer to the khaleesi as the moon of his life. She certainly saw now how such a comparison could be made.

It also left very little doubt in her mind that dragons indeed came from a shattered moon.

Inching back under the blanket, she lay her head on the down pillow and let the warmth of the fire-blooded girl beside her ease her back into dreamland. Daenerys never loosened her hold.

= } =

The quiet stillness of night dissolved quickly as the sun rose and birds of all sorts began to praise its return once again. Not soon after, the house and city itself was suddenly a flurry of noise and activity, including the furious footsteps of servants. It had been weeks and Daenerys still had not quite grown accustomed to the hustle of a city. The khalasar was equally busy, true, but it seemed but organic, in tune with the ebb and flow of time passing. Here in Qarth the moment the first pink glow rose in the east, life exploded forth. Doreah was still sleeping soundly by some odd miracle despite the busy comings and goings of house staff in the room. Dany knew that any moment Ser Jorah would be arriving, no doubt with news of a potential ship’s captain for immediate hire or awaiting her next plan – to shoot it down as he was so prone to do.

She rose abruptly, surprised at how incredibly well-rested she finally felt. The previous night had not chosen to plague her with visions of blood and death. In fact, the vague recollections she had were of childhood memories, or more precisely, fantasies of a childhood that she had never had. Hers had been stolen but for one night, she had lived what she had longed for. There were smiles and parents she did not know but nonetheless loved; her brothers were alight with peace. She can recall the touch of her mother’s hand over hers. There was comfort and a sense of protection that had been absent, and she never had to run. The fear never existed. Then there had been the red door. The red door was always in dreams, but finally it was no longer a reminder of what had not been, but a symbol of what had. Her own history had rewritten itself in dreams and she had woken feeling happiness, in its most pure essence. Doreah lay unaware of the gift she had given.

As she whispered tenderly to her dragons, they rustled around peeping and whistling in response, scratching at the confines of their nests for food. Daenerys obliged readily and was happy for the distraction from thinking about a debt she had no idea how to repay. Drogon shrieked out impatiently as his brother was fed first rolling over on Dany’s lap in satiated pleasure. The sound roused Doreah and Dany glanced over somewhat nervously before returning her attention to easing Rhaegal back into his cage. She could hear tentative steps across the floor. Busying herself with feeding Drogon was the simple task. Ignoring Doreah was much more difficult.

When Drogon chattered at the familiar face and then twisted his lithe body around to steal a piece of meat from between Doreah’s fingers, Daenerys eventually had to face the gaze of her handmaid. This was a new sensation and she could not quite form an idea of what it meant. Doreah’s eyes were wide and reflecting greens and blues in the morning light, strikingly clear. That is, until her stare drifted across Dany’s shoulders.

“Khaleesi, your hair!” Her voice sounded quite concerned as she hastily reached out and let the uneven strands of severed hair fall through her fingers. Dany flinched away from the touch, feeling suddenly that the familiarity of her handmaiden was becoming a discomfort. The other girl must have received the message because she stepped back somewhat briskly but her face showed no less distress. Daenerys turned away from the imploring stare and focused on wrangling her unruly dragon back into his cage. Despite her best efforts to slow the process, the action had not taken the entire day and Doreah was still standing there, awaiting an explanation.

“I cut my braids the night we found you,” she finally managed to admit, flippantly trying to pass it off as inconsequential but failing. It seemed impetuous and excessive now in retrospect and she feared reprisal for her emotional reaction. Of course, she had forgotten that Doreah very rarely passed undue judgement on anyone, especially not her own khaleesi. She was not disappointed in her assessment, as Doreah said nothing, moving in silence to twist straying strands together between her fingers thoughtfully.

“I can fix it,” Doreah muttered quietly, almost reverently, seeming to take in the meaning without the need for explanation. She said nothing more, rapt in the action and considering her options as she idly stroked over the frayed ends.

Daenerys nodded, breaking the contact momentarily as she moved to take a seat and let Doreah work.

= } =

The swamphens and warblers were both in full song as the mid-morning light made it’s way across the sky. As Doreah finished, an uncomfortable anxiety settled back into Daenerys’ stomach. The brief interlude of silence had eroded any ill thoughts she had been having and the feelings of warmth from her previous night’s sleep had begun to soak into her skin once again. But with the end of task, Dany was reminded that even if it was only in her own mind, she owed a debt to Doreah now. It was ridiculous for a khaleesi to owe anything to anyone, certainly not her help. For a queen, it was even less likely. But then she was also certain that it was equally ridiculous for a khaleesi to be pinned, virtually helpless to the bed for lesson on sex from her servant. Her cheeks flushed of their own will at the impromptu memory. Any way she looked at it, she was not an ordinary queen.

Her stare fell upon her servant girl who was now adjusting her own bandages. The wounds had not been as bad as they had looked under the chilly veil of night and the Qarth ladies had offered some remarkable medicines to ease Doreah’s recovery. The treatment seemed to be working quite well. A dog bite was often fatal primarily because they had a tendency to go for the throat. Doreah had been lucky whatever dog she had met lacked the instincts of its breed. Tearing at the flesh of her arms had been painful, but much less severe than it could have been had it gone for softer tissues. Yet, she was not fully healed and there was still so much to be done in Qarth before they could leave. It had not come as a surprise when Ser Jorah arrived, staying only briefly before insisting that he must go find a ship. The khaleesi made no complaint with the plan. It was for the best. She watched as Doreah winced as she pulled the scrap of fabric tighter around her forearm, twisting it into a knot securely. Her thoughts meandered back to that night.

“There was a great deal of blood. I was concerned,” Daenerys said quietly. “The women cleaned you as best they could.”

“And I will thank them for it.”

The air became tense with unspoken questions and the silence seemed to make it drag on twice as long. “The blood…” The voice of her lady came out uncertainly, wavering slightly on the words she failed to express.

“It was a wild dog.”

“The other blood…”

Doreah recalled the struggling, the ripping, the burning. It should not have been so messy. After all, she had taken larger before. Yet the circumstances were altogether different. She had not been ready, not even afforded the benefit of spittle. It was so much like her first time. And now, there was an ache still present there. Bruising, perhaps. But of course, that was not entirely unfamiliar.

“Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a large, indelicate man, Khaleesi.” She could not look Daenerys in the eyes any longer and all the better since the khaleesi took on a sickly pallor at the vile admission.

“Was.” Her voice shook slightly, but it was certain. Eventually Doreah looked up, surprised to see unshed tears in Dany’s eyes. “I have never been so glad to have had a man killed before now.”

It was Doreah’s turn to feel tears welling up. She held them back but not her tentative astonishment, her hopeful jubilation. “He's dead?”

The blonde frowned hard and stared toward the garden beyond. “Yes, I trust he is.” She was still uncertain but either way, dead or exiled, he was of no consequence anymore. He would die in the Garden of Bones if he had not perished in the fire already. Her guilt bubbled away deeper still. If she had not asked Doreah to lay with the men of Qarth, perhaps none of that would have happened.

“Thank you, Khaleesi.” Her head was bowed.

Daenerys was taken aback at how small Doreah’s voice had become. She had always been sure of herself, of her powers, of her experience. At least that is how Dany had seen her. Even when pleading for her life, she had fire in her. It had been one of the reasons Dany had kept her closer than the other handmaidens. Perhaps it was due to her past, but she realised that she had been often blinded to the fact that just because a girl worked as a courtesan did not mean that she could not be devastated just the same as other women. Just the same as she herself had been.

If Xaro was indeed alive by some miracle and she ever heard of his name again, she would be certain to let Drogon at him. Burn him alive and feast on his sizzling flesh.

They did not talk anymore on the subject, allowing the day to pass with necessary tasks until dusk settled into the room and the nightbugs sang to the waxing moon. Scared of the meaning behind such a good night’s rest the night prior, and moreso the extent of the debt owed, Daenerys did not argue when Doreah took her leave that evening. Despite how she longed for the company, she could not risk what it meant to desire it so badly.

Under the shadow of navy sky and the jewelled belt of the stars above, the nightmares returned.

=}=

A blue-billed parakeet cawed loudly at her windowsill the next afternoon, and Viserion answered back with what only could amount to annoyance. If they were speaking to each other, it was unclear but the dragons were not as happy as they had been the day before. Doreah attempted to spoil them with scraps of expensive mutton she had procured at the market that morning but it was almost pointless as the squabbling amongst each other and at the noisy, unwelcome bird was making everyone restless.

Dany let out a long sigh as she brushed back her blonde fringe. “They did not sleep soundly,” she informed her handmaiden as Doreah gave up her attempts to soothe the irate lizards. Instead she took a broom and swatted at the avian visitor. It again screeched loudly at her, or the dragons, it was hard to distinguish. Eventually after a few sweeps, the parrot flew off allowing some peace and quiet, at least for the moment.

There were still questions hanging over them both and a feeling that even now, not all was put right. In a bid to distract herself, Doreah appeared to immerse herself in the care of the dragons, arranging and rearranging their nests, toasting lamb over a hot candle, or singing quietly the words of lullabies Dany had never been lucky enough to hear.

Eventually, it had to break. As she walked by, pretending to be busy, Daenerys reached out quickly and grabbed ahold of Doreah’s wrist, pulling her to a standstill. They said nothing to each other for what felt like ages. Not until Dany pulled her down to sit alongside her on the bed. A question that had plagued her since Doreah had first hinted at her preoccupation with the winged animals finally broke free.

“Why is it that you love my dragons so?”

A long period of silence passed as Doreah considered the question. It had been something she had asked herself many times after being woken from dreams of dragons and fire. It was also a fascination no one in Lys had ever bothered to inquire about, even when Yvessa found her scribbling disproportioned winged-beasts in the prized books of the lord of the house. A beating had sufficed instead. Since then she had slowly come to realise precisely why she was enamored to such a degree. It was simple. “They are free.”

The blonde smirked at the reasoning. “That is all?”

“You ask me that as if freedom is something common as dirt, Khaleesi.” Even now, something as simple as freedom was hard to come by, especially when a girl is sold to a pillow house at nine years of age. Doreah could not shake the minor irritation she felt from Dany’s bemusement. “It is so much more rare, and far more precious. And, at its best, it is the very essence of power. Dragons are that in real form.” Her smile lit up with the thought.

Dany laughed lightly. “Really, Doreah. Where do you come up with these ideas?” She had always enjoyed Doreah’s tendency to wander off into strange worlds of imagination and philosophical meanderings but sometimes she did not understand. “Freedom is everywhere. You just need to take it.”

“That is easy for you to say. You have the blood of dragons.” She had not meant for her voice to ring so sharply, nor for her to overstep the tenuous boundaries that had been established. Daenerys recognised this as well and bristled in response. Yet she said nothing.

The truth was that the word “free city” was a misnomer in many ways. Free from an established king it may be, but Lys was not free at its core. Slaves were just as common as anywhere else, and prostitutes had very little sway above that of a slave, especially in a city practically over-run with pleasure houses. They were almost an expendable commodity – unless a women was exceptionally talented and beautiful, and for Doreah she had been lucky in that regard. She knew what weapon she possessed, and she brandished it skillfully without remorse but even that could only get her as far as a man was willing to allow. For those souls who had not inherited the spirit of free dragons, the bondage was inescapable. Perhaps that is where her admiration had begun. Doreah had watched carefully as Daenerys grew into her title, into her own power. It had been gradual at first but with birth of the dragons, their very life infused hers with both fervor and direction. What had been perhaps a pipe dream of ruling Westeros became a growing reality. How could anyone doubt that dragons did represent strength? And Daenerys herself personified that to Doreah. She was undoubtably taken with her, her admiration only overshadowed by her affection.

Part of her wished to be Daenerys. To have that freedom and unbridled raw strength growing inside every waking day would have meant certain escape from the bondage of her life in Lys. She watched with keen interest everything that her khaleesi did, because if she could learn even just a little, it may be enough. Choosing to stay by her side had been the first step and she did not regret it. Not even now.

Finally, Daenerys broke the silence. “You do not need dragons to have strength. Many men have never even seen one and yet they are very powerful. Doreah, you have it too. Strength and freedom. I have seen it. You proved it to me by protecting them,” she said simply and gestured toward Drogon. It was true, it appeared to have taken much will and courage.

The handmaid could not withhold her response. “It's all false. Not much more than a mask.” Her tone was almost cross, tired and perhaps defeated.

“What is it exactly that is bothering you so?” Dany was not without insight. She sensed that something remained unsaid. It would be a gamble to be honest but Doreah could see no other way out. The slight irritation that was beginning to pique the blonde’s normally composed casual disposition was causing friction and her own resentment was starting to crawl through every pore despite her best attempts to retain it.

It had to be said. Dany had once told her that dragons were never afraid. If she was going to start anywhere, it may as well be here.

“Khaleesi…” She second-guessed herself momentarily before plunging in. “You gave me my freedom, then took it away.”

The involuntary bluster of self-defense took hold immediately as a severe frown crossed Dany’s lips, her jaw setting hard against the assault. She no doubt could feel the sharp accusation like a knife and steeled herself appropriately. “That is not true!”

The khaleesi’s voice took on the distinct timbre of a petulant child caught out in a lie, and Doreah was reminded again of how young she really was beneath the bravado of dragon fire and blood.

“On the Red Waste, after Khal Drogo’s death, you set us all free. Until that point, I had been a whore playing at being a handmaiden. Your brother had made that abundantly clear.” She paused, not out of respect for the dead but because the memory of that precise moment always caught her in a wave of powerlessness and shame. It had made her feel worthless, and continued to. All the illusions she had created about her status and skill turned to humiliation, all her fantasies she had entertained about prestige dissolved into black. She had never spoken of it to Daenerys but that did not make it hurt any less. “Then you gave us all the choice –and I had never had a real choice of my own before– and I was able to leave that behind. I chose a new purpose. No more strange men every night. No longer did I have to convince myself that being raped daily --for years on end-- was the occupation I desired, lavish as Lys was. You gave me a life I had only dreamed of, one I never thought I would have. I was free.”

“And so you remain, Doreah.” Dany’s voice was firm, but her eyes reflected a curiousity alongside a sheen of guilt perhaps at the slowly blossoming understanding behind Doreah’s words.

The brunette shook her head against the words from Dany’s lips. “No, Khaleesi. The moment I was told to lie with men for the sake of gathering gossip, I realised that I no longer could claim freedom from that life.”

Dany still fought against the understanding of the idea, more adamantly this time. “You made no complaint,” she returned resolutely, clearly recalling the shared, knowing smiles and easy acquiescence of her request. What Dany had not seen was the strength it took to force those, the habitual delusions that had immediately sprung to mind to conceal her feelings even from herself. She especially failed to realise the fact that had Daenerys wished, Doreah would have let all of Qarth take her without outward complaint, as long as it pleased the Khaleesi.

“Would I refuse the wishes of my Khaleesi?” She glanced at Daenerys eyes for some speck of comprehension. She could tell that the frustration was building with the lack of it. “I did it as your handmaiden, but I was still nothing but a whore. You dressed me in nice gowns and sent me out to be disrobed by men whose names and deeds are meaningless. For your gain, not my own.”

Finally, after a drawn out silence, Dany nodded, her eyes slipping closed. “I didn't realise it was something you would mind.”

Those words cut more deeply than perhaps anything else had thus far and Doreah struggled to keep her voice even as to not betray the pain behind her face. “Because to you, I may be your willing servant, but I am also still the slave you were given; I am still a carnal daughter of Lys.” She knew she was taking a risk talking so freely and honestly about the khaleesi but the devastating feeling that she had never truly left the pleasure house loosened her tongue and lowered her inhibitions. She had always been granted slightly more leniency than the other handmaidens.

Daenerys seemed to have no rebuke. She swallowed the charge yet refused to meet Doreah’s gaze. When no response came, Doreah rose slowly, prepared to take her leave. It would be a welcome reprieve. Dany finally tilted her face up to study the girl before her curiously. The words had obviously been understood now and Doreah wanted to interpret the silence as an apology since she knew one would never be forthcoming. It was not the way. An apology to a servant simply never happened. Unfortunately, the dream was broken as Daenerys did not allow her to flee.

“What of it then when you provide me with the same service? Is that an insult to your honour as well?” The tone was harsh, sarcastic almost; the recrimination clear. She was attempting to call her bluff, or perhaps some species of hypocrisy. It was already out of line to have called Dany out so she stopped, turned and bowed apologetically.

“No. Quite the opposite, Khaleesi.”

“Doreah! Just – just stop,” she bellowed exasperated, and the sudden sound shocked Doreah into stillness. “Speak honestly. Speak to me as my friend, not as my servant. Your anger, your pain. Is that why you stole my dragons?”

The notion that it had all been motivated by vengeance had not occurred to the handmaiden. Not consciously, at least. It had some potential for truth in the ugliest sort of repressed way. If she felt truthful, it was not outside the realm of possibility, as some unbidden, unrecognized revenge for the disgrace and injury she had felt. The long period of quiet that followed the question was enough to realise that it was being considered. Doreah could do nothing but bite down on her lower lip and wince. She did not feel able to assuredly deny the suggestion not accept it. “That was never my intention. If it was, I was not aware and did not mean it to be.”

Dany’s lips creased closed in an unhappy line, anger slowly burning beneath her fair skin. “You endangered my dragons for the sake of your pride?”

Despite her namesake, Daenerys Stormborn was sunshine personified, capable of lighting up a dark room when she shone, warming a hopeless heart with her determination, or flashing a blinding glare across the eyes of foolish men who dared cross her. But even more so, she burned. Hotter than any star, her heat scalded the unwary and boiled the unkind. The sunlight could give life or it could take it away. It was all about intensity.

Doreah considered this knowledge to be invaluable for many people underestimated the mother of dragons. But she also knew the one thing perhaps only one other person ever experienced: the flame of intimate passion within Daenerys. It was mostly hidden, tended to only in secrecy and only with her now. In the night’s cloak when the world around them cooled, Doreah was certain the moon reflected Dany’s light, not the other way around. At times like those, desire was the only spark needed.

However, the night was not offering refuge from the heat of day at the moment. There was no balance, and such a spark could easily be found in anger and quickly burn out of control. Hot temper came from hot blood. She had no response that would please the khaleesi, especially since she was not entirely aware of her own feelings on the matter. It had not been pride per se, but something else. Pride was superficial, a clever disguise for other secret inadequacies. Her feeling that day --whatever it had been-- had ached much deeper in her soul than pride could ever dare reach.

The conversation disintegrated substantially in a few short seconds and Doreah knew there was nothing more to say that could reverse the downward direction. She shook her head silently against the accusation and lowered herself to a kneel, head bowed in submission, shadowing her self from the sun. It appeared to appease Daenerys as she did not repeat the question, did not demand an answer and the silence granted a sort of reprieve. In fact, she did not utter a word before rising from her place on the bed and walking quietly to Doreah who was surprised to feel a warm hand be laid on her head. “I never considered any alternates and that was my mistake, just as it is to snap at your with false accusations of motivation.” Doreah remained frozen and afraid to make any move. “You are all I have left.” Her princess’ voice was weak and full of sorrow. There was much Doreah could say to argue, especially reminding her of Ser Jorah and the dragons but it would not be necessary. “Rise.”

Doing as she was told, the Lysene girl stood upright, face to face but hurriedly trying to quell the nerves in her stomach. There was something in the other girl’s eyes that belayed a barely restrained threat. But it was not of the destructive kind, just a dare for truth.

Dany tilted her head to the side. “Tell me, Doreah, when you come to my bed, would you do it if I was not your Khaleesi?”

The question was remarkably dangerous both in its naïvety and its answer. It was the true test. Without titles and power, without duty or responsibility, would it be the same? Would she still lavish her attention so eagerly, so desiring to please? It had been only three times, and whether the request had been borne from loneliness or frustration, it had not mattered to Doreah. It was not like the pleasure houses even if she received absolutely nothing in return. Dany had not offered any kisses or soft touches. Not even a word of thanks. She had only given restrained cries of relief as she had gripped Doreah’s hair in her fists and lurched her hips up for release. But none of that had mattered strangely enough and did not make Doreah feel like she had for most of her life. Instead, it had made her happy. That was precisely what made it far too risky.

Yet, Doreah’s answer came swift and sure. “Yes.” She did not expound on her answer. The single syllable said enough on its own. A declaration of love comes in many forms, and some of which cannot be said outright but are understood all the same.

=}=

END OF PART II.
PART III >>

[fic] AFTERBURN: part i [dany/doreah]; r

doreah — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 00:41:09 GMT

A F T E R B U R N (betrayal is the one thing that brings me to my knees)
yeskhaleesi (aka Eskimo Jo)

Summary: In the fallout of the theft of her dragons, Daenerys finds another traitor in her midst. She and Doreah are forced to confront what that means, and themselves at the same time.
Pairing/Characters: Daenerys Targaryen/Doreah
Rating: R – some violence, adult situations, rape.
Warnings: Spoilers up to 2x06, but I do assume you have a vague idea what happens when Dany visits the House of the Undying. This picks up after that.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or Game of Thrones. No money is being made.
Notes: I’m a bit of a noob here so forgive any glaring inaccuracies. I have very little idea what happens in the books. I’m basing this on the TV series, cos… well, I’m obsessed with Roxanne Mckee, and that’s what I know.
Fanmix: here & here
Download: PDF (This is bound to be updated/replaced as I read it over and fix things. But for the time being, have my draft.) NOTE: It's come to my attention that there are some tense issues (especially in later chapters). I've tried to fix what I found here, but the PDF still contains them. Forgive me. This was my first go at writing in past tense in quite a while, actually. Damn you and your tempting ways, simple present tense!

afterburn: The period of time before a past event is assimilated; in transactional psychology, it is the effect an atypical past event continues to exert on a person’s daily schedule, activities and mental state even after it is over: to ‘those occasions when it disturbs normal patterns for an appreciable period, rather than being assimilated into them or excluded from them’.

=}=

“Leave her.”

The words were laced with ice and poison, quiet and vicious. So unlike the fire-blooded woman they had come from. There was a finality that was unfamiliar, a cold indifference betrayed only by the sheer anger behind it. It was unsettling in its unfamiliarity. The girl on her knees closed her eyes slowly and her bowed head fell even further down.

Ser Jorah glanced once more, disdain and confusion on his face, at the slave girl tethered to the post in this deserted, dark corner of Qarth. He said nothing, made no plea on her behalf because to him, it was assumed there was nothing worth saving. The princess --the Khaleesi-- turned slowly, eyes narrowed and burning with rage and motioned for the knight to pick up her beloved dragons. Their weeping screeched through the fabric covering their makeshift carriers and Daenerys winced in tandem with Doreah as Drogon’s discernible cry bounced off the stone walls around them, desperate in its urgency.

They stepped further away; Drogon cried out again. Doreah remained, bound with rough rope to the goat post. The night was cold in a desert, even within the confines of a city and Qarth, despite its superficial beauty, was no exception to the laws of nature. The falling of darkness cast deeper shadows across pathways and flickers of firelight bounced off objects as they took on traits more like dancing demons than comforting illumination. She could feel the violent cascade of a shivers down her spine, more than once.

“Khaleesi!” The plea, excruciating in its frequency, echoed high above what normally escaped from any slave’s mouth, except when beaten or raped. But there was only a momentary pause from the khaleesi, just a brief second of hesitation before her shoulders set more firmly and she continued on, as far away as possible from the traitor that had once been a trusted confidant.

“I was trying to protect them,” she whimpered as Dany rounded a corner and faded from sight.

=}=

The previous days had been terrible and terrifying at once, and considering the scope of her life from the age of nine onwards, that was a particularly depressing concept. There first had been the men: their sweaty palms, greasy foreheads and brutish touches. Not just one, three at once. Despite all her experience, she had been removed from this world for long enough to forget, and now was left raw and nauseated by the end. Her only respite had come in the form of their complete lack of interest afterwards during which she took her escape. Then came the warlock, with his disgusting blue lips and slimy fingers as he announced his even more unpalatable proposition, the one that made the sick rise up and her heart plummet. The knowledge from the other men had been valuable but she had no time to relay it in its entirety --not in front of Irri-- before Daenerys had been once again whisked off to high-ranking lords of Qarth to plead her case over ships and armies. In the end, she hadn’t really been given a choice at all by he slithering warlock. Even though she had nodded in solemn agreement, it may as well have been called kidnapping. Her only other option had been death.

Then the bloodbath had come. She refused to watch, refused to listen to the screams of her Dothraki friends as their lives drained from them. Then came her participation: the theft of her khaleesi’s own children. She remembers choking on bile as she stepped over Irri’s strangled, lifeless body to snatch the young dragons and force them into the small, flimsy cages that Pyat Pree had already constructed, far in advance of even their arrival at Qarth. The remnants of her new family lay scattered around the courtyard, slain without remorse and without a second thought. The dragons had been restless, thrashing in their pitiful cages. As she carried them off, Drogon screamed too, terrified and anguished.

Xaro had been waiting at the location she had arranged with the warlock. His eyes gleamed like glass stones, unfeeling and almost transparent. Empty. He had led her to the vault, roughly pushed her inside, unconcerned with the welfare of the little dragons she was carrying. After an order to put them on the table, he had taken her, one large hand across her mouth as she weakly struggled against him, against her own guilt. His eyes still twinkled as he came, but hollow and glassy as ever. He had not been gentle but at least he had been as uninterested as the other Qarth men in the aftermath, allowing her to quickly pull down her skirts and try to will away the searing pain. Without even a farewell, the vault slammed shut and she glanced at its sparsity. No riches. No jewels, no wealth. It was populated merely with crates of grain, spices and a small area with rotting meat and a bowl of foul-looking water. A few candles glowed, their shadows dancing across the speckled walls. She wondered if perhaps she would suffocate in this tomb.

Being a prisoner had not been what she agreed to. A slave perhaps, but not a prisoner. When the khaleesi had ordered her to please the men of Qarth in exchange for information, this was not what she had envisioned. Above ground, Xaro would be meeting her soon, telling her lies and soon she would return to her quarters to see the massacre. Would she even notice what was missing other than her dragons?

Doreah had sat awake through the night, whispering tenderly to the young dragons.

“Dracarys, dracarys,” she commanded urgently, yet as gently as possible as she placed the least rotten cubes of goat between the bars. Drogon, exhausted as he was, cooked the meat for himself and managed to get Viserion to help a little too; he was really the one taking care of his siblings. She ate none.

Without the key to the cages, she could only offer a finger to soothe them. There was nothing she could do to relieve their shivering in the cold cellar. She had sworn to protect them. Her choice had been to steal them or die, and her belief was that one their own they too would surely perish. Pyat Pree had no knowledge about them. Would they even eat for him? Would they stress themselves to an early death? The warlock would have taken them by force regardless, which would have ultimately resulted in the last of dragons, perhaps in the entire world, going extinct in these catacombs. Her thoughts and her decision had not been to save her own life, for of what worth was it? But the dragons? Daenerys? Their future was worth her sacrifice.

It had seemed so noble at the time.

The days blended together into nothing but pitiful attempts at comforting the dragons and trying not to go mad in the silence of her makeshift, solitary prison. Three days later, like he had everyday since stealing the dragons, Xaro returned, his wet grunts in her ear unable to completely over-power the crying of the dragons in their cages as they witnessed the power of greed and evil once again. She lay motionless and quiet until he rose, demanded her to rise as well and gather the dragons. She did so gingerly, feeling the hot dribble of liquid down her leg. She hoped it was not what she suspected it to be. Xaro paid her dawdling no heed, instead acting as if he had just given her a flute of refreshing wine instead of making her scream in agony. He was more interested in his real investment. A cursory glance to the plate of meat and then inside the cages assured him that they were being taken care of, as was the agreement.

“You take care of them, I take care of you,” he rumbled as he slammed the vault door behind them. “Just the way you like.” A smirk crossed his lips as if he were pleased with his own wit, stroking her breast with impunity. Her eyes lowered, as was the custom, the expectation.

The walk to the House of the Undying was unremarkable except in the overwhelming feeling of expounding dread settling deeper and deeper into her bones with every step closer. It was a confused structure, ruins making it all the more difficult to navigate as Pyat Pree and Xaro –a fist in her hair yanking her along-- lead her through doors and corridors, chambers and tunnels. Her skin crawled non-stop throughout the ordeal, only occasionally overwhelmed by the burn of torn flesh between her thighs as she moved. The dragons remained eerily quiet within the confines of the House, as if suffocated by fear. If it could incite such paralysing terror even in a dragon, she worried how the khaleesi would fare when the time came for her to rescue her dragons, and the time would come. Of that she was certain. She was handed a plate of much nicer meat, fresh lamb this time and Pyat Pree smiled his toothless, blue grin as he watched in as she fed them. This time she merely mouthed the words to urge Drogon to singe his food; her voice remained trapped within her throat.

They had not told her she would be separated from the dragons until some men came to wrestle her away, bind her wrists behind her back and drag her out of this chamber of the dragons. The dragons screamed then, sorrowfully and long.

It had not been a well-travelled section of the city they carried her to but nothing around the House of the Undying was. Down a twisting alley was a yard normally kept for goats. They unbound her wrists only to tie her to a post with thicker ropes, and a shackle and chain around her ankle for good measure. One of the men stared down on her, his blue smile gleaming forebodingly in the late afternoon sun. She opened her mouth to scream, hoping that perhaps someone would hear. But before the sound escaped there was a rough hand tugging on her hair, practically ripping it from her scalp. The man looked at it with a smirk of warning. He first attempted to gag her with his cock, snickering at the beginning as she choked helplessly on the taste as he forced himself further into her. But when she bit down, a string of obscenities erupted forth followed by heavy fist across her jaw from his companion. A dense ball of tattered sheep’s wool was stuffed in its place. The smell made her stomach turn, and was made far worse by the taste of feces on her tongue. Tears gathered in response and she squeezed her eyes closed to prevent it. A swift kick came in suddenly; she did not know which man had done it. It did not matter, but her lungs heaved with the effort of breathing and a bitter soreness radiated through her abdomen. The men laughed with their blue tongues hanging out like dogs, and left her to burn under the high sun. The tears began to fall as her jaw began to swell, she could do nothing but wait and hope. She had no doubt that Xaro would return come nightfall, drag her back to his illusory vault of riches. But that was not the rescue she yearned for. All she could smell was fire.

It was unclear how much time had passed between that moment and when Ser Jorah came charging up to the goat pen, sword raised in suspicion. Hours? Days? Her teal blue eyes had sprung tears again, not from pain or taste but rather the lack of complete distrust on his face. A rough hand ripped the wool from her mouth and she gasped for fresh air as the agony from the bruising on her face flared up again. She met his eyes. They were clouded with confusion. On the periphery seemed to be accusation as well. Any hope she had been holding onto began to dissolve with his expression, and then disappeared completely when she saw Daenerys rushing up to his side, clearly exhausted but with pure rage still pouring from her skin. Behind her were the remaining Dothraki warriors with her dragons, safe and sound. Her hand reached out to pull Ser Jorah back. It was her betrayal to face. He waved away the Dothraki and stepped over to the dragon cages, guarding them vigilantly as Doreah had failed to do.

The khaleesi said nothing as the former slave clambered onto her knees, tangled in chains and twine. She said nothing still when tears escaped Doreah’s eyes. She gazed down unflinching to the upturned, sniveling face of her handmaiden. Her posture was tense, her teeth clenched. That much was visible. Less noticeable and much more ephemeral was the flicker of despair in her lavender eyes. That was where betrayal comes in. At the eyes.

“Khaleesi,” Doreah began, a sob choking her speech and her lip cracking from the earlier hit. She tasted sour iron on her tongue. “It was not–”

“Silence. I will not hear it.”

“Please, Khaleesi, I–”

“I said silence. You stole my dragons. You endangered their lives and my life, my very future. For what purpose?” She paused but before the handmaiden could offer a reason, Daenerys continued. “I have seen your true self, Doreah, daughter of the whores of Lys. You have always wanted my dragons for yourself but I hope what wealth you were promised was worth the price of this.” Disregarding the way her voice crackled, Daenerys gestured slackly around the dusty yard. “This is all you will ever see again.”

Any cries were ignored, and her feeble attempt at stammering out a plea in between the wrack of sobs was of no use. Dany had no desire to entertain anything other than the sharp sting of broken trust. Doreah looked to Ser Jorah. Surely he would see that there was far more to the story than careless treason. She could hear Drogon wail from within his carrier. It mimicked her own cry. Her attempt was not completely in vain as he moved towards her but again, the princess put out her arm, holding his progress.

“Leave her.”

=}=

The licking flames of hatred had long extinguished themselves in the seeping cold of the desert night. It had been hours, many hours in fact, from the moment she turned her back on her only remaining handmaiden. Qarth was in upheaval and she was on the verge of securing herself a place amongst its elite. It was so undesirable now, she could not fathom how only days ago it had been her only goal. The visions from the House of the Undying haunted her each time she attempted to shut her eyes. So after staying awake, feeding and tending to her anxious and trembling children until they fell asleep in her arms, she resigned herself to sitting silently and watching the flame of her night candle slowly move through the melting wax. Nothing could keep the visions at bay yet she yearned not to see them any longer. Even just the thoughts of them were hurtful and upsetting. Relaxation itself was impossible, even in this more secure accommodation, no small part in thanks to Jorah’s insistence on increased security. The Qarth women of the house that she had asked to help her with her evening routine were clumsy and too desperate to please. She ended up sending them away before they had fully finished. Now her blonde hair remained tangled around her ears, the braids falling loosely.

She glanced at the spot on the floor where her dear Irri died a violent and lonely death. She could not even mourn properly with so much left undone, the dull stain of blood still visible even in the small amount of moonlight that filtered in through her thin curtains. Reminders everywhere of her loss; senseless loss. A horrifying loss. Her Irri, who had chosen even once freed to stay beside her. She had been one of the last reminders and defenders of Khal Drogo, the man who was still her sun and stars. The memory of her Khal, and their love was yanked further and further away with each day. The prickle of salt tears grasped at the corners of her eyes and she had to shake her head and breathe deeply to rid herself of the temptation.

– A khaleesi does not cry. A queen does not cry.

For a brief moment, she took in a sharp breath in order to call out for company, for reassurance. The name caught in her throat before she could utter a sound. Doreah. Her teeth found her tongue and clenched down until it bled. The taste of iron reminded her why her servant was not there any longer.

There was a softening however. As the sudden surge of betrayal rose and fell, the void it left behind began to fill with something else entirely. Doubt. It weakened her resolve piece by piece, picking away at the assurance that she had clung to so adamantly. The fire reignited weakly, but instead of finding its fuel in the passion of anger, it smoldered lost within the thick smog of guilt, of remorse. Her blood warmed as her hands ached to hold on to something real, something that would not be taken from her once again. Her grasp on anything but her dragons was always so fleeting, and even that --as she was learning-- was tenuous at best. The world wants what it can take; it easily takes what she cannot hold onto.

Her thoughts began to deviate, zipping through her memory to her husband, her impossibly strong Dothraki stallion, and how easily even love itself could be stolen away. How easily she tossed life away for empty promises and misdirections. Her mind would not rest any longer.

“Ser Jorah!” she called out into the quiet night. She tried again, even as she heard his heavy footfalls frantically racing up the stairs to her. Her impatience was only rivaled by her impetus.

“Khaleesi,” he acknowledged gruffly as he noted that she was already out of bed and pulling on a heavy coat. “What is it?”

She did not immediately answer his query. Instead she threw a blanket over her sleeping dragons. “Wake the guards. Tell them to come here at once. They will keep watch over my dragons until I return.” Her voice was insistent and grave. “Then you will accompany me to the House of the Undying.”

The objections were clear on his lined face but he made no attempt to voice them aloud. She would not be dissuaded; to try would be a waste of effort. Soon after, a throng of the strongest men she had at her disposal arrived. They would not be sleeping anymore that night. She offered them the fruits leftover on her table and her gratitude before rushing out of the suite, her knight close behind.

= } =

The night was bitterly cold away from the hearths and warm stone of the richer houses. Twice she tripped over beggars huddled shivering in crevices, hiding from the chill in shadows. Both times they paid her no mind and Ser Jorah had no need to even unsheathe his sword. The silence and calm of the abandoned streets felt eerie, as if even in night, Qarth should be alive and vibrant. But the House of the Undying was far from the Night Market. A wild dog leapt out in their path, a menacing growl erupting from deep within its throat. The dragon princess merely stared. She could not meet its stare in the darkness of the shadowed street but no less, she stood her ground. It eventually moved off, the growl never ceasing for as long as she could hear it.

Qarth was a labyrinth in the daylight; at night, it seemed to be a never-ending tomb. Having never been to these areas at so late an hour, her disorientation quickly set in. Even with Jorah’s assistance, what began as a determined march devolved into a tentative search. However, the closer they seemed to come, the more disjointed was the rhythm of her slowing footsteps with that of her ever-increasing heartbeat.

The ruins suddenly loomed over them as if they had just jumped out of the darkness, juxtaposed to the clean lines of all the other city buildings around them. They were made even darker by her previous visit when Drogon had scorched the building nearly to its foundation. Even in destruction, it glowed red as the embers swallowed up light gusts of breeze in the night. Ser Jorah’s hand reached for the hilt of his sword out of sheer reflex. When she made no move to enter the structure, he realised what she had actually come back for. With the distinctive features ingrained already in his mind, he guided her gently around the side of the ruins and towards her goal.

“This way, Khaleesi.”

His voice fell to a low rumble. “You have doubts.”

The young woman stopped abruptly. “What of it?” Her gaze narrowed on her advisor as if expecting rebuke for her hot-headed reactions earlier in the day. No such thing happened. He merely shook his head.

“So do I, that is all.” He stepped out ahead of her, avoiding eye contact.

The goat pen and its inhabitant may have been easily missed by any other passerby. It was eerily dark in the narrow alleys and the moonlight offered very little reprieve. The figure sat hunched against a wall, motionless, legs drawn up to her chest and arms resting over her knees. Her head was cradled in them. Forgetting herself, Daenerys rushed forward, snapping the wooden gate in her haste and fell to her knees beside the girl she had abandoned that evening.

“Doreah,” she said, her voice soft but agitated. The heartbeat that had been speeding up earlier was pounding furiously now as she placed a warm hand on her handmaiden’s arm. It was sticky, cold. The pale white of her skin offered enough contrast that even in the dim light, she could tell it was blood.

There had already been far too much unnecessary blood shed. The fire flared up inside her chest. “Jorah!”

He had been standing respectfully at the gate, having learnt long ago that when Daenerys was with her handmaids —especially Doreah— she had to be given privacy.

He sprinted forward, covering the distance in a few long steps. There was no need to tell him the situation as he glanced down at the blood-covered hands of his Khaleesi. Leaning forward with his torch, they could see the extent of the injury: jagged wounds slicing her forearm. A dog. Or a daemon. Rope burns inflamed the skin further down. A struggle had happened. He could not see her face but he assumed the bruises he had seen on her face earlier were darker now.

Leaning down, Ser Jorah ran a hand through the handmaiden’s tangled locks, as soft as one would do for a small child. His posture relaxed in defeat at another life lost.

“Your sword.”

Broken from the moment, the knight stared at Dany with an unvoiced question on his face.

“Hand me your sword,” she repeated gravely in almost a whisper. Her face reflected a dismal tenacity. It was much too heavy for her to wield effectively but this was not a battle any longer so he acquiesced, carefully placing the weapon in her hands. Working slowly, she attempted to slice through the rope binding Doreah to the post. He propped the torch up in a crevice in the stone. It would have been much faster for Jorah to do it but this appeared to be something she was intent on doing herself. There was something sadly regal about the gesture and he bowed his head and waited.

There was shuffling and a grunt and he looked up to see Daenarys with the sword alongside her head. Expecting the worst and fearing her mad with grief, he lunged forward. Sensing his actions already, she scrambled out of the way and held the sword again to her head, one loose braid hanging outside it.

“I have no right to wear such braids in my hair. I have no valour. I have had no victories. Khal Drogo deserved his bells and braids for he was a true warrior and king.” Dany’s voice trembled with the pain of her confession yet valiantly tried to withhold the tears on the edges of her eyes. “Mine are false victories!” Clumsily, she pulled down on the sword, straining her hair before it gave way, a frayed mess left over, a hint of her father’s madness sneaking out in her dishevelled appearance. With the braid having been attached to the other side, she had no more purchase to cut the other braid opposite.

“Ser Jorah,” she commanded, holding out his sword and turning her back to him. “The other one.” Without argument, he easily did as she ordered and the tied braids fell to the ground at her feet. It was a terrible sight. A princess with no pride left, no hope.

“You still have your dragons. You still have wars to win yet, a throne to rightfully reclaim,” he reminded her softly. “It is far from over.”

She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping. “It has far from begun and already I have lost so much.” Dany’s gaze fell to Doreah, still cold and motionless against the wall. “More than I can bear.”

Jorah moved closer, sheathing his weapon and pulling her towards him. “You are a Targaryen. Mother of dragons.” Her face found warmth against his chest as his arms encircled her protectively, but hers remained at her sides, limp with defeat. “You will rise again,” he whispered forcefully in her ear.

She said nothing in response as she could not think of a thing she wanted to say that would prove him right. Instead she stifled a sob, swallowing it before it could escape and squirmed from Jorah’s warm hold. Defiance set across her face once again.

She gestured to the chain. “I want her freed.”

Shaking his head, Jorah could only tell her that a sword could not break a chain that thick. It would have to wait until morning when they could procure a key or axe. He withheld the alternative option. Desecrating the body of her last handmaiden would serve no good.

Her blonde hair swung wildly as she dismissed his objections. “No. No, I will not leave her here for the dogs!” Daenerys promptly took a seat beside Doreah’s body. “I will stay. You will return to my dragons. At first light, bring me an axe.”

“Khaleesi…” His voice held grave warning.

“Yes, I am your khaleesi and you shall do as I command.” He glanced up at the night sky, gauging how many more hours it would be until sunrise. Perhaps it would not be very long. He reached down and pulled a dagger from his belt, holding it out for her to take.

“This is truly foolish, Princess,” he said as she took the small weapon. Her look was still confident and daring. Shaking his head, knowing al too well her stubbornness, he turned from her. “I will return at dawn.”

The wooden gate snapped into pieces as he brusquely pulled it closed after him. The darkness of Qarth devoured him and Dany was finally left alone, with only the fire of the torch to ward off the night. She squinted over at her fallen handmaiden, the guilt rising fast and thick in her lungs. Her army was becoming smaller by the day, and her friends almost completely gone. She wished for Ser Jorah to make his way back to the guesthouse without incident. She could not lose her very last friend.

Her fingers reached out tentatively to push back a lock of hair that had fallen loose from Doreah’s braid. There was no twitch of recognition and Dany realised that hope was as futile as it was absurd. It was merely a child’s fantasy.

She shifted closer, ignoring the smell of blood and dust, and lay her cheek against the stony shoulder as she had so often as they relaxed in the khalasar after long days of travel. The night seemed to go on forever.

= } =

A dog came sniffing around some time later but seemed uninterested in the figures huddled against the wall. It urinated excessively on the post and left again, the rancid smell floating over them. Dany wished she could have swung the dagger at it, slit its throat, but revenge on an innocent party for the actions of another seemed too far from her mind now. Instead she sat in silence, waiting for dawn.

“Cold.”

The voice seemed to come from elsewhere, otherworldly even. Although it was dark beyond the garden wall and she could see nothing, Daenerys looked in the direction of the House of the Undying and swallowed nervously. She had thought they had all been killed. Flashes of blue-lipped men came up before her and she gasped at how real they seemed. But then they vanished from her vision. They had been imagined.

“Cold.”

It came again, softer than before. Weaker. The khaleesi turned quickly to her deceased handmaiden, backing up in fear of the undead. That is when she saw the tremble. It was tiny, but it was new and hope flared. She knew she had not felt that before. Without thinking, she grabbed at Doreah’s hands, shoving them away from where they nested her bowed head, regardless of the wounds. She grasped at a swollen jawline with tight hands and forced the girl to face her. Eyelids flickered only briefly but it was enough. The weak corresponding groan of pain at Dany’s grip reinforced what she had thought may only have been her imagination.

“Doreah?” She had withheld tears all night but they broke free now. A queen does not cry, but Doreah had seen her in predicaments of much more helplessness than this.

Seeming to gather strength, the brunette slowly raised her own head, forcing her eyes open. “Khaleesi?” Before Daenerys could reply, Doreah began. “I am so sorry. I tried to protect…” Her speech was stuttered and fading as if it was too much of a task.

“Later,” Dany responded, choosing to keep the topic of the dragons at the wayside for the time being. “I thought you were dead.” She let out a small laugh of relief.

She had expected a smile, or least an attempted one as Doreah so often granted her but none was forthcoming and it ate a hole in her heart at the realisation. If her doubts were indeed proven correct, then it had been she who betrayed her friend, and left her to die in the slums of Qarth, no better than a stray dog. She grappled with her large coat, spreading it wide over her companion before sliding a less than cooperative Doreah forward from the stone wall. With an agility that she had not known, Daenarys wormed in behind and cradled her friend between her legs, acting as a pillow of warmth as the fire burned in her blood. Doreah eventually lay back against her chest as the bitter cold began to trickle out and was replaced with Dany’s heat. After pulling the cloak tighter over them, small arms snaked around Doreah’s abdomen, hands finally finding something to hold onto. The shivering then began more fervently as life and strength seeped back in.

They said nothing more, Doreah dozing off again but her breathing deeper and more regularly. As her head lolled to the side against Dany’s shoulder, the princess leaned down and placed a chaste kiss to her handmaiden’s ear, delighting in the minuscule twitch in response.

=}=

Dawn came slowly, but it was a welcome sight at last. Daenerys stirred first, her body stiff from being so still all night and holding such weight. However, the weight on her was not for her to complain about. It was warm and soft again. The stench on the other hand was close to unbearable. As he had promised, Ser Jorah arrived at the first break of sunlight with a very disgruntled merchant at his side. A locksmith.

Initially disgusted at Dany’s position of cradling a corpse, he realised that in fact it was no lifeless body. Making quick work of the shackle, the locksmith retreated back to his bed and Ser Jorah quickly helped both women to their feet. Doreah was still very weak from blood loss and exhaustion so he took her up in his arms with an approving khaleesi close to his side.

=}=

END PART I.
>> PART II

skins - michelle/naomi - i can't get out of love (score)

doreah — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 19:32:43 GMT

medium: tv
fandom: skins
subject: naomi campbell/michelle richardson
title: i can't get out of love
warnings: none (spoiler for the fic)
genre: dubstep, drum and bass, electro, folk-rock
notes: made for my fic of the same name. i'd meant to post this like a month ago. oh well. unlike the soundtrack, this is more atmospheric, i suppose. songs that are in the fic itself or ones that i had in mind while doing up the scenes. forgive me, i'm never really going to make a film or even score one, so this is pretty self-serving but since i had the opportunity, i had to scratch the itch and live in my pretend-i'm-a-sucessful-filmmaker-world for a while. there is an astronomy/stars/myths sort of theme. you will have to like dubstep and dnb for this, as it's at least 60% that. also, it's super mega long.

Original poster I made. Posting here ... just cos.

lyrics provided where relevant & possible.

0. sleeping at last ; timelapse
opening credits. if there were any, lol.
only the eyes of owls can be seen here;
they are the stars, they radiate.
and every constellation
that we were made to notice and navigate.

as the moon commands the tide
to balance the weight of change,
we must learn to follow all the same.
timelapse reveals a slight of hand,
it unties the rules of time and plan.
stillness is only a state of mind.

1. crizzly & kids at the bar ; like dat
it's a shit party.

2. chase & status ; madhouse (dead money remix)
naomi stresses about emily; michelle meets naomi.

3. lethal bizzle ; pop champagne (remix)
the dance.

4. don diablo ; animale ft. dragonette (datsik remix)
the spell is broken.

5. peaches ; boys wanna be her
michelle's ringtone.

6. jamie woon ; night air (ramadanman remix)
smoking outside the party with effy
only silent skies can sooth me
i control the skies above us
close my eyes to make the night fall
comfort of the world revolving
i can hear the earth in orbit

7. noah and the whale ; paradise stars
naomi tells the story of cygnus to effy

8. dj shadow ; come on riding (through the cosmos)
michelle and abigail meet again; naomi leaves.

9. active child ; you are all i see
naomi deals with her hangover and listens to effy tell a story.

10. feed me ; cloudburn ft tasha baxter
the party at roundview halls & the warehouse.
never see the sky, you live in the void
cloud burning bright, the burn feels so good

11. tori amos ; ambient raspberry swirl (scarlet spectrum remix)
naomi thinks of emily at night.
if you want inside her, well,
boy you better make her raspberry swirl
everybody knows i'm her man
raspberry swirl, you go inside her world

12. jessie ware & sampha ; valentine
jj teaches naomi about physics; naomi quizzes jj about emily.

13. tom vek ; aroused
naomi meets up with michelle at the park.
but in your dreams you're being held
underneath the elephants in the room
you look aroused, you look awake
you are the light, turned on

14. bullion ; crazy over you
the girls smoke a spliff in the park.

15. saint saviour ; some things change
michelle kisses naomi, then tony.
some things change and some things don’t
without reasonable force
you can’t expect nature to change its course
please be brave while they’re making waves
it takes more than that to move me, it takes more

16. bertie blackman ; baby teeth
naomi finds katie in effy's bed.
like blood, like blood it thickens
this nightmare starts to fall out of place
i'd help but I'm a bit busy
with this stranger that has run out of time
it rings a heavy warning

17. duo infernale ; playing games (seba & paradox remix)
liv & matty run into naomi at blue mountain.

18. koan sound ; trouble in the west
sketch doles out unsolicitated advice.

19. logistics ; inside my soul
maxxie meets naomi; michelle goes after katie.

20. aphrodite ; twilight
inside the club, it's going off.

21. baobinga ; ride it (untold remix)
emily thanks naomi.

22. the grates ; crying all night
emily & naomi are happy.

23. ghost ft. misty miller ; stories (dream remix)
effy leaves cryptic notes; naomi confronts her.
i'm too into you to change up my mind
i'm hearing these stories, could they be true?
i'm hearing these stories all about you.

24. wood of ypres ; ghosts of summers' past.
considering effy's reasoning.
there is a comfort in longing for
something that's gone forever
It shows how much that something meant to you
when it was here, a moment of euphoria
inspired by a photograph from that summer
those days are gone, my heart goes on

25. mount eerie ; if we knew...
the changes in emily.
our little hearts are born already ancient

26. robyn ; call your girfriend (havok dubstep remix)*
another shit party; smoking with rich.
call your girlfriend, it's time you had the talk
give your reasons, say it's not her fault
but you just met somebody new

27. the wanted ; glad you came (noir dubstep mix)*
michelle & naomi meet in the loo.
the stars come out, & all that counts
is here and now
my universe will never be the same
i'm glad you came

you cast a spell on me,
you hit me like the sky fell on me,
& i decided you look well on me,
so let's go somewhere no-one else can see, you and me

28. kerli ; army of love (grimey bastard remix)
snogging effy; effy works her magic.
i put my name on the line for love
together we'll break down the walls
this is a different kind of war
so follow me, follow me

29. paper route ; dance on our graves
naomi & michelle talk about emily & tony.
i hear something out there callin' my name.
no matter where I turn it all looks the same.
will i know it? will i know it when I see it?
will i know it? will i know it when you're here?

30. pearson sound ; blanked
anxiety attack over the news.

31. ben howard ; london
walking home.
every brick every bar, every elegance i see her face
these embers of memories that float from the fire, from the fire of this place.
it's only concrete and cars,
it's only sirens and missing stars,
it's only whiskey and disregard
in the smallest hours here, when i feel alone.

all i can do when these lights, they haunt me like orchids in a graveyard,
is just just push on, just push on through
these faces of dust & stone, the dirt & bone of loss.

32. lia ices ; new myth (tenderflex remix)
finding the star map.
stories are known to be fixed
the echo in a shadowy room
and you leave us, better told
story, let me die
get to the garden and leave
everybody outside
stories, sell me, sing
set through the trees running stream
we all know who all love and invade

33. saint saviour ; the way the world goes around
a surprise.
take all that you can see, i'm smiling inside
and all of your life will feel like a prize
no matter how bright, no matter what size
keep looking straight ahead
for your own piece of ground
cos i can do a thing about
the way your world goes round

34. angus & julia stone ; for you
end credits.
if you look real closely, you might understand
here i go, i'll tell you what you already know
if you love me, i'll make you a star in my universe

35. augustana ; counting stars
end credits (extra).
everything has a reason, everything has a start
like a rolling hurricane, nothing's standing in our way
suddenly i'm caught in your light
opened the door, and you stepped inside
i'll be waiting up, counting the stars

(*) denotes a remix that may have removed some or all of these lyrics;
they're in the original but the remix had to be used to fit the story itself.

DOWNLOAD 1 || DOWNLOAD 2
(18 tracks in each)

FIC: i can't get out of love ;; part 6

doreah — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 04:03:02 GMT

i can't get out of love (a love i had a grip on; now it's gripping me)

Author: Eskimo Jo
Rating: 18
Warning: language, sexuality, substance use.

She finds Emily amidst a group of other UWE freshers, chatting excitedly about some student union bollocks or something. The redhead takes her hand without concern about where her girlfriend has been for the last half hour. Naomi hangs on tightly for ages and watches Emily speak as she herself pounds back disgusting gin and tonics. Moreover, she sees Emily's happiness at this new life stage. Eventually she excuses herself and wanders into the front room which is currently packed with people milling about to horrible music, amongst them 3 wannabe hip-hop stars. The white guy in their crew is hilariously inept half the time as they attempt to get some sort of grimy freestyle going above all the racket. She creeps over to the staircase, leans against the banister and surveys what she can see of the party. It's so reminiscent of the last half of the year and Naomi hates it. Nothing has changed, yet everything has and it's fucking knackering to sort it all out. She catches nearby movement out of the corner of her eye and suddenly Michelle is rushing towards her, her hand grasped knuckle-whiteningly tight over Tony's. She dodges Naomi's glare and proceeds to pull Tony after her up the stairs. They're going to fuck and Naomi can finally admit that they idea is making her stomach churn and froth in disgust. She swallows down the bile and pride. They both taste remarkably sour.

She needs a cigarette badly at this point she decides and she pats down her pockets for the few she has squished in a packet somewhere. Effy materialises out of nowhere beside her and holds out a smoke as some peace offering perhaps. Her new camera is absent leaving tonight to be remembered as only blurred visions... or, hopefully, not at all.

“Cheers, Eff,” Naomi mutters and places the unlit fag between her lips, now looking for her lighter. Usually she's quite polite about lighting up in strangers' homes but right now she doesn't give a flying toss that she's in some bloke's (quite lovely) house. Another kind of smoke drifts by every so often so she doesn't see why a little carcinogenic tobacco mixed in with that would make a bloody bit of difference. Effy leans against the wall, her head falling back with a thud.

“You came,” Effy breathes and Naomi's distracted from her nicotine mission momentarily.

She shrugs. “Emily's idea.”

“You read the story?” she asks as if she already knows the answer, which she clearly does because it's Effy and she's likely orchestrated the whole thing.

Naomi nods slowly, the cigarette dangling between her lips, seemingly forgotten. “Yeah. What was– .”

Effy doesn't wait for her to ask the question before interrupting. “Run into Michelle tonight?”

Literally. “Yeah,” she says and glancing up towards the second floor where no doubt Michelle and Tony were steam-rolling each other into grotesque ecstasy. Naomi didn't mean for her voice to tremble on that single syllable, and she certainly doesn't mean for her whole body to practically catch fire at the thought of what had transpired in the loo already. She consciously steadies her breathing and catches Effy's gaze studying her apathetically. It's time like these when she wonders if Effy cares too much or rather conversely not in the least, and all of this drama is just for sport. Her completely indifferent way of gliding through life would infer a certain aloofness, a carelessness like not much bothers or interests her at all. Such as this moment when she appears almost bored. But then sometimes her obvious curiosity is piqued to the extreme and her eyes act like a hundred needles piercing skin, silently drawing out blood and secrets.

There's a hint of a smile that sneaks out of Effy's mouth after a long pause. “Glad you came.”

She wonders then how much has happened in the weeks that she'd been curled up on the sofa with Ems. Effy's oddly calm for the setting. While she's not a big talker, there's always a certain energy that she exudes at parties and nights out; a sort of high-frequency magnetism that draws boys and girls to her like flies. Her eyes are always larger, her ears are tuned to excitement and promises of chemical freedom. Today, she's softened. A little dissociated perhaps. Probably the result a few too many downers. She rolls her head back and forth against the wall, sighing again. She seems tired, and not just worn out from the party life but more like bone-deep fatigued by life itself. Giving up on her search for her lighter, Naomi plucks the cigarette from her mouth, slips it into a pocket carefully and moves to stand beside her best mate. She takes her hand gently.

“I love you, Eff,” Naomi sighs and off Effy's non-reaction behind closed eyes, she pushes. “Like proper love, you know?”

Effy squints then, simply raises a sceptical eyebrow and regards Naomi coolly. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small baggy containing 7 off-white caplets, quite obviously MDMA, and counts them slowly. Twice. As if she expects some to be missing. Then her eyes narrow and she smirks at her friend twitching uncomfortably beside her.

“Everyone loves me,” she says, almost a grimace as her blue eyes seem to glisten and she looks away, up at the dark ceiling. It would be quite cocky if Effy didn't look so pained as she says it.

“Fuck off,” Naomi admonishes with a half-laugh, wiling for once just to be taken seriously. Like Emily used to do. “I mean it.”

Effy sighs, her shoulders heaving with the effort and her gaze distant. She sniffs but Naomi can't be sure if it's due to some leftover ketamine caked to the inside of her nostrils or if her normally detached mate is actually a little wobbly about all of this. Eventually, after a second sniff, she turns to Naomi, her lips curving into a small, genuine smile – such a rare occurrence to see from a Stonem. “I know.” There's something in that gaze that prevents Naomi from needing to ask if the feeling is returned. Maybe it's the softness in the blue depths, the sadness and relief constantly on parade behind the mask, or maybe just that she fucking knows Effy the best anyone can hope to. Naomi has no doubt that it's requited. They don't say it, and never have until now, but it's obvious enough to them both. Effy winks and holds her hands up as if she's taking a photograph, makes a click with her tongue and smirks.

She can't explain it. Maybe it's the alcohol, the stress or perhaps Effy's up to her old tricks and there was some random happy substance slipped into her drink earlier. But regardless of the motivations or explanations, Naomi grabs Effy with two hands grasping either side of a bony face and licks her lips. She kisses Effy then, and not like those times when they'd been high at raves and just done it for the hell of it, for the sweet feeling of something against their own lips. Those were tender moments almost, borne out of some shared sense of transitory universal empathy and need for physical pleasure. No, this is much different. It's harder and desperate as Naomi presses her lips roughly against Effy. For her part, the brunette merely plays along, never getting too involved but never resisting either. Exactly the same way as she lives her life these days. (Who ever thought Effy Stonem would be predictable?) It doesn't dissuade the blonde however as she attempts a different angle; maybe that will help. She can't quite seem to grasp as hard as she wants; feeling the sharp cheek bones in her hands makes her feel like a lumbering giant. Clumsy and careless.

She reckons even despite that, it's nice... but there's something missing. There's no rush. No wind lapping against her skin. No manic sense of freedom. She pulls back, dropping her hands as if Effy's skin is suddenly scalding her palms. Effy snorts lightly and turns to stare back out at the crowd, unfazed.

“Doesn't work, does it?”

Naomi grimaces and searches around the room, hoping Emily hadn't just caught that little outburst of irrationality. Effy merely wipes a thumb along her own bottom lip, smirking, and still awaiting Naomi's no doubt snide reply.

“What?” Naomi's exchanged snide for petulant, it appears. She's playing dumb.

“Trying to force yourself to love someone else.”

The blonde can feel Effy's stare crawling over her face, studying every minuscule reaction to the words, to the meaning. She purposely looks elsewhere, unfortunately landing on a very displeased looking Katie Fitch. She'd obviously seen the the exchange. An eyebrow arches and Naomi rolls her eyes, shrugging off the silent condemnation. The ceiling has a fascinating pattern on it.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Eff.” She does, sort of. But she'd really rather not. Convincing herself that she has no clue may actually work if she wishes hard enough, she reckons. It's done so in the past. There's a playful, distinctly feminine shriek from upstairs and Naomi winces automatically.

Shit. Her cover is most definitely blown.

“Of course you don't,” Effy muses and when Naomi glances over at her mate, the brunette's looking to Katie and nodding slightly. Katie winks back and Naomi's just fucking confused. Effy pulls out her mobile and looks at the time, and almost immediately, as if on some cue, a skinny boy stumbles towards her, his mop of curly hair flopping down over one eye. He sidles up to her suggestively, a wide smirk easing over his face. He hands the brunette a cup of some sort of alcohol, grinning.

“Here you are,” he states and takes a long gulp of his own drink, knocking the thin plastic against Effy's with a dull clack. “I never did get to lay you,” he slurs. “Long time to wait, yeah? So what do you say? Old times?”

Effy blinks slowly and Naomi can't recall who this boy is but he's certainly not someone they'd been at college with. It wasn't too surprising however since Effy seemed to know the entire male population of Bristol under the age of 25. Her gaze darts to Katie who's petting some rugby bloke's thigh teasingly on the sofa. The couple both look to Effy and the lad's eyes light up.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Naomi wants to ease out of this situation, or trainwreck that she is certain is about to commence. She pushes off the wall but Effy's hand snaps out to grab her arm, stalling her progress. Yet the younger girl doesn't even look in her direction. Instead she's focused again on the boy. “Okay, Jake. I promised, didn't I?” She doesn't mention anything about underpants or Cassie, and it's probably better that way. The blonde has a terrible feeling that she's about to be persuaded into something she really would rather not do, let along think about ever in this life. Effy nods towards Katie one last time and the twin rises, tugging her new toy along with her and make their way to Effy. His rugby shirt reads Levan on the backside.

An orgy is just about the last thing Naomi can contemplate at the moment. Michelle's upstairs screwing the shit out of Tony and Effy wants to have an orgy in the room next door? Her stomach heaves with the thought. Frankly, fucking Effy, Katie or either of these blokes (or multiple combinations of) is just too much to handle. Where in sodding hell is Emily? Her eyes scan the room for her girlfriend to no avail. Effy pushes Jake up the stairs after Katie and her man, pausing only to turn to Naomi. Her hand finally drops and the sullen girl lets out a sigh of relief.

“Wait here.” Without further explanation, Effy heads up the staircase after Jake and Katie. Naomi has no bleeding idea what she's even supposed to be waiting for and minutes pass without event. She sips her near empty drink. There's a lot of sound coming from above and the unbidden image of Katie and Effy's little foursome of fun invades her imagination. She shudders in response and tries to think of anything but that. It would be wonderful if that other thing could, for once, be her actual girlfriend who appears to have been abducted by aliens or something. She's nowhere to be found lately.

Suddenly there's a flurry of movement above and another shrill cry from one of the bedrooms. Interest piqued, Naomi gazes up the dim staircase trying to discern what's happening. She can hear Tony yell after Michelle, but he sounds amused more than anything. The blonde jumps slightly when Michelle appears out of thin air and comes stomping down the steps at a reckless pace. Her mascara is smeared and she wipes angrily at her eyes as she passes, hissing, “Don't start,” at Naomi before fleeing into the crowd of people.

A sharp whistle catches Naomi's attention and her head snaps up to the railing and peers up, making Effy's silhouette out in the shadows, down to her bra – and knickers presumably. A small baggy with what appears to be white powder dangles from her fingers and Naomi has to resist the urge to scoff as a bit spills carelessly out, sparkling, floating down like angel dust. Before she has the chance, Effy speaks, her words sharp and quiet despite the noise in the house.

“You're not an immovable object, Naomi.”

Then she melts back into the darkness above as if she was never really there at all.

The world around Naomi crackles and snaps. As if stepping from a fog, all the sounds become deafening in their intensity, all the shouts and murmurs of everyone else are clear and her vision, once clouded and indistinct, paints vivid pictures of her surroundings. It's altogether terrifying. Too loud, too bright, too intense. She flees in the general direction Michelle had gone and in the process pushes through a writhing mass of sweat-stained bodies, past faces of people both recognisable and alien at the same time; the same faces she sees at all these parties, the same faces that make her wonder if time is on some sort of infinitesimal, inescapable loop. Nothing is ever quite lucid. Nothing fully real after a night like this. The blinding light of the kitchen flashes against her retinas, momentarily blinding her as she scrambles around briefly like a newborn pup climbing out of the den for the first time. Her irises strangle themselves, constricting against the harsh light making her eyes bluer and icier than normal. Adjustment happens eventually, as it always does. Inevitably.

The first thing she focuses on is Emily, a beacon of blazing crimson amidst a turbulent sea of nameless, meaningless people. The crowd around her is thick like seaside fog, and she pushes roughly through, drawn to the flashing red. Emily hasn't even noticed her yet and that itself pricks at her suddenly volatile emotions, something between loneliness and anger rippling over her skin at the realisation. Her safe harbour barely acknowledges her presence as she finally makes it into Emily's space. She smiles briefly and continues her conversation with that blonde from before. That little Scottish girl from Roundview. It stings when Naomi notices the crinkle around Emily's eyes as her mouth stretches into a large grin and the glimmer returns to her brown eyes, making them appear unbelievingly warm, almost like melted dark chocolate. Naomi catches herself not focusing on Emily as much anymore. Instead her eyes are skimming the faces for someone else. There are more people speaking around and to Emily, voices from every direction, bombarding her with a cacophony of noise. Submersed completely, Emily doesn't mind, just carries on.

Naomi elbows in even closer, stretching down to put her lips to the shell of a rose-pink ear. I need air. I'm going outside.

Emily nods and gives her a quick kiss but Naomi's not even certain she heard the words.

She doesn't run. Not this time. Her progress is steady and slow, hesitant actually. The back garden is still populated by the smokers and stoners, taking hits on a massively unnecessarily large bong. A few girls are bawling in one corner, the most upset of the bunch vomits on another's heels to a chorus of squeals and cries. There's no one she cares to see here. Her walk takes her out past the rows of wheelie bins alongside the wall of the house and across the path of a skittish dormouse. Other than the thumping echo of noise, it wouldn't even appear as if there's a party inside the house. No one is out front, except for a single girl sat on the kerb, moonlight glinting off her flashy sequined top. Naomi approaches with caution even though she is entirely certain who it is. Without asking, she takes a seat beside the older girl.

“Hey,” she says softly.

Michelle glances over and smiles sadly. “Hey.”

A horn beeps urgently in the distance along the A38. Other than the occasional car, cricket or frog, (and the low bass from the party) it's the only sound in the quiet neighbourhood. Naomi lets out a long, slow breath before looking over at Michelle, watching her carefully as she picks at pebbles between her feet. Mascara is smeared again, she's maybe been crying a bit. “What happened?” Naomi finally asks, finding both her voice and the courage to speak.

The older girl, groans in irritation and shrugs. “He just wasn't into me, into it,” she says. “And honestly, neither was I. A little distracted.”

“Why?” It is an innocently ignorant query. She hadn't even thought before the words came out.

Michelle allows a derisive laugh to bubble up and peers at Naomi, one eyebrow raised and her stare pointed with mild, yet amused, accusation.

Naomi's eyes grow wide when she realises her part in all of it. “Oh.” She quickly and guiltily breaks the gaze and looks across the street. They fall into silence again, listening to the chorus of grass frogs bleating in the gardens of the neighbourhood. Michelle shakes her head again, clearing the tension that has settled in her shoulders.

“He's not been into me for a while.” She gazes up at the night sky. Stars flicker, pushing their way out from behind a thin layer of cloud and battling against the streetlamps for recognition. “Didn't help that those half-naked bundle of morons stumbled in and totally ruined any little bit of mood that was happening.”

Michelle continues, perfectly content to just talk it out, not even concerned with any response Naomi may have to her confessions. “I just... I keep trying to piece it all together, like we used to be. We were good, you know? Once upon a time. But... I feel like he doesn't even see me anymore, just looks right on through. Always has done though.” She sighs again, pausing as if gathering her thoughts together or preparing her courage for an honest admission. “It's like clinging to a runaway horse with him these days. Can't figure out where we're going or what the fucking point even is.” A sad laugh escapes her throat. “So much for true love, yeah?”

The blonde snorts but she's not sure if it's a sound of agreement or not. All she can think about is Emily, not Tony, not any of Michelle's issues.

“But you and Emily are good, aren't you?” she asks, interpreting the sound as agreement.

Naomi winces at the question because it dredges up all sorts of feelings she'd rather not think about right now. It assaults her with her own questions and the worst is how it reminds her of what happened, what continues to happen with Michelle. What that would do to Emily if she knew. God, she really is a completely shit person.

“Yeah,” she lies. She'll force herself to believe it one way or another. There's a feeling of green eyes watching her carefully, sympathetically. Empathetically. Fuck. “Not everything can be perfect all the time,” the younger girl adds quickly as a logical reason for her melancholy, but it ends up being more of a feeble excuse.

It catches her off guard when she feels a gentle arm snake over her shoulders and pull her in so she's resting comfortably against Michelle, laying her head on the older girl's shoulder as if it's second-nature. Michelle gives a squeeze and almost nuzzles her cheek against the crown of Naomi's forehead. Everything is so warm and natural at the moment nestled against a soft, accommodating body. And really, she hadn't realised how much of a difference a simple hug could make. It's been so long. Something about the gesture tears apart the ropes and barriers that Naomi normally kept so immaculately strong. Before she even realises it, her voice is drifting out, twirling and dancing in the night air between them.

“I don't know what to be if I'm not in love with her.” Her voice is timid and the admission is surprising. She'd never even considered that issue regardless of how true it suddenly seems. That's the fucking awful thing about love. Once you do it once, you can never get out of it again. It opens you up in a way that's impossible to ever force shut afterwards. It's like a sick addiction, a habit that you'll never ever break cos even if you stop loving someone, and vow never to love anyone again, and magically if you somehow succeed in that, you're still not really free of love cos you're resisting it, thinking about it, denying it. Not being in love can be just as consuming as the real thing. Or, as many people do, you can block up that entrance to yourself with cement and barbed wire and poisonous words and feigned indifference, but it's still there. Right beneath all those makeshift “No trespassing” threats. Someone opened it and you can never, ever properly close it again. She supposes that's why when it ends, it's a broken heart: Love rips open the hole and then covers it will flowers, beauty and smiles but when it leaves, all you're left with is withered leaves and the gaping empty space. The only wound time can never heal.

So, really, when it comes down to it, love is trap. It's best just never to ever love anyone – but unless you're a legitimate psychopath, that's downright impossible. She hadn't been lying when she'd told Emily that she was the one person that could ruin her life. Naomi tried not falling in love. She tried really fucking hard. But she fell in and got thrashed about and ripped apart. Now all that's left is to keep swimming, one safe island to the next. Naomi doesn't like this at all, doesn't like what it means. One island is plenty.

“And if I don't love her, I'll just have to love someone else.” And maybe that's worse. Just another island. Never-ending.

She'd been about Emily since she was fucking 12-years-old. It was about liking Emily, being confused by Emily, trying not to love Emily, loving Emily so hard that it hurt to breathe sometimes, loving her poorly, winning her back, trying to recapture everything that they had been. It's almost a decade of loving one person in so many different ways. She can't actually remember what life was like before that, and she clearly can't grasp what it would be like without it. She can't just let it go. It's always been Naomi and Emily. Emily and Naomi. “I just ... Chelle, I don't know who I am if I'm not in love with her.”

“Yeah,” Michelle agrees softly and Naomi has no doubt that the older girl knows exactly what she's trying so ineloquently to say.

“But I'm so lonely even when I am.” Her voice catches on the hitch of a soft sob. Oh god, maybe she really had been slipped something tonight cos this sort of sharing isn't ever supposed to happen, not with anyone who isn't Effy or Emily. Then again, Michelle is a friend --a new one-- but still, a friend. The hand that once had a firm grip on her shoulder has evaporated; instead she feels stirringly delicate fingers passing through her hair in a languid rhythm, over and over and soft cheek pressed even harder against her. It loosens her tongue even further. “When we were younger, it didn't matter where we were, whether it was in a room with 5 people or in assembly with 200, I could feel her watching me and visa versa. We'd catch each other all the time, like some sort of crazy psychic connection. Like it was meant to be. I learnt to read those eyes so easily. For so long, we barely had a need to speak. Then I fucked up. More than once. Well bad. Then we didn't speak on purpose when we should have.”

Michelle lets out a woeful sigh as if she's familiar with all of this but doesn't say a word.

“But I could still read her like a book and it fucking hurt like hell and then... we lost it. I shut down, she shut down, I dunno what happened. But we fixed it and it came back. Lately though, Emily used to... she used to like to watch. You know? Eye contact. But we stopped being able to meet each other's stares across crowded rooms, then she started shagging with her eyes closed more and more often, clenched sometimes. Now we only do it in the dark. I just can't see her.”

“Are you looking in the right place though?” There's something wildly loaded behind Michelle's question but Naomi passes over it, not willing to deal with that yet. Sensing that she's not going to get an answer, the brunette leans away, her hand falling from Naomi's hair. “The thing is, Naomi, nothing lasts forever... but nothing ever completely changes either. It just sort of bends.”

It's such a sodding cliché. It's worse that it's completely true as well. The blonde runs a hand over her face and huffs. Her head tilts back, gazing towards the unchanging stars. Cygnus catches her eye again but her attention drifts aside, falling on Vulpecula instead, a modern constellation, lonely without a Greek myth companion. These stars, they're constant. For all she knows, they'll last forever. They've been around this long, haven't they? If they die, she won't be around to see it anyway. People are sort of like stars, she reckons; they don't change much and by the time they do, she'll probably be dead anyway. And the past. You can't change that either, not even if you try to rewrite it or erase it completely from your memory. That doesn't mean it never happened; it just means that you lose sight of the truth. It's a dirty type of freedom. It's cheating.

Michelle laughs as if she's thought of some great joke. “I wanted Tony to change so badly at first. He was a proper arse. And then he did, completely, became the total opposite of Tony in a matter of seconds. Then I wanted him to change back for me cos I wasn't ready to deal with not having him be Tony after all. And then he did. He was good. Then what I had wanted before came again and he was back to himself completely. Everything's a mess. We run in circles. I thought I changed too. Thought he made me a better person. Now I'm not so sure.”

It saddens Naomi to think that the person she is at this second, sat on the pavement outside a shitty house party with no direction to her life, is the person she's fated to always come back to time and time again. She resists the idea. It seemed like the truth moments ago when she thought of everyone else in the world, but put into her own experience, and in relation to her own desires, it's a horrible thought. People must be able to change. Surely, not everyone is stuck. But she can't think of a single viable argument disproving the theory. It's all too depressing to consider at the moment.

Michelle cocks her head to the side, solemnly nodding to herself. “I think it's time to let it go, if I can.” She doesn't sound too sure of herself and the younger girl is not surprised.

“I don't think I could ever let go, yeah? That ability to just, Christ, catch someone's eye and to hold onto it like you couldn't look away if you tried? And you try like hell to break free but it's just inescapable, or something. And to have someone else looking at you the exact same way? I can't let go of that.” Her blue eyes are focussed and clear despite the darkness. Determined. Penetrating. Imploring Michelle to respond.

A doleful smirk crosses over the other girl's lips as she breaks Naomi's gaze and stares at the pavement instead. “I don't think anyone's ever looked at me like that. At least that I know of, and that's sort of the point isn't it?”

It clicks, the same sort of thing that had switched on back in the loo. A rush. The words come out before she has a chance to censor them or even consider their meaning.

“Someone does.” She thinks back to all the parties, all the outings, lunch dates, club nights and the direction of her attention has slowly shifted almost completely. She'd been trying to measure the future in terms of Emily so precisely that she hadn't been aware she'd been losing control, losing awareness of the momentum of the other variable: Michelle.

She watches curiously as Michelle's eyes close and she appears to just freeze the moment, as if she savouring a particularly delectable treat. What had been a downcast frown turns up into a tiny smile. Taking in a deep breath, she slowly opens her eyes, first gazing across to the rows of cars across the road before turning towards Naomi. There's very little hesitation in her next move and it's likely because they both expect it. Her lips part almost immediately upon meeting Michelle's and her hands don't clench at her sides but reach out with open palms and zealous fingertips to grasp a curved waist or thread through brown curls. Doesn't even matter anymore. She feels reciprocal warmth encircling her and cupping her cheek. When she pulls back first, it's a shock to see Michelle's face – not like before because she hadn't been expecting it, but because she is expecting it this time. She feels the pull in her bones. Magnets, all right. Fucking magnets.

The brunette clambers to her feet, extending a hand to Naomi and pulling her upright, a grin spread wide over her lips.

“Want to walk me home?” Her corresponding coy smirk leaves no doubt to the her real intentions and then it becomes far more real than anything had been up until now. It's wrong, and it's scary and Naomi can't help it. Her mind makes an excuse to flee before her body can even attempt it.

Panic rises as her excuse becomes clear. “I...” Say it, Naomi. Say it and run, you stupid cow. “I can't. Emily...” She thumbs towards the house where her oblivious girlfriend, who doesn't deserve any of this, not again, is waiting.

The disappointment is obvious, the embarrassment overtaking the other girl's features as a faint pink tinge colours her cheeks under the streetlights. “Right, sorry.” She backs away awkwardly from Naomi, from the truth, and from the situation. “I'm just – I'm going to go. See you around, yeah.”

The words stop, wait, and yes catch all at once in the back of Naomi's throat rendering her speechless as she watches Michelle walk away down the dark street. It's too late anyway. She escapes back into the party, overcompensates and stays tight beside Emily for the rest of the night, dripping with unconfessed sin. Having bitten the apple she shouldn't still be allowed in the garden. Only once does she falter upon seeing Effy staring impassively at her, a look of ridicule fluttering over her features before she disappears again into the crowd. This party is shit after all.

“October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.”
– Hal Borland

Early the next day, Naomi crawls out of bed before Emily wakes and creeps to the living room. Her empty and abused stomach demands its soothing morning tea. She only makes enough for herself and settles back in front of the noise of the TV, trying to distract herself from the pandemonium in her mind. It's news. Better than football.

Avon and Somerset Police are searching for a late-20s male in connection with a fatal hit and run off Gloucester Rd. in Bishopston last night. According to eye witness accounts, a yellow 2011 BMW convertible with a blue stripe was seen fleeing the scene where a young woman was brutally struck and killed by the swerving vehicle heading north as she was crossing the road on a green pedestrian signal. The incident took place around 2 AM. No information about the identity of the deceased has been released but she is described as early-20s, brown hair, hazel eyes and slim build. The same vehicle is suspected in another hit and run last weekend. Alcohol is alleged to be a factor. Anyone with information about the driver of the vehicle is urged to come forward to West Country Crimestoppers at 0800 555 11 or your local constabulary. There has been a rash of fatal road traffic and drink-driving accidents of this nature in Bristol during the recent summer months, spurning city council to look into new...

Silence seems to descend quite rapidly despite the movement of the reporter's lips. There is no sound in the small room apart from the crash of a half-empty mug of tea against the wooden coffee table. Hot liquid splashes across scattered papers, dripping down between cracks onto sock-clad feet. The blonde takes no notice, her gaze fixed on the television screen and Andrew Plant now reciting banal roadworks reports for south Bristol. She can't hear his words any longer and his face as morphed into a strange blur. She blinks strongly and it clears, unexpected tears squeezed out by the action. She's no clue what's happening at the moment, or why her body has taken it upon itself to cry. A quick brush of a sleeve removes all traces and she takes a deep breath, concentrating on the actual situation. Glancing down, she wiggles her toes, feeling the dampness of the tea soaking into her socks. She's created a mess. She's brilliant at that.

The moment she looks back at the anchorman on Points West, her mind replays what he had just said minutes earlier. Fatal. Bishopston. 2 AM. Early-20s. Brown hair, hazel eyes. Brutal. Fatal... Fatal. She doesn't even recognise that the description of the vehicle matches one that she's vaguely familiar with and belongs to one of those arsehole Rovers Reserves Katie used to go on about. Her attention instead is devoted to the victim. Deceased.

A much delayed gasp escapes her mouth as the seriousness of the report hits her full-on. Her mind, once foggy with half-drunken memories, is suddenly catapulted back to clarity as the events of the previous night flood past her eyes.

“Want to walk me home?” The coy smile. The scared refusal.

It's too much. It can't be that way.

The blonde drops her head into her hands, trying to take an adequate breath. She fails and only draws in a stuttering gasp in its place. Emily wanders aimlessly into the room and spots her girlfriend trembling on the sofa in front of the news. The spilt tea has pooled on the once veneered table surface and has likely already stained the carpet below. At a loss for what caused this breakdown, Emily tentatively perches on the edge of the sofa cushions beside Naomi. She's all too aware of the slight shift away from her.

“Naoms?” Emily's voice is practically a whisper as she reaches for one of Naomi's hands, noting how clammy it feels and how much she's shaking. Snatching it away almost as quickly, Naomi falls back, clamping her hands over her face and breathing out loudly. Emily gazes over, genuine concern etched into every crevice of her face. “What happened?”

Naomi can hear the words now. Silence is no longer plugging up her senses but she's still reluctant to acknowledge the sound. What did happen? What the fuck happened last night? What was supposed to be merely a deep breath turns into a sob before she has time to reign it in. Her chest tightens painfully and she resists the urge to grab at it. Fuck. She's not sure what the hell is happening to her right now, but it's familiar and horrible and holy fuck does she just want it to go away. It doesn't do her bidding, as is the case with most emotions, especially lately. She's losing control of them, and that knowledge alone may be her greatest fear. Maybe if she just sits here, refusing to answer the question, Emily will eventually leave her alone.

She knows Emily better than that however and the possibility is slim to none.

Dropping her hands from their protective shield around her red-rimmed eyes, she glances over at the red-head. “It's fine. Just...” Her mind searches for some excuse, something other than 'I'm pretty sure it's my fault that a girl that I may possibly and actually love more than you is dead right now.' (Love? Where the fuck did that come from anyway?) There are thousands of other options and they all sound fucking ridiculous even in her own brain. “There was a video of the oil spill from last month.” Christ. That will never fly. Emily's not a fucking retard.

Emily peers down at the spilt tea, ruined table and carpet before back up to Naomi's face with obvious disbelief. “Right.” At least she appears to recognise the futility of pushing the issue at the moment but her eyes are terribly sad, as if she knows that Naomi's hiding things again and just doesn't have the spirit left to plough through the swamp of excuses anymore. When Emily Fitch gives up, the world itself appears hollow and hopeless. Slowly and guiltily, Naomi scoots to the edge and stands up carefully, plucking the toppled mug from its resting place and scooping up the wet newspaper. As she does, she notes that Emily's not even looking at her now, her gaze instead fixed blankly on the television newscast and the outlook on weather for the next few days. Still not looking. Not anymore. Always her fault.

“Sorry about this,” Naomi mutters and Emily nods, her attention still rapt on the 5-day forecast. It's supposed to be cloudy with a chance of rain. How utterly predictable. The blonde opens her mouth to offer further make-believe excuses for her behaviour but Emily doesn't seem interested in her lies, or anything at all.

After disposing of the mess, she creeps back into the front room. Katie must still be asleep in her room, or not home at all. Depends how that orgy went over. Gathering her jacket and slipping into her trainers, Naomi stares at Emily. She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, worrying it between her teeth in a bid to gain the courage for what she needs to say. Everything up to this point has just been one failure after another. Failure to communicate, failure to act, failure to tell the truth, failure to trust, failure to love. Her heart thumps faster as she faces the reality of yet another episode.

“I'm leaving.” The words slip past her lips as if carried by some other entity inside her body. Emily turn to her, gazing over her shoulder at the blonde and squinting at her announcement.

“You sure you're okay?” she asks again, still suspicious as to Naomi's state of mind but allowing her an opening to tell the truth, almost pleading with her. Just once.

“Fine. I'm leaving though, Ems.” Struggling, she wants to add “for good, forever, you” but those words never make it out. They can't. She's never said them before. Emily has always been the one to call it quits: in her bedroom before the Love Ball, on the rooftop, after Goa. She'd tried once, right before Freddie's shed party but it had never really been final and she told Emily to leave, never said she was done. Besides, Emily hadn't even truly moved out before Naomi was there, tears streaming down her face and begging for another chance. She can't do it for real, for certain, with any actually sense of finality. Naomi's not sure if she actually knows how to end things, even if she truly could build up the courage to form the words. Her eyes begin to burn around the corners, a threatening build-up on the verge of spilling over. She can't form them, partly cos she knows she's still in love with Emily, a little bit at the very least (maybe more with the idea in all honesty) and partly because she's Naomi Campbell. Simple as that. She's defined more by what she doesn't do than what she does. Defined by failures.

The redhead looks her over curiously. “Okay, Naoms.” She's obviously not sure what to make of the comment. “See you later. Get some sleep, yeah?” A small smile tugs at her lips and Naomi rushes over, laying a brief but hard kiss to Emily's mouth before darting back across to the door. Emily's brow furrows and she stares at her girlfriend for a few more moments in confusion before turning back to the telly. Naomi rushes out of the flat, slamming the door behind her.

She makes it just down the pavement in the general direction of her mum's flat when she chokes on her own breath causing her to come to a full-stop, doubled over and gasping for air. Her heart is beating a million times a minute, feeling erratic and panicked. Her skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat and her vision blurry, her head dizzy. She contemplates running back those few paces to Emily and Katie's flat, finding solace there but the thought causes a second wave of anxiety to wash over her. Not caring who's about, she sits down on the pavement, right in front of some sweetly-scented shrubs, comforted by the fact that Emily can't see her from the window. Her breathing slows to a more moderate rate and her heart, once destined to break a rib or two with its erratic pounding, is beating a tad more normally. She gulps in the fresh air as her eyes clench tightly shut.

She's dead.

Michelle is dead.

Anxiety rises quickly again, overtaking Naomi's rational brain, spiralling her thoughts into paranoia, fear and guilt. Guilt. That's it. That's why all of this feels so bloody familiar. It just like that fucking carpark roof. She'd fucked Emily up for good, fucked them both up monumentally and seemingly permanently. But at least, well, at least Emily was alive despite Naomi's actions, her inaction. It rips and tears pieces of Naomi's chest in the process of being recognised. If she had just done something, said something more. If she had just said those fucking words that she had felt, Michelle would have stayed slightly later and wouldn't have been in the road at that moment. If she had just agreed to go home with Chelle the way her body had been screaming at her to, they maybe would have taken their time, or rushed even quicker, anything not to be in that road at that precise moment in time. It was just a series of fucking 'What ifs' and they all rested on Naomi's shoulders. Her inability to do a single one of them, not a simple single fucking one, has now left her friend dead. God, just a minute difference would have changed a life.

If she had just kissed her longer.

Everything in her body had begged at her to do just that, down to each individual molecule whirling in every cell. Except Naomi's bloody conscience, and look where that got her: a panic attack on a public road after being too much of a sissy to tell Emily even a smidgen of the truth. Always. It's always like this.

She fucks up; she fucks over the people she loves the most.

Loves.

Bloody hell. The idea that she could ever put herself, Michelle Richardson and love in the same sentence together had never even fucking occurred to her. Not when Emily was also closely affiliated with those same words. Not until now, or perhaps last night but she had been too flipping stubborn to admit that when she had the chance, or even allow herself to ponder the possibility prior to now. She'd adamantly championed her undying love for the only girl who had ever loved her back; that girl who'd flipped her life upside down and made it seem right-side up again. She owed Emily so much, and loving her was the least she could do in return. Except she loved too much, then not enough, then in the wrong way, then too late, then pretended to, pretended so fucking hard that she'd convinced herself even of her own lie. God, she really is a cunt. After all Emily had given up and given her, what she really deserves is the truth. Still, it's a frightening concept. One that causes fear to boil in the pit of her stomach and her limbs to turn to mush. Truth is simple. But it is hard.

Her fingers tickle the keys of her mobile, tapping buttons and before she's even aware, it's ringing through to a familiar number. Just for moment however before the answerphone interrupts, signalling that the phone is off. Hi, you've reached Michelle. I'm not here but leave me a message and I'll return your call. Ta!

Naomi gulps again, strangling her own cry with admirable willpower, presses the power-off button and stuffs her mobile back into her pocket roughly. Pushing herself up, she takes a shaky step away from the shrubbery and glances up at Katie's bedroom window. There's obviously no one there but she feels the spectre of her own terror watching her from afar. She can't just keep doing nothing. She can't keep putting things off until something else slams her into action. She'd fallen into that trap far too many times. It was how she had lived college, how she was still living – and now it's cost her friend's life.

Friend. Fucking friend. Freddie had been a friend. Michelle had been something else. Her heartbeat feels erratic again, feeling as if it's jumping around without tethering, as if it's been set loose to wreak havoc in her chest and pummel the rest of her into reluctant submission. She fucking loved that girl even despite it not making sense, despite their differences, despite loving Emily too. Despite everything, that was what had been boiling in the pit of her stomach since that day in the park. That had been what she'd been trying to tell Michelle last night. She bloody well loved her. And now she's dead. It's all her fucking fault, all of it. Maybe... Well, up until she had seen that news report, Michelle had been alive. Or perhaps dead. But now she was certainly dead as if the existence of that newscast and her viewing of it could have caused this. Everything she's done has caused this. She takes a few more steps in the direction of her destination, hesitantly and fearful that every moment, every movement will have some new catastrophic result.

She almost jumps out of her own skin when a cat brushes up against her bare legs. She looks down with near-disdain, tries to step away from it but it follows her, looping and sliding around her ankles, a low purr rumbling out of its small body. Its tag glints in the afternoon sun, the name “Erwin” blinding her momentarily. What stupid name for a cat. The blonde hops out of its reach again, stumbles over a crack in the pavement, and catches her balance just in time. Energized somehow, she breaks into a jog briefly and glances back eventually to see it sitting in the middle of the pavement, just calmly watching with an eerie stare.

Naomi runs again.

By some miracle, the blonde drags her body up her front walk, arrives at the familiar blue door and pushes it open. The smell of lentil soup wafts around her nostrils causing a nauseated feeling to permeate her stomach. Her mother drifts out to greet the visitor and smiles at seeing Naomi's face. The younger girl winces at the happiness there and moves lethargically towards the stairs without a hello. Gina watches with interest at such a surly young thing in her midst and leans against the banister as her daughter climbs the steps.

“Oh, honey, Paul and Charlene are popping by for tea tonight if you want to join us. I'm sure they–.”

“No.”

Gina pauses, squinting a little, trying to figure out the reason for this sulky mood. “Fine, well, your mobile's off, you know. A few of your friends rang while you were out–.”

“Don't care.” Naomi barely stops her progress.

“One said–.”

“Mum!” Naomi groans and turns to sneer down at her mother. “I. Don't. Care. Bloody ridiculous.” She wants to tell her mum to fuck off and leave her to wallow in peace. It's the least she can do after producing such an inadequate human being in her own image. Instead she thumps her feet louder up the stairs.

“Whoever told you life was easy, sweetheart,” Gina calls up the stairs as if sensing the necessity of her motherly advice, “has never lived a day in their life.”

The slam of a door merely provokes a sad shake of her head as the older woman shuffles back to the kitchen to finish preparing whatever strange and otherworldly vegan dish she's experimenting with this week. Naomi enters her bedroom, stares blankly at its unfamiliarity, suddenly feeling like a complete stranger in her own home. She'd stayed with Emily so often in the past weeks, she wasn't sure what she could even call home any longer. Swatting at a clutter of books piled high on her bureau feels oddly cathartic as they tumble to the floor, crashing and falling open. She moves away, impotent anger seeping in torrents from her pores as if it's a wild animal set from from confinement. She's fucking pissed off at herself, Michelle, Effy, Emily, every fucking person for constructing life just this way. She smashes a hand into another stack of old books. They cascade down, narrowly missing her toes but creating a deafening, if momentary, chaotic noise. As she stomps over to her neatly made bed, she trips over a book and stumbles into her nightstand, knocking the lamp over. A cry of frustration escapes from somewhere dark inside her and suddenly the prickle of tears irritates her eyes. They slip forth without a second hesitation, sliding down her cheeks. First from the left eye, then the right. No one said life would be easy; no one's that big a moron. But for fuck's sake, this hard? She angrily plucks the offending book from under her foot, prepared to toss it across the room when she glances down at the image.

It's a battered star map, creased from decades of use. She recognises it as one of the only things her father ever passed down to her and she's tempted momentarily to rip the whole book to shreds. However, resisting that destruction, she glances at the picture itself, dots and lines all meeting in the centre of a sketch of a princess with chains around her wrists. Andromeda, the Chained Woman, Naomi recalls with surprising ease. It had once been one of her favourites.

Slowly collapsing onto her mattress, Naomi traces the image with her finger, navigating around the stars and outwards, finding the constellation of Perseus as well, he who had fallen in love with Andromeda without even realizing it. He had almost fallen from the sky because he had been so taken with her. But Perseus, well, he had also made a decision, acted in time – just in the nick of time; almost at the last moment. He remembered to flap his wings and made a deal with Poseidon to save the princess if he could kill the sea monster. It's all very false and Disney happy-ending to Naomi now, despite any relation she may feel towards the princess or the hero. She throws the book into the corner in disgust.

Fucking fairytales.

Her bedroom is just one reminder after another, layers of memories upon stacks of what were once good intentions. Every piece of paper on her corkboard to each book on her shelf just stings with recollection of a person, time or place. The plush fox on her shelf, the plane ticket stubs from Goa, the empty vodka bottles. It's suffocating. It all just seems to be a tangled web that's trapped her right in this situation with Michelle dead and her relationship with Emily nothing more than a pathetic sham cos she's too much of a daft cow to actually try.

It smells like something's burning down in the kitchen and it's enough to make the sick rise higher. The result is a cascade of unwanted tears and a desperate desire to escape this claustrophobic den of regrets. Naomi jumps off her bed and stomps down the staircase. All she can hear is her nutter of a mum cursing to herself in the kitchen. She doesn't know where she's going, why she's going or what she hopes to accomplish. All she does know is that the weather for the evening is supposed to get slightly chilly. All she can see is that damned weather forecast Emily had been so enthralled by. Pulling a loose cardigan around her shoulders and looking as if she'd just crawled out of the bin, she slips on her flip-flops.

She's so bloody knackered from doing nothing except alternating between crying and raging silently all morning, but staying here won't help anything. She's just killed the girl she loves. Nothing in the world can change that. Not even the ring from her mobile. Glancing down she spies Effy's name pop up. Unable to bring herself to answer it knowing perfectly well what it's going to be about, she swipes at her eyes one last time as she erases any evidence of tears. Literally two seconds after the mobile ceases its shrill call, a beep notifies her of a text message, again from Effy with a simple request to ring her back ASAP. Guilt and grief coagulate into a hard lump in her throat at the idea. She's got too many bloody feelings right now to deal with anyone else's. They're all horrible and malleable, conflicting, confusing, regretful; tangled around her heart, squeezing it and spidering through her mind. They're everywhere and she can't seem to outrun them; the faster she goes, the tighter they cling onto her.

The doorbell dings loudly above her head. She doesn't want to see Paul and Charlene, her mum's batty co-workers from that godforsaken local arts gallery but Gina calls from the kitchen anyway. “Answer that for me, sweetheart!” Clueless fucking cow. She'll open the door and slip out before they get a word in; that's the plan.

Naomi reaches for the doorknob and twists, a sullen demeanour settling over her features as she prepares for the barrage of over-excited greetings. She stuffs down her own emotionality for the moment. Once she's free of this house, she'll breathe again.

But she doesn't, not when she opens the door. Possibly not for a good 2 minutes.

She has to steady herself against the doorframe for a moment as she processes the scene in front of her, trying to gauge whether she's just imagining things. Michelle Richardson is standing on her front steps, with a small smile on her face. The longer Naomi stalls, and as her skin blanches at the sight, the brunette looks more and more confused about the hesitation. She's seeing a ghost.

Everything Naomi had desired to happen has suddenly come around and she's still not certain if she has the strength to make a pact with Poseidon. Those chains seem daunting and the monster over her shoulder even more so. There's so much left undone and unaddressed, still wide open: Emily, guilt, love, every fucking feeling that had been pervading her mind in the last few hours. Her heart beat quickens, inspired by the opposite of anxiety.

“Hi,” Michelle offers, half-coy and half-uncertain, her eyes twinkling with a speckling of bewilderment.

“Hey,” Naomi finally breathes out, her own lips nervously moving of their own accord into the smallest of hesitant smiles. She blinks slowly, taking in the scene. Michelle lets out a long sigh as well, a demure grin spreading further over her cheeks.

In a garden beyond, a hound bays.

fin.

FIC: i can't get out of love ;; part 5

doreah — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 03:57:11 GMT

i can't get out of love (a love i had a grip on; now it's gripping me)

Author: Eskimo Jo
Rating: 18
Warning: language, sexuality, substance use.

We met it seems, such a short time ago. You looked at me, needing me so. Yet from your sadness, our happiness grew. Then I found out, I need you, too. I remember how we used to play. I recall those rainy days, the fires glowed, that kept us warm. And now I find, we're both alone. Goodbye may seem forever, farewell is like the end. But in my heart's a memory, and there you'll always be.
– Widow Tweed, Disney's “The Fox & The Hound”

For weeks, it works. Just like the old days. Better days. Exciting days. Comfortable days. Days she knew well and felt alive in. The perfect love. It's everything Naomi had hoped it would return to, and everything Emily seemed to have hoped for as well, and she's not disappointed. Not at first.

Change begins to seep in not long after. At first they're small things, like how since Katie and Emily now share a small flat in Cotham, Naomi's had to adjust to being the guest in the twins' abode and all the unfortunate consequences of Katie pounding on the otherside of the bathroom door in the mornings as she and Emily try to sneak a shower together. Also, Katie had rules about food. Mostly cos she's on some sort of celebrity diet that she really thinks will work this time, and so there's very little Naomi can snack on without asking Katie first. Or at least checking with Emily. Then there's Emily's bedroom which is barely larger than a closet and shares a very thin wall with her sister's equally-sized bedroom. While Naomi couldn't care less about what Katie has to endure, she doesn't appreciate male orgasmal groaning waking her (and Emily) at half 4 in the morning.

And when she suggests that maybe Emily come stay a while at Gina's, the offer is politely refused. As a guest, an escape, sure. But not on any sort of long-term basis. They're playing it carefully now. Never moving too fast. The hesitancy is new to their relationship... and it feels off. But maybe it's a good change after all. They've grown up. Learnt from past mistakes. And really, it never is a problem exactly cos Emily is still Emily, she's still so bursting with ideas and promise, and she's so warm and open. Her eyes still sparkle with excitement when Naomi surprises her with a sneaky kiss in the kitchen and her lips still curve ridiculously upwards when she takes Naomi's hand. So, really, Naomi doesn't actually mind too much things being a little awkward and slow if it makes Emily happy, and it obviously does.

But it's also a change having Emily in university during the days, and sometimes evenings. Naomi hadn't expected that at all, but as it turns out, last year, Goa, that whole experience had been merely a gap year and she's since started classes in September at UWE. The blonde had always thought she'd be the one to go to university over Emily, especially with their respective grades and ambitions. She hadn't wanted university. It had been Naomi who'd been set on that idea. It was precisely that divide, the incongruity that lit the fuse. It had been what set in motion the betrayal with Sophia last year. Now, it's strange not being in lessons with Emily and knowing she's there, in a lecture hall with a hundred other people, starting over and embracing a new life beyond the confines of Roundview. It's all very backwards. She remembers clearly the displeased look Emily had given her that first time Naomi had laughed at the redhead's insistence that she couldn't be late; that she had lecture to get to. For Naomi, the idea had been a joke, at least she had thought it was Emily being silly. But it wasn't. There's a definite feeling of being left out. She wants suddenly to do all that too.

The changes come faster and more noticeably the longer they keep at it. Maybe these things had always existed and Naomi's just noticing them for the first time, but she reckons not. She surely would have seen them the first time around. And really, some of them simply didn't exist back then, like her lazy days with Effy or Michelle whilst Emily's at school. She knows Emily's not entirely pleased with either friendship but she never actually mentions anything, never pushes the issue. Regardless, Naomi has culled the number of hours she sees either girl. After all, that's what happens in relationships, isn't it? Time becomes divided up and the more important things are given a bigger allotment. She senses Effy is particularly irritated by the brush off and Naomi fully expects to pop round one day to be handed another disturbing collage of dismembered body parts. (It's good then that Katie seems to be keeping Effy occupied more often now.) And Michelle? Well, she barely remembers the night at Blue Mountain, but she still obviously recalls the park incident and as long as Maxxie had still been in town, she hadn't minded the distance, the time-off from their friendship. But when he'd left back to London, she still needed a friend, especially as she and Tony are pretty much down to occasional fuck-buddies, or so it seems. The love is gone for good.

She remembers telling Michelle about her and Emily through a text message of all things. For some reason, she'd been terrified of saying it in person and having to watch the reaction. Michelle had responded with a bland, “That's great.” and nothing more was said about it for quite a while. However, every so often, the older girl would drop hints, about how people never really change and nothing can be like it was before. She's obviously talking about herself and Tony, but Naomi guesses there's a double entendre in there too.

It doesn't matter though because Emily is perfect again. A little jaded, of course, but they're happy together. They joke and smile and laugh and shag and kiss. They're good again. Fuck cynicism about the past and future. Sometimes things can work out if you give them enough chances.

The change that throws Naomi off the most is when Effy doesn't bother to ring her on the weekend. After two weeks of successfully turning down invitations to parties, her best mate has apparently given up. There's a cold slice of loneliness and something close to regret that cuts through Naomi's chest when 9 PM rolls around on Saturday night and she realises that she's had no call. Katie's on her way out the door, dressed to pick up another vaginal infection if all goes well, and cuts her eyes at Naomi accusingly. The blonde isn't sure why. The flat door slams behind the twin without an explanation. Emily sighs beside her, turns the volume up on the TV two notches and curls into Naomi's side. They watch the film in near silence, then shag quickly before drifting off to sleep. She can't help the nagging feeling that Emily's mind is elsewhere, and really hers isn't quite right either.

The morning after, she stumbles sleepily to the small kitchen only to find Katie already alert and making toast. The twin hasn't changed out of her clothes from the previous night and her make-up is smudged and worn off in places. She obviously hasn't even been to bed yet. Naomi can only imagine the mood she's in.

But Katie remains eerily quiet as she goes about buttering her toast and pouring a steaming mug of Lady Grey for herself. In fact, she appears to be going out of her way not to acknowledge Naomi at all. The blonde putters around the kitchen aimlessly as she waits for Katie to leave the toaster and kettle alone. Finally the younger girl picks up her plate of toast and steps towards the sitting room. But she pauses in the doorway, sighs, places her mug down again and fishes something from her jeans pocket. Thrusting her hand out, she waves it around for Naomi to take it from her.

“She wanted you to have this,” Katie says, her voice flat and tired. Without waiting for a response, she grabs her tea and saunters away.

Naomi unfolds the piece of notepaper.

pg. 174, is all it says.

It takes 4 days for Naomi to figure out that she has to go round to Effy's. Texts hadn't been returned. E-mails ignored. Phonecalls left to ring through to a full voicemail, over and over. So much for being best mates.

The walk takes a little over an hour from Emily's place down to Effy's and the time alone (something that had been in short-supply lately) had given Naomi far too much time to contemplate the current state of her life. Worse, she couldn't seem to concentrate on just one thing. Everytime she got to thinking about Emily, something would remind her of Michelle. Then that would remind her of some other random thing like constellations or JJ or Effy or Tony, all of whom would in turn, switch her focus to school or work or back to Emily again. It became circles upon circles of tangled thoughts and by the time she turned the corner at Elvaston, nothing had been made any clearer whatsoever. Maybe that's really why Effy's mad: too much time with her own thoughts. It would certainly drive any normal person to the brink of insanity, she reckons. And that's why the parties and the drugs helped. They created noise. They created distractions.

Coming up to the red door, she doesn't even bother to knock or ring the bell. If Effy's attitude towards any other sort of attempted contact was indicative of a pattern, likely she wouldn't even answer the door anyway. First she tries the knob, locked. So she lets herself in with the spare key again.

“Eff?” she calls into the quiet house. There's no response from the blank walls. Sneaking upstairs, all the bedrooms are empty, with Effy's bed immaculately made and untouched, as if no one's slept in it for ages. Pato slumps against the pillows, keeping watch over the sparsity. There aren't even any of the usual scraps of paper scattered around the carpet that signalled that she'd been working on her art. The only noticeable difference is that there's a discarded box collecting dust on the floor that had once held a spiffy new dSLR camera. High-end by the looks of it. Effy's got herself a new hobby then.

It's uncomfortable snooping around her mate's room like this so she meanders back downstairs and out towards the back garden, hearing voices wafting in through a cracked kitchen window. She hesitantly pushes open the door and steps into the sunshine and unkempt overgrowth that embodies the Stonems' wild garden. In the midst of the weeds, saplings and shrubs, there are two camp chairs unfolded and in one sits Effy, with her new toy in hand. And in the other, Michelle is leaning back, eyes closed under her sunglasses and soaking in the sun. Everywhere Naomi goes, Michelle seems show up. Inescapable. Aggravating. But she too pays the intruder no mind. An ashtray full to the brim of cigarette butts sits between them, as well as a half-empty bottle of vodka.

Without acknowledging her presence, the skinny brunette spins in her seat and there's a distinctly mechanical click as the shutter snaps on her new camera. Naomi glares at her friend menacingly for a moment, incredibly displeased to have become a reluctant model.

“Hi, Naomi,” Effy drawls as if she thinks something is funny about the situation. At the sound, Michelle draws her sunglasses onto her forehead and cranes her neck to peer at the visitor. Interestingly, she says nothing and only offers a small smile before pulling her shades back down and returning to her sun worship. “You got the note?”

Naomi groans and steps deeper into the garden. “Of course I did. I've texted you a hundred times about it.” She's really not in the mood for Effy's stupid games and comes up to stand over the thin girl, attempting somehow to be intimidating. As if that has ever worked on a Stonem before. She's met with a shrug and the echo of another click of the camera. “Stop it, Eff.”

Effy gazes up, nonplussed, and her blue eyes seemingly wider than normal. It's her best clueless, innocent look but that sad fact is that like a clear, blue ocean, Effy's eyes are almost transparent at times. She can't quite make out what precisely is going on in her head (no one can), but she can practically see the wheels and gears spinning themselves into a constant frenzy. It's a bit of a contradiction maybe that they appear so clear yet remain so defiantly impenetrable. Like a reflection in a mirror, or glassy lake. Moreover, models supposedly had that 'smiling with their eyes' thing going on; Effy Stonem had 'arrogantly smirking with her eyes' happening instead. Bitch.

Reaching under her canvas chair, the brunette pulls out a small stack of photos printed from a home printer and holds them up to Naomi who takes them cautiously. “What are these?”

“Photographs.”

Naomi sighs. “Thanks.” Even just a single word drips with excessive sarcasm.

Effy pauses, motions for her friend to flip through them then laughs. “Tony bought me a camera. So the rest of the world can see it as I do, or some bollocks.” The blonde knows better. Effy's trying to play it off as if it's a silly idea, the same as she does with her meds or therapy or art or anything of substance she creates. But the message must have sunk in cos the photos are surprisingly well-composed and the subject matter the exact representation of what she'd expect the inside of Effy's mind to look like. Mostly black and white: rubbish bins, tangled bramble patches, decrepit sheds, industrial complexes, council estates, half-rotten children's toys, roadkill, dead trees, long empty expanses of motorway. There's colour too: graffiti, homeless men, stormy skies, the dirty harbour, rusted out lorries, half-sunken barges, abandoned heroin needles. It all paints a depressing picture of a dreadful, post-apocalyptic England. But then, there's more. There are candid portraits of familiar faces: Tony asleep, small and fragile-looking in his bed, a fatigued Anthea reading the morning paper with a cigarette burnt down to the filter dangling forgotten between her fingers, random partygoers in varying states of ecstasy and inhibition, blasts of lasers, smiling faces, artificially or ephemerally friendly faces – all within the confines of dark clubs. And then there's a gravestone with a painfully familiar name, a police wagon on its was to a jail, an airplane flying low, the woods, Tony again concentrating intensely on something in a book, Michelle hunched on the sofa in their living room, alone, with a vodka bottle in hand. And Katie, in black and white, startlingly expressive, halfway between anguish and anger wearing the same outfit she'd had on this morning and screaming at someone out of frame. It's a beautiful shot, although Katie herself likely would abhor being caught at such a time. They're all beautiful actually, even in their abandon, decay and misuse. And then a breathtaking landscape of sunrise from what looks to be Ashton Court. It's odd to feel so much of Effy's thoughts so intensely and to have them displayed in such striking translations. They may seem like ordinary photos, many of which a 1000 other hipsters or wannabes could have taken just the same, packed a decent portfolio full of these clichés, but putting them together with the girl in front of her somehow feels incredibly invasive, like she's breached some unspoken barrier. On their own, they're lovely and disturbing, but in connection with Effy, they're powerful and obtrusive. Something she's not meant to see; something Effy hadn't really meant to share.

“Wow, these are...”

“Don't.” She snatches them back, tossing them carelessly under her seat as if suddenly they're just meaningless pieces of paper. “It's all Tony's idea anyway.”

And like that, clues to Effy's psyche are stowed away like hidden treasures. It draws Naomi's stare once again to the vodka bottle between the two girls; she prods at it with her toe.

Michelle glances over lazily and waves a hand in the air. “You can have some, if you want,” she says sounding uncharacteristically disinterested. “Out of fags though.”

What is this? Why is Effy lounging around with Michelle of all people, drinking at noon on a Monday? If Naomi's honest with herself (and she really doesn't like to be if she can help it) the idea is sparking hints of jealousy in her chest, something toxic is bubbling out of the half-digested cereal she'd had for breakfast before coming over here. Was the milk off? Indigestion, perhaps. But likely more psychological in origin. Idly passing the daylight hours was supposed to be her thing, wasn't it? With both of them. But they weren't supposed to do it with each other and just leave her out of it. She could expect this sort of thing from Effy but it's Michelle's attitude that is twisting that knife between her ribs.

“Is Emily busy then?”

Oh.

Yeah. Michelle certainly does not sound pleased. She can't hide her feelings nearly as well as the emotional-Houdini in the other chair. It's sort of bitter maybe but flimsily covered by a feigned indifference. Naomi merely mumbles yeah and kicks at the dirt around the ashtray absently. It's terribly confusing how at times Naomi can't seem to tell the truth at all, and other times can't seem to lie. Surely if you're good at one or the other, you should be skilled enough to control it. It strikes her that maybe she's not actually talented, she's just shit at both things. How unfortunate. Although it sure would explain a lot.

“Page 174,” Effy drones and Naomi's ears perk up at the mention. Finally, an answer.

“Yeah, what's that even mean?”

Effy nods towards the house again. “It's in there.”

Just as Naomi turns to seek out whatever riddle Effy's devised for her this time, Tony appears in the doorway. He leans casually against the frame and smiles at the girls. “Ready to go, Nips?” Oh. So they haven't broken up. The romance isn't quite dead yet. He doesn't wait for an answer; he just turns and fades back into the dimness of the indoors.

Michelle rises slowly, almost reluctantly really, and moves towards the house herself, brushing a little too close to Naomi in the process. She pauses as if she has something to say, but her eyes, shielded by the dark plastic of her sunglasses, give Naomi no hint as to what it is. Instead, she just sighs and continues her trek to meet Tony. It was a close call. Naomi realises that for some odd reason, she'd felt the urge to apologise but she has no idea for what or why on earth she should. Shaking her head, she listens for quiet voices as they move into the front of the house, and then the slam of the door. They're gone. For now. Believing the coast to be clear, the blonde glances back at her mate one more time. Effy's not paying any attention.

On the kitchen table is a book. It's the same bloody book that Effy had shown to her before, and the same one that Katie had been perusing when Naomi had found them on Effy's bed. It's dog-eared on what she presumes in the page in question. Flipping it open impatiently, she notes that it is page 174. There's a small illustration of a fox and a hound. Immediately she thinks of JJ. Paranoia trickles through her mind, wondering if maybe just everyone else was in on some cosmic joke and she's the butt of it. There's no way JJ and Effy would devise some sort of maniacal scheme, is there? No. She calms herself with the assertion that while Effy was an enigma at times, she certainly would have let it slip had she been chatting with JJ. Sober Effy was not the same creature as drugged-up Effy, and really, it was much easier to get the truth out of her if she'd dabbled in any kind of enactogen during the night. Lovely illicit substances. Who needs that wonky Stun shit when decent MDMA will do just as well?

It doesn't take much to see why Effy's marked this page as a whole passage of text is high-lighted in bright yellow.

LAELAPS (Λαῖλαψ) , “hurricane-dog” (Κυον Λαιλαψ) or “storm-wind” was a mythological dog who never failed to catch what he was hunting. In one version of Laelaps' origin, he was a gift from Zeus to Europa of Krete. The hound was passed down to King Minos. Minos had been cursed by his wife; he ejaculated scorpions and spiders that would devour the genitals of those he slept with. Because of this, he called Prokris of Athens to his aid. When she cured him he gave her Laelaps and a javelin that never missed its target. Prokris's husband, Kephalos of Athens, decided to use the hound to hunt the TEUMESSIAN FOX that was laying waste to the countryside around Thebes and could never be caught. This was a paradox: a dog who always caught his prey and a fox that could never be caught. Zeus, pondering the dilemma of the uncatchable fox being chased by an inescapable hound, as Istrus says, turned the pair to stone, or else placed them in the heavens as the Constellations Canis Major (Laelaps) and Canis Minor (Teumessian Fox). In so doing he froze their contest or set it to play out for eternity in the heavens.

Alternately, in some stories the dog overtook the fox, but Zeus changed both animals into a stone, which was shown in the neighbourhood of Thebes.

What the fuck, Effy?

Naomi slaps the book closed and marches purposefully towards the back garden again. She's going to demand an explanation. And moreover, demand to know if Effy's spoken with Emily or JJ. The coincidence is too convenient.

The walled-in garden is empty.

It's not the first time Naomi seriously wonders if Effy is only a figment of her imagination.

It's only a few blocks and she's home again, safe to dwell on the meaning alone in her room without interference from anyone. Effy would have been nice to talk to since the point of the story still doesn't quite fit with anything she herself can come up with. A hint would have been nice. But instead she's left to consider it all for herself. Ugh.

Who is the fox and who is the hound? And the hunter who controls it all? Effy. But who is her hound? Naomi thinks maybe she's the hound but that doesn't work. She's not chasing anything, although she had chased Emily, right? Well, not really. So, is Emily the hound? That doesn't seem right either, but it would make Naomi the fox. There's a lot to be said about foxes: they're cunning, clever, quick – and she certainly does not consider herself any of those things. However, they do spend their lives on the run... She glances up at a small plush fox on a bookcase that she had received from the League Against Cruel Sports for helping with an anti-foxhunt campaign ages ago in Year 11, when she was still idealistic, loud-mouthed and determined to fight for her future. Back when she had a life outside of Emily Fitch. She thinks maybe people don't really know about foxes much at all.

While granted with an instinctive sort of foresight, they aren't truly as clever as they're made out to be in literature. They are diggers, buryers, hiders. Keeping watch on their secrets. In the good months, as few people seem to realise, foxes don't eat all the prey they manage to catch. An unlucky songbird may be covered with dirt in a hole in the ground as the fox hides away his snack for the longer, harder winter months. Like chipmunks and squirrels more than fearsome predators of livestock, he tucks away quite a few contingencies. Because even more like squirrels, he often forgets where he's hidden his emergency rations. His secrets become lost even to himself. So he buries more and more out of necessity. If he's lucky, he'll find some again but there's also the chance he'll forget, or when he does find a treasure, it's rotten from neglect. But in the worst case, and the most common one, something else has discovered his secret and uncovered it. It's no longer his alone.

And really, they may be fast runners, but not as swift as people think. Horse and hound can keep up until eventually the fox tires. A fox can't run forever. He'll try; his life depends on it. Zig-zagging through forests and tunnels, drainage pipes and culverts, up and over dales, in and out of ditches, he will try. He'll run out of fear, out of self-preservation and the anxiety will mount, but truly panicking only as he finds each of his holes, his rare safe-havens, blocked up by the hunters in prior anticipation of his escape. He will continue to run. There's a sort of gruesome inevitability to the chase most times, and the ending that makes the fox wonder what the point of running was in the first place perhaps. If he isn't torn apart by dogs, shot to death or collapsing from the stress-caused haemorrhaging, he has escaped only momentarily. A fox then may be free, but so exhausted that he cannot carry on. Run to death.

Naomi wonders if there's a subtle precautionary tale here.

Still, she can't accept the idea that one should accept the seemingly inevitable without a fight. There may be a large percentage of her 16-year-old self that has been lost to the formative and tragic years beyond, but she will not settle for the ridiculous notion of fate. She knows running, she knows the fight. Passivity had not been in her vocabulary until that final year of college. She fought tooth and nail against social injustices, ignorant people and loving red-haired Emily Fitch. She'd only truly conceded to one of those. The others just fell out of her sight in the blinding glare of teenage love. And now, she has accepted that part just as a fox likely must recognise the futility of the chase when it nears its end. There's still a disturbing rumble deep down when she's left along for too long with her thoughts. It echoes with the same kind of resistance that had seemed so familiar when she was younger, the inability to swallow a particularly hard truth. It sounds as if her heart hasn't ceased running yet, as if the constant pitter-patter of its beats are actually desperately fleeing footsteps against the damp earth of a dark and lonely forest.

Memories of the seemingly infamous Park Incident float to the forefront of her mind unannounced and startlingly crisp against the fog of foxes, hounds and Greek myths. It's Michelle's voice.

Once you're in it, no matter who it's with, you can't get out of love.

All the uncertainty and introspection fades almost as quickly as it had begun and within a week, Naomi has virtually forgotten the visit to Effy's, and her cryptic dense hidden messages. It's easy when Emily is around, and especially when she's lying on her bed, topless on her stomach flipping idly through an unnecessarily large textbook. Naomi grins and pushes down the rumble that was starting to irritate her more and more often these days. Draped in a very loose-fitting t-shirt, she's not much more clothed than her girlfriend. Together they possibly could make a single outfit. Almost. Cos, well, Emily's only got one sock on and the other is nowhere to be seen. She sighs loudly, running a finger across a glossy and colourful graph on the page and Naomi's not sure what to make of it.

She considers it amongst Emily's “New Sounds”. There previously were a whole arsenal of sighs, breaths, groans, moans and chuckles that Naomi could translate without much difficulty. That knowledge had come out of experience but somewhere along the line, a transformation took place. Perhaps it was in college, but definitely also afterwards. Now only about half of Emily's sounds are familiar and the remainder are foreign and lack a recognisable meaning. So far, Naomi reminds herself. So far. She'll eventually learn these too. It's just difficult at times like these cos she's never exactly been the most gifted of conversationalists and lately when she suggests or asks a question after one of these New Sounds, she's met with awkward silences or confused gazes. She's not idea what to say any longer, unsure if Emily is frustrated, tired, bored, amused, or any host of other emotions. She usually guesses wrong now. It makes her feel like there's a missing piece somewhere, a loose connection between them.

So instead she's resorted to waiting for Emily to say something to belay her real feelings. It's a time-consuming pastime but far more risk-adverse. She tiptoes with caution around sharp edges now.

The twin sighs again with a slightly different cadence than previously and slides the book away from her, turning to stare up at her blonde girlfriend instead. “We should go out this weekend. Like properly.”

Naomi's taken aback. “A date?” They'd never really dated, not properly. Like, ever and it seems odd to start now but it's not something she's not totally opposed to either. Emily stares blankly at her as if the suggestion doesn't quite compute. So Naomi tries again, “To the lake or something?” It's worth a shot. They haven't been back there since their return from Goa and at that time it was late-February and horribly wet and cold. Nothing like it had been in the past. Nothing seemed to be anymore.

Emily shakes her head and smirks. “No, no. Like with everyone else. A party.” She lowers herself against the pillow and groans, burying her face and mumbling. “I miss going out.”

It hurts.

More than it should maybe.

The respite from that scene couldn't have come at a better time, as Naomi had grown terribly weary of it all. These weeks away from the groaning bass music, dark crowded rooms of strangers and illicit drugs had been something of a breath of fresh air. They had replaced cocaine with sex, and dancing with lounging about in their jim-jams and watching films. She didn't mind the domesticity too much, and ignoring the pang of resentment she sometimes feels from Effy's lack of interference these days, it had been a much needed break. Now Emily wants a break from the break. Emily of all people. A year ago this would have been everything she dreamt of. Fuck change.

“All right,” Naomi eventually sighs. She feels a finger trailing down the inside of her arm, thinks of ants, and shudders. The touch vanishes.

“Great, cos I've got this friend from Soc Foundations who's throwing a full-on massive at his on Saturday and loads of people from uni...”

Naomi tunes the rest of details out and lets Emily continue cos it's obviously something she's very excited about. Not really fair to rain on that parade this soon. Nodding or humming every so often, she wonders about Goa and how well they worked there and when they became such vastly different people. Maybe they should move to Goa permanently, play pretend forever.

Darlin', forever is a long long time. And time has a way of changin' things.
– Big Mama, Disney's “The Fox and the Hound”

The party is shit.

Of course it is. Why would it be any different? Because it's Bishopston instead of Redcliffe? Because it's being put on by a fresher instead of some college twat left home alone for the weekend? It's the same fucking awful dubstep coming from the speakers and the same cheap lager stowed in the fridge. It's the same morons throwing themselves unabashedly at each other in the same sadistic and often times embarrassing type of modern mating ritual. It's the same drugs, same spirits, same hopelessness and apathy. She spots Tony's mates every so often. And then there's Emily's own friends from uni who she seems to be quite swept up with at the moment, giggling and generally carrying on like she's in sodding Disneyland without a care in the world. What happened to the days when they were instinctively connected, catching each other's eye in crowds, across distance, unable to look away? There's the other ones too: the uni sorts from U Bristol, Bath Spa and UWE; the layabouts and those who work dead-end jobs; and of course, the young ones: Roundview, Filton, Colston's, ugh, all the posh school wankers and whores. Christ, she hates these kinds of house parties.

After necking a few cans of lager she sneakily nicked from an admittedly rather attractive boy's stash, that he and his mate “Spence” seemed to be watching guard over (not very well obviously), Naomi feels slightly better. Not much, but a little bit. Especially when she watches the boy check Emily out, up and down, smirking to himself in the process and running his tongue along his bottom lip. It's times like this she wishes Cook hadn't “done the right thing, yeah, Naomikins” and turned himself in after the mess with Effy's doctor. She could use a buddy, plain and simple, no strings attached, no serious thinking involved. But he's not and that's the unchangeable reality. He won't be around for a very long time. Fuck, she misses him terribly and the enormity of the emotion seems to knock her sideways suddenly. She'd thought her heart was finally finished breaking.

Leaving Emily to catch up with her friends, the blonde steps out into the garden. It's quieter but not empty. A few partygoers are wandering around, sitting on the grass and relaxing. Against the wall is that metalhead kid she sees at half of these things. One leg props a huge boot against the stucco as he leans casually and draws on a cigarette. He appears harmless enough and she shuffles near and fishes her own smoke from a battered pack. He barely gives her a glance before holding out a lighter without even looking at her. She takes it, lights up and hands it back.

“Thanks,” she mutters.

He shrugs and his shoulders fall like his leather jacket actually weighs a tonne. “Don't mention it.”

And she doesn't. They don't say anything cos this is supposedly a safe haven, a chill out spot where all the fake niceness of the inside doesn't need to exist. People can sulk and smoke and have raging internal debates in peace. It doesn't stop her from peering over at him every so often. He seems familiar, and not just because of his face and generally sullen demeanour.

Halfway through her cigarette there's a whirlwind of activity and Naomi immediately recognises that little posh girl who looks like she's possibly forgotten which generation she belongs to. She's classy, refined even despite her bounding energy and bright, cheery smile. The complete opposite of him. She breezily throws her arms around his neck, stands on tip-toe, planting deliberately wet kisses against his cheek as he pretends to hate the attention.

“Trying to smoke here,” he grumbles half-heartedly, pushing away.

She pulls back and pouts theatrically, hands on her hips like a disapproving school-teacher. “How many times have I said those horrible little sticks are bad for you, Richard?” She grins though dissipating any seriousness she'd had on her side. He shrugs again, rolling his eyes in an impressive way Naomi hasn't seen since catching her own reflection in a shop window once. Taking a deliberate step closer, she wrinkles her nose at him playfully. “Fine. Be that way.” After a pause she continues even more. “Mini and the girls want a picture with all of us to commemorate the start of term.”

“I don't do those gay group photos, Grace.”

“Liar, liar pants on fire!” she sing-songs at him, giggling as she finishes. “Now come along, please, Rich. For me?”

The nod as he finally concedes to her wishes is almost undetectable and his eye roll this time is merely bashful. There's a crack of a smile on his face. “I guess.”

It's all she needs as she grins in delight and skips back into the fray. Naomi takes a drag and stares at the boy who is nearly finished his own smoke. She can't help it. She has to break the unspoken rule of the quiet smoking wall.

“Your girlfriend?” The older girl is still a little shaken that two such completely different people can work together in such a frankly adorable way. It's like everything shouldn't mesh but somehow it is totally complimentary. Opposite charges; magnetic plus and minus. She quickly reminds herself that they're people and worn-out metaphors about magnets are stupid... but her mum's words echo in her memory: The people who make us happy are never the people we expect.

He side-eyes Naomi quickly and shrugs for the hundredth time in so many minutes. “Yeah.”

“She's so... different from you.” Not the most diplomatic approach and she can sense his irritation at the statement. In honesty, if she were him, she'd be pretty pissed off about some random stranger commenting on her relationship too.

“Yeah. And?” His eyes narrow at her as if expecting some disparaging commentary.

It's Naomi's turn to shrug. “Nothing,” she mumbles and studies the crumbling ash on the end of her fag. If the message wasn't clear enough, he pulls up his headphones from around his neck and covers his ears. She can hear the tinny sound of music being played far too loud even with all the other noise around them. One last pull on his cigarette and he tosses it to the pavement, loping off without a second glance in her direction.

There's something about the incident that bothers Naomi, like in the pit of her stomach. It hadn't been his attitude cos Naomi's had her share of people like that. She considers those types more of kindred spirits rather than obstinate and irritating. Something about the way the two kids work. They just... coexist in this perfect kind of reciprocity. Human nature (especially that of the under-25 world) would define them as foils, perhaps even enemies. But instead, it's like the lamb dancing fearlessly with the lion. She drops her own cigarette on the ground and slips back into the party and searches for Emily who seems to have vanished somewhere in the throngs of idiots.

Water. Water would be good.

She navigates down a short corridor and finds the bathroom empty. Closing the door softly behind herself, she drinks quickly from the tap, allowing the cold water to flush her system with relief. Looking up, her reflection appears pallid and blue in the light of the stranger's bathroom mirror. Sweeping a finger under eyes, she attempts to fix up some smudged mascara come loose by the incessant habit of running her hands tiredly over her face. It takes a lot less time than she would have liked to touch up her eyes and the knowledge that she can't stay here in her quiet den and put off getting back to mixing with drunk strangers momentarily angers her. She shouldn't have to do this any longer. Wasn't the point of these things to pull? To stumble home (or elsewhere) completely smashed at the end of the night, get sloppily shagged, maybe get ill and then walk home full of shame and surrounded by the tasty aroma stale cigarette smoke and liquor the next morning? Naomi wants none of that. She has a girl. She has a home. And she's not nearly drunk enough. Tipsy, maybe. But not drunk enough for the pantomime.

The tired face in the mirror stares back impassively. It has no mind of its own, no worries. She wishes she could swap places. Bracing her hands on the sides of the sink basin, she breathes out a deep sigh and peers down the black drain.

Her whole body seems to fly back against the wall, causing the cheap plastic towel rod to break and fall to the ground, as the door flies open. Her solitude is shattered against her will.

“The fuck!” she yells as what feels like a heart-attack begins to dissipate. The visitor looks up then, as if she hadn't expected anyone else to be in the room.

“Sorry.” And then there's the pause as recognition switches on. “Christ, sorry, Naomi.”

“Fuck's sake, Chelle.” Naomi pulls herself off the wall, glancing down at the broken rod and heap of dirty handtowels and tries to ignore the idea that once again, this girl has randomly shown up where she is. Inescapable. Michelle has carelessly propped her Mulberry bag up on the wet countertop and is digging through its endless depths for make-up presumably. She pulls out a tube of mascara and leans over closer to the mirror, as if this situation isn't even remotely odd. Like they're just girlie mates having a little chin wag in the toilets, just like any other perfectly normal girl friends. Specifically the kind of stuck-up bitches that Naomi detests and the kind that give her stink-eye when she enters the bathroom at a club and awkwardly interrupts their preening and squawking as she darts around them to the toilet.

Her lashes darken with each sweep. “Didn't think you'd be here,” she says casually between strokes.

Naomi looks at her with mild disbelief. “In the loo?”

Michelle chuckles and twists the cap back on her mascara, batting her eyelashes at her reflection. “No, at this party.” She pauses and looks over with an unreadable expression. “You haven't been around much at all lately.”

The blonde hums noncommittally and offers only a lazy shrug of her shoulders as she watches Michelle pull out a stick of lip-gloss from her black hole of a purse, studies it briefly and finally pulls it open. A very distinct scent of candy apple wafts towards her nostrils as Michelle presses on the gloss. Entrancing is probably not the right word for the action, Naomi muses to herself, cos she definitely should not be entranced by anyone other than her girlfriend. But there's something about apples, or maybe the way Michelle is sliding the lip-gloss around her lips that prevents Naomi from looking away. How many girls watch their friends do this all the time? And none of them get very mildly turned on by the action, she reckons. Michelle smacks her lips together a few times, leans into her reflection again and dabs at errant bits of candy apple goo.

What was that bollocks her mum said about apples and snakes? Something about naked people running all willy-nilly around the woods and some talking animals, then eating fruit that made them evil and some angry ghost yelling at them? Sounds like some acid-trippy Harry Potter shit to Naomi honestly, and all she can recall for sure with her mind this foggy is her mum ranting about figs instead of apples and the damnable errors of Western religious history.

Satisfied with her touch-up, Michelle smiles at herself in the mirror. Reaching down, she pulls on her bra and top, nonchalantly adjusting her tits so they are even more noticeable. “It's nice to see you out is all,” she says to her reflection before turning to the younger girl. She grins at Naomi like one of those cartoon lions in films, her green eyes narrowing as they focus on their prey. “Can't hide away forever.”

Naomi's nostrils flare as the aroma of apples hits again. She meets the irresistible force head on.

It's bad, this kissing business. It's very, very bad. Horribly bad, in fact. Because somewhere on the other side of what is a moderately thin wooden door, her girlfriend is laughing with her friends, innocent and unaware of any flurry of recurrent betrayal. Somewhere on the other side of that same door, a lanky, magnetic sort of blue-eyed devil is lying in wait for Michelle too. But at the moment, the door is enough assurance of safety, or of secrecy. She sees that sullen Rich bloke with his hilariously mismatched girlfriend and two different worlds colliding into one. She wishes she could use that as justification for her actions but she's well aware that there isn't an excuse in the universe that could make this anything but bad.

The only good news is that she's not entirely sure if she completely instigated it. She reckons that Michelle played her part too because Naomi finds herself stumbling backwards, crashing into the mess she'd created earlier as she greedily swallows candy apple lip-gloss. But still, it's Naomi whose hands stray beyond the boundaries of a simple kiss first sliding from their grasp in now-tangled chestnut hair, and down further.

She's never touched Michelle in this intimate way and it's ludicrous that -- now when she's actually in a relationship -- she deems it the ideal time to take this step. Her desperate fingers graze over the soft curves of perfect breasts before her palms take notice and press harder, her hands full and moving and Michelle's small moan reverberating against her lips. In response, warm fingers slide up and under her own top, racing around her waist and trailing up the indent of her lower spine. The resulting goose-pimples must be terribly noticeable and the shudder only amplifies the feeling.

This is nothing like the park. It's not gentle, it's not lazy, it's not even remotely innocent; it's pushy and frenzied More obviously desperate than the first time they kissed, less friendly than the last. But at least it's equally as thoughtless. Not premeditated. The bracket of the broken towel rack digs into her back but she's too preoccupied with lips and hands and breasts to pay much mind to how she'll have to explain away that angry purple bruise to Emily. Truthfully, the idea of Emily in any sense never manages to break through the haze of lust, especially not when Michelle writhes against Naomi, moans quietly and strangled in her ear, as the blonde fumbles with the button on insanely tight jeans.

The rush is exhilarating really, like being let out out of a cage that had been all too confining and unnatural and now running free again. It's like bounding over hills at full speed in a tornado, wind whipping and streaming over her body. Caught up in a tiny hurricane. (A little too much like a certain word beginning with “l”.) She doesn't really think too hard about much in these energized moments and instead allows the momentum to carry them wherever it may go. Michelle's lips glide over exposed skin as if she knows exactly what to do, though really, if Effy is to be trusted, that's not very surprising as the older has a bit of a reputation of being a slag, to put it bluntly. And if she's seeing Tony Stonem, all's fair in love and war, yeah? Naomi manages to push denim away just as a hot hand reaches up under her bra and she bites down on her bottom lip, huffing out a pant through a clenched jaw.

It falls apart not longer after Naomi slips nimble fingers into delicious wetness. Michelle's a screamer probably cos she's definitely a moaner. Naomi knows they're good sounds, of course, she's not retarded but they're completely novel. She can tell Michelle wants to get off as badly as she does. It's bloody well undeniable at this point and Naomi feels the desire coursing through every fucking capillary now, her body pulsing in complimentary need. But when the moment comes and Naomi shifts back just a bit to look the other girl in the face, she doesn't see familiar dark brown eyes gazing back at her. They're dilated green (so, so green in this light) and her breath catches painfully in her throat. It must be the same for Michelle: the blue eyes that she expects are different and a hell of a lot more feminine. It's as if someone has bluntly just froze time in that exact second.

Fear and regret seem to bubble to the surface simultaneously but it's Michelle who pulls back her hands from up Naomi's bra first. A millisecond later, Naomi's freed herself from her own snare. They say nothing; it's awkward enough as it is.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.

The brunette rapidly adjusts her clothes and snatches her bag up, scrambling through it for her lip-gloss again. Naomi slithers around behind her, trying to make her escape as one nervous hand flattens her hair and wipes over her mouth, removing all evidence of candy apples. She makes it almost to the door of the tiny room when Michelle sighs. It's an incredibly sad sound and something in Naomi's chest tightens. It's painfully familiar.

Tentative fingers dangle out and snag on Naomi's own hand. The tug is almost imperceptible but she's drawn closer nonetheless and for the briefest of moments, there's a brush of soft lips against her own.

“Sorry.”

And then reality snaps back and Naomi's left staring at Michelle who's now gazing at herself in the glass and dabbing on lip-gloss again. “Sorry,” she repeats quieter to her reflection and Naomi slips out of the bathroom without a word.

In the corridor, all she can hear is thudding music and a chorus of chaotic voices. She breathes deeply once, twice. Five times actually before she wills herself down the passageway and back towards the party. She grinds down the luscious, woolly feeling that has risen in her chest right where guilt is supposed to be flailing about in full-force. It is strangely subdued this time. Naomi refuses to consider what that means.

<< PART 6 >>
PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6

FIC: i can't get out of love ;; part 4

doreah — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 03:50:50 GMT

i can't get out of love (a love i had a grip on; now it's gripping me)

Author: Eskimo Jo
Rating: 18
Warning: language, sexuality, substance use.

“I've heard that it's possible to grow up -- I've just never met anyone who's actually done it. We throw tantrums when things don't go our way, we whisper secrets with our best friends in the dark, we look for comfort where we can find it, and we hope - against all logic, against all experience. Like children, we never give up hope.”
– Meredith Grey, “Grey's Anatomy”

Effy doesn't even ring her the next day. It's not until late Saturday afternoon that her mobile finally vibrates with a call. There's some apparently amazing drum and bass night at Blue Mountain which was being promoted by an old college mate of Tony's. It's going to be the rave of the year of course. Effy's already got comp tickets, queue jump, pocket full of powder, etc. All the usual hype, Naomi notes with disdain. A night of pilled-up debauchery in Stokes Croft is hardly out of the ordinary or very likely to indeed be the “rave of the year”. Sounds painfully normal actually. And thus, dreadfully dull. But of course, Naomi doesn't say no to Effy. There's no point. If she had even attempted it, she would have been faced with multiple irritating texts and calls, and if she's particularly unlucky, a spontaneous visit from her friend accompanied by virtual acquaintances she could barely place. Those were the worst. For some peculiar reason, if Naomi made it far enough in the refusal dance to warrant a house call, Gina would always answer first, and despite how wrecked Naomi normally ended up by the time she stumbled home in the early hours of dawn, her mother seemed to consider it a good idea to go out. Sometimes she really wished she could have a normal mother, just for once. Just once she'd like Gina to forget the whole “you'll never be younger or able to enjoy it as muc as you do now” bollocks and tell Effy “No, my daughter's staying in with her mother for once.”

So, of course, by the time midnight rolls around the blonde has done herself up appropriately for the venue and the company and is standing in a corner of the rooftop terrace, sipping her Red Stripe and staring disinterestedly at the graffiti all around. She feels as if she's seen it a million times before and the million and first time is not going to suddenly make it anymore exciting. Effy's disappeared again. Dissolved into the darkness. She's been off for sometime now, probably either selling or buying more drugs or shagging some manky bloke in the loos. Usually the later didn't take quite so long.

As it happens, during this boring as fuck wait, she catches a glimpse of familiar hair. It's really quite sad how she recognises it especially since it's just normal hair; not like Emily's unnaturally vivid red. It doesn't hurt however, that in truth, Michelle is accompanied by quite the ginger... stunner? Naomi's not sure what to make of the girl with Michelle with her Betty Page red hair and clothes that appear to have shrunk about 7 sizes in the wash, yet she's still managed to squeeze into them. Also, what a mouth. The girl seems to be going on at about the speed of light, mostly to Michelle but also to any lad that breezes by. There's something about Michelle's demeanour, and something about her wobble that are leading Naomi to believe her friend is already quite sauced. Wouldn't be the first time, by any means, but it's certainly not expected. She'd thought Michelle and Tony had been doing fine and the only time Michelle appears to get wrecked is if something is up with her and her wanker boyfriend. It's not like she'd know since they hadn't spoken since the park.

She's not sure how long she spends staring at the other girl across the crowd of munted young people, but it's long enough for her companion to wander off with some bloke and not long after Michelle throws her arms around a very, very fit blond boy. Buff indeed. They seem to know each other well, she reckons as Michelle seems relaxed and not playing up that irritating sexpot thing she constantly seems to try on most boys. Old friends, most likely. It's sometime during this creepy lurking that some absolutely monged out black girl slams into Naomi, accompanied by a strangely troll-like boy with beady little eyes. Even in this light, Naomi can see how huge the girl's pupils are and she apologises like mad for a minute, constantly brushing strands of purple hair from her face. Her nose ring glints under the patio lights as she grabs onto the fence for support. Naomi thinks that perhaps these two twats are speaking to her but it's all nonsense. The boy is constantly saying, “Live, live, live!” to get the girl's attention. It's probably some intoxicated hippie message inspired by whatever Class-As they've obviously replaced their blood with. They look vaguely familiar from some party or another, and she guesses it was that Roundview one a few weeks back. Upper sixths? Probably. Either way, they eventually push off when Naomi doesn't grace them with any sort of response beyond a sharply arched eyebrow. Not two metres later, she watches the pair knock into Karen Mclair and that gangster's daughter. For fuck sake, it never ends. Naomi turns away from the familiar faces, pulling her blonde hair into a curtain to shield her from recognition. It works and she breathes a sigh of relief. Ever since Freddie died, she can't bear to look at Karen. They had all tried to be friends following the tragedy but it was awkward and staring too long in Freddie's sister's eyes was uncomfortable. It was like she was a little bit dead as well. Even as Karen goes about her usual partying, there's still that lingering sadness.

She fucking hates Bristol. In a city this size, there shouldn't be such a propensity to run into familiar people so often. Taking a rather large gulp of her lager and deep drag of her cigarette from her other hand, she returns her attention to Michelle and her friend on the other side of the patio. (In honesty, she can't fucking keep her eyes off Michelle right now.) They're chatting animatedly, and Sid and Anwar seem to have joined them at some point. It's only when she chances a general scope of the rest of the area that she becomes acutely aware of a shorter girl standing a tad too close to her, leaning against the railing. The redhead is staring at Michelle and the blond boy as well. She looks painfully out of place at this club in her buttoned up polo shirt and juvenile red barrettes in her hair. They clash with the orange, Naomi thinks. She'd be quite pretty otherwise perhaps.

The girl must somehow sense Naomi watching her and she turns to the blonde with a smirk. “Don't waste your time,” she says bluntly in a thick Welsh accent and nods towards Michelle. “He's a flaming homosexual.”

“I'm not--,” Naomi starts but the redhead chuckles. It's dismissive and creepy.

“Ho-mo-sex-u-al,” she says again, drawing out every syllable slowly, as if the blonde didn't understand her the first time. She cocks her head to the side, taking in the group of friends. “Besides, they're all tossers, you know.” Her voice drifts out again, laced with hurt as she fiddles with the wrist strap of her pocket camera.

Naomi is now curious. “You know Michelle and Anwar then?”

The other girl glowers at her in the dim light, her brown eyes intense and focused. “Yes.” But before Naomi has a chance to ask anymore probing questions of the stranger, she's moved away and merged back into the darkness of the club indoors. Naomi shakes her head with a laugh and tries to shake the tingling feeling of being watched.

As she turns back to her previous subject of observation, her breath catches as she sees Michelle watching her as well. There's a panic there momentarily, for them both. Naomi can feel it inside her chest, in the pit of her stomach and the back of her throat. Familiar and terribly strong. And she can see it clearly on Michelle's face but it seems to pass quickly like a sudden summer storm because she whirls back, grabs the blond boy's hand and yanks him towards Naomi, pushing through the milling crowd with neither grace nor apology until they come face to face. Naomi quickly drops her fag and crushes it with a toe, breathing out deeply. The brunette drops her friend's hand and envelops Naomi in a slightly crushing embrace that lasts a bit too long as well. Naomi does her best not to breathe in the other girl's perfume too deeply. As she pulls back, she notes that on top of her perfume, indeed Michelle does smell like a distillery in Russia and when she moves away, she stumbles a bit and Naomi has to lay a hand on her arm to steady her. Instead of backing away completely, Michelle loops an arm around Naomi's neck, almost like a head lock and grins drunkenly at both the blondes.

“Maxxie, this is Naomi I was telling you about,” she slurs slightly, tightening her hold just a bit more. It's almost uncomfortable. Maxxie nods a hello but before he can say anything, the brunette speaks again.

“Maxxie is one of my best mates,” Michelle continues. “And now he's all famous in the West End doing shows and generally being the most successful of all of us, yeah?” There's something to the tone Michelle is using that is unfamiliar. It's not unfriendly exactly, in fact she seems quite sincere, but there's just a little hint of something else lurking under the surface. “But he's, like, gay gay so I can't marry him.”

Naomi's brow furrows in confusion as she watches their interaction. Whilst it's obvious that they're friends, she can't quite put her finger on what's a little off about them, or just Michelle today. Something shit must have happened with Tony recently or else Michelle's attitude doesn't make much sense. She's positively clingy right now and refusing to let Naomi wriggle away.

“So, Max...” It's a question. Or a half of one at least. Naomi's not quite sure what it means or what she's asking but there's a prickly feeling along the back of her neck that it's something to do with her. Maxxie nods pleasantly at Naomi, a toothy smile stretching across his lips.

“Well done, yeah, Chelle,” he states, giving Naomi a once-over. “It's nice to meet you.”

Michelle leans in exceptionally close to Naomi's ear and her hot, alcohol-laced breath slips over the younger girl's neck. “Max and I have been telling secrets,” she whispers conspiratorially and suddenly Naomi flushes, hopefully not too noticeably under the dull patio lanterns. Secrets about? Them? Her? The park? Whatever it is, it can't possibly be good cos Maxxie is studying her both thoughtfully and affectionately. It's fucking weird. Naomi shifts and fidgets with the attention. There's very little time to dwell however because almost as soon as he's arrived, Maxxie is whisked away by an over-excited Anwar into the throbbing mass of people inside as an MC starts shouting badman-like into the mic.

The two girls are left alone and despite the ruckus all around them as the crowd moves seemingly en masse towards the dancefloor as the headlining DJs start spinning hard jungle, it's too quiet. Michelle has yet to loosen her hold around Naomi's neck and is blearily staring off into space, literally. It's a cloudless night again –quite a record for Bristol actually with its incessantly rainy weather-- and the stars are beginning to poke out of the navy backdrop. It's only the most powerful of them, the brightest ones, as all the ambient light pollution from the city drowns out any lesser stars. Naomi glances up too, hoping to catch a glimpse of Orion's belt but it's too early in the year. Plus, it only reminds her of JJ now, and thus Emily's text. In a bid to distract herself from that spectacular fuck-up, she peers over at Michelle.

“You all right?”

Apparently, Naomi's voice startles the other girl slightly as if she'd forgotten where she was or who she was with. Her arms drop away quickly and she takes a step back, putting space between them. A cold draft sneaks in her place. It only takes a minute or so for the break to occur. It starts with Michelle nodding agreeably, ensuring that everything is fine because well, everything is always just fine, isn't it? The nods start to slow with each passing second and like cracks spidering out of a poorly constructed dike, Michelle's smile begins to crumple in pieces. First the leftside corner turns down, her eyes start to crinkle, her forehead creases. It's like a slow motion trainwreck because as much as the older girl seems to be attempting to hold it in, hold back the damage, it's leaking out as her armour weakens and splinters. What was once a nod of affirmation has turned into a defiant headshake and accompanying it are the first spots of tears.

There's a blur of movement and once again, Naomi finds herself wrapped up in an altogether suffocating embrace, but this one is accompanied by saltwater tears soaking through to her shoulder. Michelle's fucking drunk and this is precisely the very thing Naomi loathes and goes to great lengths to avoid under normal circumstances, like when they first met incidentally. But this time, with it being a friend, the rules change and her arms hold onto a quivering, pathetic sort of girl and instead of contempt, she feels a little something approaching sympathy instead. Michelle's mumbling unrecognisable words into her neck that Naomi can't make out above the rapid-fire drum and bass and the general chatter surrounding them. She squeezes harder as compensation. And it's only after what seems like a drawn-out hour, Michelle calms down enough for Naomi to understand the words.

“Tony's sleeping with someone else. I just know...”

The information isn't surprising in the least, if she's honest. Tony is always playing around, dancing through life like a particularly care-free schoolyard bully, content that his god-given cleverness will get him out of whatever mess he finds himself in (and there is a lot of mess). The part that is surprising is that it's taken Michelle this long to actually admit to the knowledge. She'd heard enough about their past, about what made Michelle & Tony work – and also what broke them apart so many times. Maybe it was foolish, but Naomi can somewhat understand why Michelle thought that finally things would be different. When people grow up, they're supposed to generally become smarter, wiser, better people. They don't normally revert back to the fucking assholes they were at 16. That would indeed be a horrible world. A bunch of 50-year-olds with 16-year-old brains and personalities; all the adults in the world reduced to their unbearable teenage counterparts. Horrid. Then again, she had learnt in GCSE Psychology that personality is generally static. Who you are as a 14-year-old is pretty much who you'll stay for the rest of your life, barring any sort of brain injury or traumatic experience. And even then, most of the time, those things are exactly that: injuries and experiences and eventually you heal again, thus transform back into the person you were beforehand. She hadn't been convinced that had actually been the truth, at least not until now. It seems like people really don't change all that much, fundamentally speaking. They learn things, adapt, manage to suppress the nasty bits better, but never truly change.

More than anything though, Naomi wanted to believe that given enough chances, even the most dysfunctional couples could make it work. Maybe that was just getting a little too personal.

Michelle's carrying on about how she suspects it again, but doesn't know who or why. The image of Katie lounging in Tony's t-shirt pops into Naomi's head and she wills it away, blaming it on an over-active imagination and no actual proof. She can't imagine Effy would stand for that anyway.

In the midst of the crying, the brunette pulls in a hard sob, catching it in her throat and swallowing hard. “That's why I like you, Naomi. I know you'd never fuck my boyfriend.” There's something more about never worrying, never suspecting, finally having a mate who isn't after Tony Stonem's cock. In honesty, the blonde is a little offended that she's been reduced to a token lesbian friend and kept around it appears simply because she presents no competition. Again, she bites down hard on her tongue and resists the urge to tell Michelle about all those offers from Effy's stupid brother.

“That's why I really like you,” she tries again, making an attempt at being serious. Naomi grimaces. Her sigh must be felt by the other girl in spite of the hiccups there because Michelle pulls back, runs a hand sloppily through blonde hair and cracks a tiny, lop-sided smile. “Really.”

“That's nice, Chelle,” Naomi says as if talking to a toddler, distancing herself now that she has the opportunity but for every step away, the older girl mirrors it with a step closer of her own. The runner and the chaser. The fox and the hound.

“Naomi.” Her name isn't a question. It's merely breathed out as if summoned from deep within her chest.

And it's going to happen again. Naomi knows; she can feel it without a doubt. Moreover, she's feeling incapable of stopping it. Her heart begins to jitter, beat that little bit faster as Michelle draws closer. And then, just as Naomi expects the touch of the more and more familiar lips against her own, there's another hiccup. It breaks the tension.

“Christ, I'm drunk,” comes the teary slurred speech. Just like that, whatever that moment had been leading to dissolves into the air around them. Michelle rights herself a little more properly (though by no means soberly) and runs a finger under both eyes, wiping away escaped mascara and taking deep breaths. They're back to normal.

The respite lasts all too briefly because just as Michelle's managed to pull herself together into something vaguely resembling a functional human being, a recognisable figure comes into view, flanked by a smirking Effy on one side and skanky Katie on the other.

“Tony!”

He glances in the direction of his name, a flash of surprise on his face but it's replaced almost immediately with that smarmy little grin. And then Michelle sees Katie, glances at Naomi as if it's somehow her fault and glowers. “That's the slut!” she cries and attempts to charge towards the twin and Tony. It comes as a shock to more than just Michelle when Naomi reaches out and grapples the older girl, holding her back from her rageful mission. Katie stops dead in her tracks, glancing in pure confusion at the scene and this random chick trying to rip her throat out. For a moment, she just stares, then she pieces it together, raises an eyebrow in disbelief and snorts. Effy too is just watching as Michelle struggles helplessly against Naomi's bondage, intent only on causing serious bodily harm to Katie Fitch. Her eyes are positively burning with hatred.

The twin waves dismissively at Tony's girlfriend (which really only works to rile her up further) and floats away into the crowd with Effy. Tony, however, approaches them confidently.

“Hey, babe. Figured you'd be out here getting some air. Really looks like you could use it, yeah?”

“You wanker, Tony!”

Tony plays dumb. He's quite adept at that game. “Something the matter, Nips?”

And then the tears come again. Angry, helpless, drunken tears. Naomi loosens her hold knowing Tony will step in this time. He reaches out to brush a finger over his girlfriend's cheek but a hard slap keeps him at bay. “You know what's the matter, you asshole.” She sucks in a stuttering breath. “I thought you'd changed. I thought we really had a chance this time.”

Tony shrugs and Naomi notices that this time, he honestly does look genuinely confused about all the fuss. “I have.”

Brown hair flicks against Naomi's face as Michelle shakes her head rapidly, whipping her hair around. “You haven't. You fucking... fucking...” She trails off, clenching her eyes shut, searching desperately for the words she wants. “You promised, Tone.” Her voice, once so full of fire, is weak and tired. Exhausted. “Promised me.”

He glances to Naomi for explanation but she's no better an idea than he does likely. He seems to be tossing ideas around in his head, trying to figure out what to say, what to ask but is interrupted by Maxxie who has rushed back over, alerted by a little birdie by the name of Effy Stonem most likely. The blond boy slides an supportive arm around Michelle's waist and leads her away from Tony and Naomi. “Let's get you home, Chelle.” She continues to cry as they fade away.

Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets and purses his lips for a moment as he watches his friends go back inside, and presumably to hail a taxi downstairs. “What's that all about?” He asks Naomi straight up as if she'd really tell him the answer. She just rolls her eyes at him instead.

“Maybe if you try thinking with your brain instead of your cock, you'd figure it out yourself.” She shakes her head as well and proceeds back inside to the deafening chaos of the club.

Chaos is actually a relatively tame word for the state of the crowd indoors. For once, it may actually be the rave of the year cos the entire place is going off, literally bouncing with unbridled energy in the main room downstairs. Teenagers and 20-somethings are all packed tightly together, throwing themselves into each other to the music and the drum and bass is amping everything up to another level. Naomi can't say honestly that she's seen a night like this for a while now. She spots Anwar, Sid, Effy and Katie up near the DJ booth chatting (or shouting more like) with who Naomi can only assume is Kenneth, the MC and the one responsible for the whole lot of them even being here tonight. She sneaks around to an empty place against the wall. Next to her, there's that skinny ginger boy from before plastered against it. She can't quite tell if he's trying to climb the wall or hump it.

Squinting at her, he leans over and screams, “Can you feel it? It's fucking brilliant!”

Unfortunately, Naomi can't feel it, whatever it is and the boy only works to remind her of Pandora. Too many drugs, not enough sense sometimes. As his metalhead friend comes by, he moves off to another section of the wall leaving Naomi with her own mind and thrumming bass.

It's not that odd that she wouldn't have seen the other girl coming. After all, it's rather dark inside and the flashing strobes and lasers don't paint a complete picture of her surroundings at all. There is so much movement that even a flash of familiar red hair could have been easily missed. But then, before Naomi has a chance to prepare herself, Emily materialises smack dab in front of her face. Jumping back, she only manages to thud against the wall. Oh, the bass. She can feel it. Like the strong pulse of blood rushing through strangled veins.

“Emily?” It's all she manages to stutter above the music.

Moving closer, likely in order to keep their voices to a mere shout, Emily nods. “Hi, Naomi.”

Naomi swallows hard, biting down on her lip, and shifting about like a cornered animal. She has no idea what is about to happen and her lack of preparedness only works to increase her anxiety. Emily tilts her head to the side and locks on with her deep brown eyes, black in this light. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

Is she taking the piss? What's going on? Naomi's confusion must glide over her face because Emily continues, her expression unbelievingly gentle. “About before. Thanks for not letting your girlfriend beat the shit out of my sister. She looked well angry. Katie would probably thank you herself if she could but pride and all that.”

What?! “She's not my–.”

“I mean, Katie's not shagging Effy's brother. She would have said, bragged more like. I think. ”

“Michelle's not my girlfriend.” It's the only thing Naomi feels they need to talk about. She honestly couldn't give a toss about Katie's sexual partners. The statement causes Emily to pause and her face takes on a mixture of relief and confusion herself. “She's Tony's girlfriend.”

Emily chuckles then. It's a sound Naomi hasn't heard for a fucking age and it makes warmth seep up through her toes and it tingles down her spine like a soft kiss behind the ear. God, she's almost like that Emily Naomi'd finally succumbed to at the lake. “I suppose that makes better sense then.” The twin leans away slightly as if she's preparing to leave but Naomi knows Emily's clever, too clever sometimes and there's no way she wouldn't have sussed out that Michelle was Tony's girlfriend. This whole conversation seems to be an excuse to talk. And Naomi likes excuses. A lot.

The redhead shrugs again, a small smile on her lips. “Well, I should get–”

“Can I buy you a drink, Ems?”

Okay, so Effy is right this time. It is the party of the year.

<< PART 4 >>
PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6

FIC: i can't get out of love ;; part 3

doreah — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 03:44:14 GMT

i can't get out of love (a love i had a grip on; now it's gripping me)

Author: Eskimo Jo
Rating: 18
Warning: language, sexuality, substance use.

The lush green grass is lovely in the sun; warm tickles of nature licking at the skin on her bare legs as the wind rustles the blades, the sunshine bearing down but not too heavily on them as they pass the joint back and forth. It's been quite a while since she'd shared this with another person. This is so wonderful it should be illegal, Naomi muses to herself, and sputters into a weak fit of giggles at the thought. Without even knowing what the blonde is so amused about, Michelle chuckles along too only pausing as she takes a pull, flicking a bit of ash carelessly into the breeze that also snatches away the wisps of smoke from her lungs. The trees behind them block them from most of the usual passersby along the footpath. The spliff has burnt down to a small nub as Naomi plucks it from Michelle's weak grasp. She sucks it in until the fire extinguishes and the heat burns her fingers. Dropping the remaining bit into the grass, she lies back, the sun cascading from somewhere behind her, giving her a rather boring yet not unwanted view of the empty pitch. She prefers it like this anyway, empty, lonely, even though she doesn't feel lonely at all with Michelle somewhere to her right. The prickles of grass around her sway slightly as the other girl settles down until her back as well after taking a deep swig from the water bottle Naomi always carries with her.

It's not clear when they had begun talking, like proper talking, but suddenly Naomi is aware of Michelle's voice slowly relaying something about her old friends. She's recalling a friend Jal, her best friend from college who has moved far away. Naomi can't remember what Michelle had said a few seconds ago. Master's programme in ... Music? Somewhere cold is all Naomi can think when it comes time to remember where she was studying. Probably Scotland then? Scotland never really seemed like a particular pillar of musical education, what with all the grating bagpipes, bodhrans and funny Highland dancing. Michelle's saying something about missing Jal, like quite a lot, but there's no reason for her to come home to Bristol anytime soon. Somehow, without Naomi saying much more than a quiet “Oh.”, Michelle's moved onto the topic of another friend, Cassie. This one's weirder and it's making her skin prickly.

Oh. No. That is just a rather large ant curiously crawling along her arm. Stupid insects. She swats it away, missing part of Michelle's story in the process of focusing on the tiny creature. She thinks she's got the whole tale however. At least the important bits. Cassie sounds like a character from a fairytale, like one of those fucked up modern ones, but a fairytale nonetheless. She doesn't sound quite real. Maybe she isn't. Maybe she's a figment of Michelle's cannabis-induced high. It wouldn't be the first time a stoner came up with a weird thought. That would all maybe seem like the most logical option had Michelle not been throwing in names of people Naomi also knew, like that Sid geek. What a tool.

“Why didn't he...like... just go after her?” she finds herself asking without even realising it, her own voice sounding soft and unfamiliar. After all, that's what you're supposed to do when people you love leave, and if you're still in love and they still love you. You go after them. Naomi knows that well enough, knows it from both sides having been the pursued and the pursuer. She's not that talented at the latter, but she has a go anyway.

Michelle sighs, her head turning to gaze over at her friend. “New York City is massive, Naomi.” Oh, right. “It's not like you can just show up, walk down the road and find a specific person. Not like here.” Her voice holds resentment, probably cos of all the parties they seem to end up with old mates from college and shit.

“Hmm, I guess.”

“Like, if you are that ant, yeah?” she muses and gestures to the stubborn ant that has resumed its journey up Naomi's arm. “And this park is New York and all the blades of grass are skyscrapers and so there's that; but then imagine if as well, there are millions of other ants everywhere. But you need to find just one. It's gonna take bloody ages, no? Especially if you don't want to be found.”

The clouds in the sky above them are swirling it seems. Slowly morphing into shapes, all unrecognisable things, imaginary creatures with multiple tails and multiple heads, like that Cerberus dog at the gates of Hades. But fluffy, soft and not terrifying at all. She's heard the explanation Michelle's given her and doesn't feel a need to push the issue. She's right probably, even though Naomi's quite sure neither one of them has actually been to America to know how true it all is. It's just like the films, yeah? They'll both have to take Sid's word for it. Only then does she feel a second trail along her arm following in the wake of the almost imperceptible footsteps of the ant. Glancing down with some effort, she sees Michelle's finger lazily trailing behind the insect as it journeys across the ticklish skin of the inside of her elbow and then over the hump of a bicep. There's a glazed look in the brunette's green eyes as if she's not quite focused but also concentrating too hard. It doesn't tickle really, not until Michelle touches her there, under her elbow.

Biting down on her lip does nothing as eventually the laughter escapes. The sound appears to rattle her companion for a moment before she recognises the source and the reason, and then there's more than one finger, a whole hand of them actually, climbing towards the top of her arm, dipping down into her armpit. Wiggling. Niggling. It starts as a chuckle again but erupts into full-out laugher in a matter of seconds. It feels nice to laugh. It's sort of artificial since it's been inspired by both drugs and physical manipulation, but all the same, it's nice. Michelle giggling alongside her doesn't hurt either. Not many people know she's even ticklish, save Emily and Cook. Cook, only cos he's twat and in some less-than-brilliant stroke of inspiration, went for it one day at her house and she hadn't been quick enough to dodge away from his fluttering fingers. A swift kick to the groin had put him off for a while. And Emily, well, Emily was the only one allowed to actually touch her like that, mostly because she'd seen her lose control in much more interesting and embarrassing ways that convulsing from laughter. Tickling was nothing in comparison to that. Really, how could it when she'd cum all over her face before? Emily knew full well what the usual composed Naomi Campbell looked like when she's lost all sense of herself. Without thinking, Naomi pushes Michelle away, slightly too roughly, almost like she's angry. She's not, at least not that she's aware of herself, but she can't lose herself. Not now and not yet.

Thankfully, Michelle doesn't seem too concerned with the rebuttal, she's too dazed herself, and lies back down in the grass, staring at the same blue sky. They're silent. Naomi's not able to tell how long it's been, the weed playing tricks with her sense of time, stretching it out beyond all reason, sometimes snapping it back and making her wonder if she's missed something. Broken pieces of time, stretched and snapped, like elastic bands around her fingers. She contemplates JJ suddenly and without warning and her mind starts to derail with the meaning of that meeting. What was the point? What did it mean? What the fuck was he even on about anyway? She grasps at the remnants of their conversation, attempting to fit the pieces she does remember together into a big picture. Halfway through, she forgets what she was doing and becomes preoccupied with the idea of puzzles. Like those cardboard ones, not theoretical ones. They always had silly photos of fluffy puppies or boring Venetian canals. Why did people do puzzles? Honestly, you could just look at the box and see the final picture. What's the point? The futility of store-bought puzzles is forgotten instantly when Michelle's voice wafts over the din in her mind. Paranoia leaks in suddenly, wondering if she'd been thinking out loud... or maybe Michelle can read her mind or something equally bizarre. When the words reach her ears, she's relieved to recognise that they have no connection to her previous train of thought.

“What would you do if...” Her voice trails off as she seems to rethink her question. “You're like, gay. Can you see yourself spending the rest of your life with a man? Does it ever...” She never finishes the question and Naomi's glad for that. The whole concept is as confusing in its motivation as it is in its answer. She hadn't actually considered it a possibility, not since Emily. She was going to spend the rest of her life with Emily.

Now she's certain she's spoken aloud cos Michelle huffs and says with an air of irritation, “Okay, but what if that doesn't... I mean. What if there was a man?”

This is starting to teeter on the typical 'But have you ever been with a man?' or 'You've just not met the right one yet' edge. She fucking despises this cliff. In retaliation, Naomi snaps, “Well, can you see yourself spending the rest of your life with a woman?” She'll toss Michelle off the cliff instead.

She expects a smart-arse reply, something quick and defensive and is thrown when there is actually no response. Nothing. Not a huff, not a sigh. She waits. It could be for a few seconds, or a few minutes. When she does turn her head towards the brunette, green eyes are staring, slightly blearily, at her. She meets the gaze, suddenly feeling strange as they hold it. Something is squirming in her gut, something like she'd felt seeing Chelle in her wet t-shirt. As if something clicks, Michelle breaks the stare, rolls her face back up to the sky. “Maybe. I don't know. I've never really...” It sounds raw, a little bit unsure, a lot strangled.

She seems to suddenly become aware of her confession and adds quickly, “I love Tony.”

Naomi rolls her eyes “Of course you do. And I love Emily.” There's something about how the words escape that makes her uncomfortable, especially in relation to what they were meant to respond to. She does love Emily, and Emily loves her. They just need time apart. But Tony? Well, he's a twat and Naomi's not entirely convinced Michelle loves him so much as is clinging desperately to him because of what he represents. Better days. Exciting days. Comfortable days. The old days. Days she knew well and felt alive in. The perfect life. He's sociable, and popular, and desirable and if she's with him maybe she becomes those things too. He's what she wishes to be, makes her a better person, or so she thinks probably. So she clings to a boy who maybe loved her once, probably a lot even, with his whole heart but cos growing up is shit, has left that part of him to wither and fade in the glare of the future. Why the fuck does it feel so familiar? Tony's an ass. He doesn't really seem to love her much anymore, at least to any third-parties. She knows Effy thinks the same. But maybe it's just something that you can't get out of, like how she'd felt back before Sophia. Trapped.

Nodding to herself mostly, Michelle takes a deep breath, squinting as a gull flies low overhead, surveying the two girls, scavenging for scraps of a picnic that never existed. Once again, Naomi has to calm herself that other people cannot actually read her mind when Michelle breaks the silence. “Maybe... it doesn't matter. Once you're in it, no matter who it's with, you can't get out of love. That's what I was asking, you know.” The gull, still circling above, answers her with a cry. The question seems much less offensive now that she explains it. She wasn't questioning Naomi's sexuality; she was pondering if other people felt the inevitability of love. “It's kind of inescapable.”

“Yeah,” Naomi concedes finally. Her head lolls in the grass, comfortably coming to face the profile of the older girl. Michelle is still gazing upwards at the sky, her eyelids half-fallen against the brightness of the early autumn day. She's pretty in this light, at this angle. Not like Emily, of course. There's no brilliant flash of fire, creamy pale skin to contrast. Delicate, petite features. Michelle's not like that. And she even looks different now from the girl she'd met in the shadowed and crowded room at the party what seems like an age ago. Younger, if that's possible. It's not, not really. People don't grow younger. That's impossible. She finds herself chuckling for no particular reason. Naomi reckons maybe they should do this more often. Peering across the very small gap between them, Michelle catches Naomi staring and raises an eyebrow to compliment her smirk.

“What?”

Shaking her blonde hair as best she can, she laughs. “Nothing. Just wondering what it'd be like if people could grow backwards. Like get younger.”

Michelle appears to seriously consider the question, her gaze darting elsewhere as if the scenery someplace has an answer. “Then they wouldn't really be growing would they?”

With a quiet hum, Naomi shrugs. “I guess.” She closes her eyes, savouring the warmth of the sunshine against her face. Soon it will shift and shadows will slowly creep over them. “We should do this more often,” she finds herself saying in almost a whisper. The weed has made her far too relaxed to really care about what all this could mean, like why she still has something burning near the base of her spine, licking out and up, like those fucking yoghurt or soap adverts that show slow-motion video of silk, twisting and sliding effortlessly through the air. She can't care about that feeling, cos it's just the drugs, right? It's always just the drugs. She giggles to herself again, before forcing her eyelids apart and squinting over at Michelle who's beaming back at her, even though she's still not actually responded to the suggestion. Or invitation. Whatever it was.

The giggles turn into another bout of infectious laughter, passing back and forth between them. It feels fucking good to just laugh for no reason.

See, it's all very normal. There had been no reason to really suspect that things were about to change significantly once again. JJ had been out of the ordinary, so had the previous nights unsought fantasies. It was quite enough. There was no bastardised concept of the Rule of Threes in her mind. So, whilst the day had been odd from the stroke of midnight onwards, the sunshine was waning and so too must the oddness. Most likely, even Michelle herself doesn't expect it, and wouldn't have even if she had known about the events of Naomi's day in any sort of detail.

This is why, during a pause in the giggles, they are both equally shocked to feel lips against their own. It's Michelle who has to pull back; she's the one who had taken that step too far. The laughter dies immediately as her eyes grow wide. Naomi notices how dilated her pupils are at the moment and the surrounding irises usually a hazelish-green are almost the same hue as the tree leaves around them. Suddenly that feeling in the pit of her stomach is back with a vengeance, gnawing and clawing at her for freedom. But she doesn't know what the fuck it is and if it's even a good idea to let it out. Best to keep it locked up tight.

Whatever it is, it's precisely what she blames for her action from then on. As if controlling her body from the inside out, going with her gut instead of her head, she offers a quick smile. It's not especially welcoming or encouraging, but it's enough.

Michelle winces, “Do you like me?”

The question itself is immature, preposterous even, and Naomi's amazed that she's finally found a situation in which to apply such a posh, pretentious sounding word. Of course she bloody does or else they wouldn't have started this complex and now altogether insane friendship. She looks up at the clouds for the best way to answer and is met only with fluffy, careless white puffballs. So she nods in affirmation, unaware of the ardent stare from a pair of green eyes. When no further question comes, she glances over again, offers a small supplementary smile and catches the gaze.

The brunette shifts closer again, tentatively brushing her lips against Naomi's for a second time. There's no reason for this; there's no liquor, and they're both in love with other people, right? Naomi knows she can't quite use even the excuse that she's lonely, cos, honestly, she's not really. She's actually been quite all right for the past little while. This isn't desperation and this isn't a game to manipulate Tony. This is... Shit. It may not be a first kiss but it fucking feels like it. That time before, at that party, they'd been completely wasted and complete strangers to each other, and it was supposed to have been the end of getting carried away. This is a lot like none of that, not even the carried away part. Sure there's the pot, but Naomi suspects this maybe was bound to happen with or without the drugs. Sort of like kissing Emily had been...

Normally the thought of her causes Naomi to flinch, pull back, second guess everything, but none of that is happening either. Instead, she presses a little harder herself.

It's so bloody soft. Gentle perhaps. Tentative but not fearful. Lazy but not careless. And it lasts for fucking ever. Ages upon ages, really. Or at least that's how it feels, but in a good way. A very good way that has worked to amplify how lovely the afternoon had been up to that point. If it stretched on forever like this, she's not sure she'd complain. There's just the two of them now, lying in the sunshine, slowly exploring. At one moment Naomi's tempted to move even closer, grab hold of an arm, an edge of a t-shirt, anything to pull them closer but the next moment, the idea vanishes and she's content just to drift along with the steady current; then it's back, the desire to do just a little more. Again, it fades. Over and over, it comes and goes like the ebb and flow of the ocean, the contentment winning every time as the waves draw back. She limits her hands to a light touch, cradled in the dip of a small waist and doesn't flinch as a smooth palm slips over her jaw and deft fingers twist idly through blonde strands.

Maybe it's 3 minutes later, maybe it's half an hour but when it ends, the air seems heavy and loaded. What previously had been a new, tentative friendship -- and only friendship despite the rough start -- is markedly different. Naomi wants to blame the spliff but knows she can't. Not this time. Michelle looks away almost immediately. While Naomi's heart may belong chained to the unyielding, immovable weight of another, it's Michelle who's actually in a relationship. Her face begins to betray the first signs of panic as she sits up abruptly, wiping a hand tiredly over her face and shaking her head.

“Oh god.”

She's taken the words right out of Naomi's mouth, who, at the moment is torn between confusion and absolutely completely loathing Michelle for what's she's done to them. They were fine before. A little dodgy, yeah, but it was all fine. She had enjoyed having a mate that wasn't Effy and wasn't mental. Now it's well fucked up.

Although, perhaps all is not lost. “It was just a kiss.”

The brunette turns, grimaces momentarily, and then faces back towards the rows of houses beyond. She laughs scornfully, “Yeah. Sure.”

For Christ's sake. Naomi's forced to play the rational one now. It literally was just a snog. Unfortunately, it seems packed with a little too much meaning even though what that even is still isn't clear. “Whatever. Forget it, okay?” It feels as though she's trying to convince herself just as much as Michelle.

The older girl pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms over them and sits there in silent consideration of the proposition. Eventually she looks back over her shoulder at Naomi who has now also taken a cross-legged seat on the grass. “Can we go back to friends?”

That's precisely what Naomi wants so she shrugs. She doesn't see why not. There's no set rule that snogging signalled a definite end of a friendship. If neither dwells on it, it doesn't mean anything. Probably. No, it most certainly does not mean anything. They're only making it mean something by going on like this. When she's back with Emily, this whole day won't even be a blip in her memory, that's how inconsequential it is. Then there's a sigh from the older girl.

“Okay then.”

The conversation ceases at that moment. The only sounds shared between them are the distant gleeful cries of some children in the park and the rumble of the occasional car down the streets adjacent. A few birds accompany the din, but no other voices. She grits her teeth.

The tension snaps easily when out of nowhere, a boy stands in front of them. He's grinning in amusement but there's the smallest hint of confusion on his thin lips.

“Nips,” he smirks and then glances to Naomi. “Naomi.”

Naomi rolls her eyes at the unbidden presence. Tony Stonem is like chlamydia: everywhere cool and clueless people are, there he is too, jumping from one person to the next, constantly irritating everyone and making them all uncomfortable. Furthermore, just when you think you're finally rid of him, oh! Up he pops again to make life even more unbearable than it was before. She just can't find peace. And worse, his presence is causing Michelle to fidget uneasily like she really does have an itchy rash in her pants.

There's much too long a wait, much longer a pause than there should be, before she pulls her mask into place and greets him with that annoyingly and cloying trill, “Hi Tone.” Scrambling up to her feet, she grabs him by the front of his jumper and shoves her tongue quite obviously down his throat. “I was just thinking about you, babe.” Sticking out her tits and fluttering her eyelashes and all. It's gross.

Maybe this time is really is the spliff talking but Naomi snorts at the comment. Loudly. Tony's gaze fixes on her for only a second before he shrugs. It's Michelle's warning death-glare that is far more hurtful.

“Missed me, then?” he asks her smugly. “Just came to meet Kenneth to get some pills and tickets for the weekend. Fancy seeing you two instead.”

Naomi crawls to her feet, snatching up her bag and turning to hide yet another eye-roll from the two idiots in front of her. “See you later,” she tosses over her shoulder as she stalks away across the green not even pausing to listen for a reply.

“Later” doesn't seem to be anytime soon when after two days, Naomi's not heard a word from Michelle. It's fine. Perfectly fine in fact since she's got her shit job to keep her occupied anyway. But when her mobile beeps with a new text message, her heart thuds a bit faster than normal and she glances down, surprised to recognise how much she hopes it's Michelle.

It's not.

The familiar digits spear her vision, the name even moreso. Emily. If she had thought her heart was going a little overboard before, it's nothing compared to the reaction she's having to finally, finally having that name pop up, reaching out for communication. Panic sets in quickly as she reads the words. 4 simple words that could mean so many things, both horrible and wonderful.

'We need to talk.'

Talking had never been her strong point but she's willing to give it a go again; for Emily, she'd try anything once. Or twice. Or repeatedly even if she's shit at it. Her manic and exceptionally strong pulse pushes against her wrists, fingertips, chest. It's like she can feel Emily inside her, in her bloodstream, already, wild and full of energy. Everything they had been before, everything that Emily had made her feel by the lake. Her emotions alternate from nervous to enthralled to scared to elated and back again, all in a cycle that Naomi likes to call love. It's exhausting but it's worth it. With trembling fingers, she responds simply with OK.

There's no immediate reply. And not even one for the rest of her shift. By the time her manager gives her the go-ahead to leave, there's still nothing. Whatever she'd been feeling before faded fairly quickly and Naomi's a little pissed off with herself for allowing it to just disappear like that. Years ago, she'd have been on pins and needles for bloody hours at time. But today, between doing her job and her thoughts getting all jumbled up, she'd only managed to focus on the possibilities about a third of the time. She blames the drama with Michelle for interfering as whatever had happened there tangled itself around thoughts of Emily. Sometimes it was related to what Emily would think (if she was dumb enough to actually let it slip) and just what it all meant on its own.

Instead of taking her usual route home, she detours back into the Victoria Park and south towards Effy's house. If there was one person who may have some semblance of insight about what all this shit is about, it would be her and Naomi can only hope that she's not in one of her moods. Those are the worst, but considering she's not had any strange and cryptically dense messages left on her answerphone lately, she doesn't suspect that will be a problem. With some relief, she notices that Tony's ugly blue car isn't parked out front. In fact, she can't see it anywhere down the street and takes that as a good sign. One less issue.

But when she knocks, loudly, four times, and there still comes no answer, she pulls out the spare key Effy had given her once a long time ago. Very rarely had she needed to use it, and well, Anthea didn't even know she possessed it. That was all the better cos Naomi reckons Anthea's not too fond of her. She seems to want Effy to stay cooped up, alone and miserable, inside her soft, dull bedroom for the rest of her life just like she had been in that fucking asylum for all those months after Freddie's death. So, really, it's an excellent thing that, for the most part, Anthea's a terrible mother and isn't actually home the majority of the time. Naturally, that's where Tony's meant to step in and take over, except he's just as preoccupied with his own life as Effy is with blotter art, and she certainly loves that. Now seems like a good time to use the key.

There's no sound downstairs, not even the dripping of the kitchen tap that Effy had complained about previously. A muffled sound drifts down to her ears. Music, a TV maybe. She clambers up the staircase and follows the sound to Effy's room with heavy, stomped footsteps. She throws open the door, her mouth already running and about ready to give her mate an earful about good manners when people are calling. Instead, she's silenced by an incredibly sharp and irritated glare from Katie Fitch.

“Ugh, you heifer. Shut up, would you?”

Naomi's mouth hangs open, in mid-word but silent. The small TV is babbling quietly about some rap celebrity or something and Katie's sitting on Effy's bed, on top of the duvet, as Effy sleeps deeply beside her. What's worse, she's wearing one of Tony's polos. Why the hell Katie Fitch of all people is wearing Tony's clothes is a fucking mystery. Her mind reels with possibilities, most of them fairly awful except for the one that imagines Effy just tossing it to Katie. Why though? Naomi's not sure she wants the answer. And besides, when did Katie and Effy become such great bum-chums anyway? Admittedly, Naomi's been spending much less time than usual with Effy during the week, finding herself split between friends. (The younger Stonem wasn't that keen on hanging out with Michelle on anything more than an occasional basis. Her reasoning revolved around having to see the cow practically every morning as it was.)

“What the fuck?”

The twin rolls her eyes dramatically and shrugs. “Would you fucking keep your voice down, Naomi? For god's sake, I just got cranky Echidna here to take a nap.”

Take a nap? Echidna? In what sodding alternate universe is Katie a babysitter for 20-year-old mentalcases? And what the fuck is an Echidna? “What? Katie, honestly... Echidna?”

There's just a very dispassionate stare that comes her way, obviously tired of reprimanding the level of Naomi's voice. Instead she just taps the huge book next to her on the bed. Naomi recognises it vaguely as that fucking myth dictionary from weeks ago when she'd been hungover as hell. She's not quite sure that this isn't some sort of weird acid flashback. Maybe Katie isn't really there quoting Greek myths to her. She's a figment of an over-active imagination and a very tired and stressed out mind. Neither of them are there. That may actually seem like the more plausible explanation. Except it's not.

“Mother of all monsters,” Katie whispers conspiratorially and smirks. “I was bored, okay?” It's apparently all the explanation for her sudden interest in Greek classics that Naomi's going to receive. Instead, Katie switches quickly again back to the topic of her passed-out friend. “Have you seen this twat when she's well worked up? Proper nutjob, yeah?”

There are just so many questions. Too many. It's knackering even to think them, let alone ask them and have to listen to and understand the answers. And Naomi still can't quite get over the fact Katie's lounging about in Tony's shirt. Something she's only seen Michelle and Effy do. Hell, she's crashed over here more often than anyone else and she's never had to rummage through Tony's leftovers for something to wear. It's odd. It puts her head in a strange, unfamiliar place. Like, whirling about whether she should mention it to Chelle or not. If the bitch ever speaks to her again, that is.

Her mobile beeps again, alerting her to a new text and her heart leaps. Maybe she had telepathy. That's what you call it when you can make people do things with your mind, right? No matter. Again, she fishes around for her phone and expects Michelle's name to flash up. And again it's Emily instead.

A response.

Too bad it's not the one she had wanted.

'Please don't bother JJ about me anymore.'

That's apparently what she wanted to talk about. It wasn't a reconciliation at all. More of a reprimand. A numb feeling settles into her fingers and she angrily stuffs the mobile back into her bag. She can't respond. Not right now. And especially not with Katie staring at her so intensely and her mouth just begging to ask Katie about it all. The words are there, sticking to her tongue and it's taking all her willpower not to interrogate the other twin. Naomi gets the impression that somehow she's interfering, interrupting something and that she's not actually welcome at all. If Effy was awake, it would be different but she's not so Naomi nods to Katie and leaves the house.

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FIC: i can't get out of love ;; part 2

doreah — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 03:40:03 GMT

i can't get out of love (a love i had a grip on; now it's gripping me)

Author: Eskimo Jo
Rating: 18
Warning: language, sexuality, substance use.

Sunshine is truly a horrible thing, Naomi muses half-consciously as streams of light slice across Effy's bedroom. It's hot and it's bright and all she wants is to burrow into nothingness and never emerge into real life again. The idea of course is ridiculous, though not entirely undesirable. She could roll over, away from the glare, except that would involve an unholy amount of effort which she's not certain she actually possesses at the moment. There's a whiff of alcohol drooping lazily over her senses and short of opening her eyes she has no way of determining if Effy is drinking it as she suspects. Hair of the dog seemed to by her friend's constant motto these days, as if chronic alcoholism and liver disease is indeed a perfectly legitimate method to live life to its fullest. Eventually, and mustering all the courage she can, she squints towards the other side of the bed, noticing with some surprise that there isn't a stick-insect-like brunette sipping liquor beside her. It makes a pleasant sort of change that is quickly nullified however by the aroma of vodka still wafting around. Repressing the urge to be ill, she turns over slowly and excruciatingly carefully, away from the sunlight.

She catches herself dozing off numerous times before finally fully awakening with slightly more gusto than previous, but nowhere near the amount she needs to actually be a functional member of society. Thumps and voices filter in from outside the bedroom and she groans out loud at the possibility of more than just Effy being present in the household. Suddenly the bedroom door swings open with a bang and there's a curse from the otherside belonging to a voice that is vaguely familiar yet still unnameable.

Her eyes widen slightly as another brunette peeks into the room and Naomi's not sure if the sick in her throat is from the hangover or the blurry memories of last night that have suddenly been reawoken. Michelle crosses the room towards her with a quiet “Hey” and a glass of water in her hand. She places it carefully on the nightstand and glances down at the bin of barely-digested chips and rum. Her eyebrow quirks and Naomi's insanely jealous of this girl who could both drink her under the table and be seemingly peachy the next morning, with no evidence that they had actually been on a rather large binge the night before.

Without asking, Michelle gently sits on the edge of the bed, slightly too close for Naomi's comfort. Had it been Effy, her feelings would have been different but no doubt at this moment she reckons she looks something between a mangled clown and a lump of shit. Worse though, she feels like she's been spat out the wrong end of a meat-grinder. On a ship. During a storm at sea. It all makes for an incredibly less than desirable situation for early morning polite conversation. Michelle of course looks no worse for wear, only slightly tired and a little less make-up.

She quickly rips open a packet, reaches over and drops an Alka-Seltzer into the glass. “Tony suggested I come up and give you that. Figured you were pretty poorly this morning.”

Settling for a squint rather than a full-on glare due to the sheer effort required, Naomi groans quietly. “I'm fine.” Please go away.

Unfortunately, unlike the Stonems, Michelle doesn't appear to be a mind-reader and as such is completely oblivious to Naomi's silent objections to her presence. She just smiles almost shyly. “Figured it was my fault you're in this state,” she says softly and wriggles around her pocket, pulling out a small bottle of prescription tablets. “So, here is my peace offering.” Holding out some light blue pills, she gestures for Naomi to take them. “They're my mum's. Work wonders on hangovers as you can clearly see,” she laughs gently. “But keep it quiet. I don't have enough to go around.”

Naomi takes two tablets hesitantly, eyeing Michelle suspiciously and swallows. Girls like her are not supposed to be this nice. Girls are catty and judgemental and vapid and unhelpful, and girls like Michelle are supposed to be all of these things to a much higher degree. Like Katie. Predator and prey. The only explanation is that she is feeling incredibly guilty about something, and likely something more than just getting Naomi to the point of moderate alcohol poisoning.

“Cheers.” It's all the blonde can mumble under the circumstances.

“I meant what I said last night. I'd really like us to be friends.” The words seem to spin over Naomi's head, confusing her and bringing about a strange sort of wonder. Naomi falls back on her usual justification for her skepticism: her kind and Michelle's kind are not natural allies. They reside in different niches, different classes and different ranks in the completely imaginary yet highly influential social structure of young people in Bristol. And worse still, she can't figure out what the ulterior motive actually is for this bridging of types. That Abigail horsefucker bitch may have been onto something in that Michelle's back from uni, lonely and looking to regain her status. Could be. Whatever the reason, it's far too much work to try to evaluate it in her hungover state. She'll save that for later when she's sulking about in her room alone and bored.

She opts for a standard, “Yeah.” in response which prompts a smile from the brunette.

“Nice. See you later then, Naomi,” she grins and squeezes the blonde's free hand. The gesture provokes sparks to shoot down her arm and Naomi blames it on the sickness that has already subsided. Standing up, Michelle exits the room without further comment, leaving Naomi to nurse her hangover in peace.

It's barely a half hour later when the door creaks open again and a much more familiar face peers in, assessing the situation quickly. The front door had slammed a few minutes earlier and presumably both Tony and Michelle have left. In her visitor's hands is quite a large book.

Effy sits down softly beside Naomi. She sighs, reaches over and places a heavy book on Naomi's lap. Grimacing at the idea of reading anything with her head as sore as it is and her mind as tangled, the blonde groans. It's some massive text about Greek myths. “What is this, Eff?” She attempts not to sound as irritated as she feels but comes up short.

“A book.”

Fucking Effy. If she had the willpower and strength, she'd take said book and smack her friend over the head with it right now. But the mere idea of that much movement causes her stomach to clench and she swallows hard instead. Huffing out an exasperated breath, she settles for a minute yet disdainful headshake.

Effy opens the book on Naomi's lap, flipping through the pages until she comes across a picture of a swan and eagle. “There's another version of that story you were going on about last night,” Effy says softly, as if telling a secret.

Naomi squints, blearily recalling something about drunkenly staring at the stars. Oh, yes, Cygnus. She stares down at the illustration, three beautiful birds in flight.

“In order to avoid Zeus,” Effy begins, “Nemesis, the goddess of retribution, jealousy and punisher of hubris, turned herself into a wild goose. Upon figuring this out, Zeus –who had become inexplicably taken with Nemesis' outstanding beauty– changed himself into a swan and the goddess Aphrodite, of love, beauty and sexuality, transformed into a ferocious eagle. Aphrodite then chased the wild goose Nemesis into Zeus' lap, where they mated and Nemesis bore two eggs. As a timeless testament of his success, Zeus placed the swan in the night sky.”

She snaps the book closed quickly causing Naomi to jump and wince at the sound. “You know what a nemesis is, right?”

It is far too early in the day to have a lesson on mythology and vocabulary. Naomi does know, sort of but her mind is still foggy from the drink and exhaustion. She just wants to crawl back under the blankets and sleep away the nasty feeling in her body. Effy is staring intently at her, awaiting a substantial answer. “Yes,” she growls and throws the duvet off. She's going home if Effy won't leave her alone.

Sensing the impending departure, Effy continues. “It's not always bad.”

Turning to look over her shoulder, Naomi casts a dark glare in Effy's direction and is only further aggravated by two blue eyes mischievously twinkling back at her. Who gives a flying shit about the meaning of nemesis anyway? Too fucking early. She merely groans and pulls herself slowly off the insanely comfortable mattress, swaying on her feet for a moment as her head stops spinning. A shaking hand clenches at her forehead, willing those tablets of Michelle's to start full-on working already. “I'm leaving, Eff.” She takes a few steps towards the door. “Have fun with your dictionary,” she mumbles and stares back at her best mate.

Effy's just smirking, entirely too amused at the situation, as bloody always, and adds, “It means inescapable.”

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
– Anais Nin

It starts innocently. Well, it starts as innocently as anything that involves dry-humping, French kissing and excessive liquor consumption can possibly begin. The first time, it's a mere half hour borne of a chance meeting at the top of Park St. Awkward greetings give way to a tentative chat while they meander down to the College Green. Parting ways, Michelle leaves Naomi with nothing more than a smile. The second time, it's less reliant on random chaos theory and Naomi doesn't make up excuses when Michelle rings and further doesn't attempt to back out of a coffee date down by the floating harbour. 'Date' is a generous word of course; in reality it's just two friends sharing some caffeine-laced drinks and making aimless discussion. It lasts only a bit over an hour but as Naomi attempts to scurry away, Michelle catches her in what turns out to be a rather half-assed and strikingly brief embrace.

The increments in-between meetings become fewer and the chats themselves much longer. Goodbyes take more time. Naomi hugs back with a kind of familiarity eventually. She's the one that lingers a little longer on Friday afternoon.

Of course, by the next Saturday Naomi finds herself dragged along to a party at Roundview halls. An impressive number of sixths are crammed into two adjacent rooms, with lager and spirits soaking carpets and bedsheets as the party rages on without reserve. She doesn't ask how this is allowed to happen in halls. She doesn't much care. The party itself is a definite decrease in drama from a fortnight ago's shenanigans yet she still manages to lose track of Effy somewhere in the space of 200 metres. It's like partying with a ghost.

There are just too many kids. Slipping away, she finds her mate in the loo, pulling on a spliff and they lock themselves in a cubicle to finish it as some loudmouth Belgian exchange student is sick in the stall next door, wailing in French between heaves. Effy thinks the scene is equally as ridiculous and immature as Naomi does. They decide to head down to Warehouse out of sheer desperation but not before coming face to face with a newly arrived Tony and Michelle. This time Michelle doesn't hug Naomi in greeting as her hand is securely clasping Effy's brother's. A smile and a few words is all they manage to exchange before Tony interrupts with a very dismissive tone.

“Christ, I feel like a paedophile here.” Just then, a blonde and quite attractive Scottish girl with the lowest cut top known to man falls into him, giggling and splashing her drink over his striped polo shirt as she attempts to right herself. Without even an apology she flits off to prop herself up against a lanky ginger boy who is obviously munted beyond all belief as a boyish-looking girl grins at the scene. Effy sneers and shakes her head. They're too old for this.

The Warehouse is equally boring and irritating for the remainder of their time there yet Michelle and Tony seem to slip away without notice anyway. Naomi doesn't get a hug goodbye, or even a text.

Michelle's attitude on the weekend seems to be only a hiccup. Monday brings her round again and the cycle starts anew. More time together in ever greater lengths of time, until the weekend. Just as it is Effy's chance to shrug off the shackles of her so-called normal life for one of Class-A-soaked nostalgic debauchery, to suspend reality for a few days, it also becomes the time where Naomi is reminded that friendship doesn't trump romance. Michelle is standoff-ish with her guard up every moment Tony is near. And in all honesty, the same occurs to Naomi if Emily happens to be at a party or club (now thankfully rid of that insufferable Abigail and flying solo). Naomi keeps botching up her chances however in her pursuit of the red-head. Each step closer she gets, something pulls her back, waiting for a signal, longing for a push. Sometimes even her normally laser-focused vision is distracted by brunette waves and green eyes and it takes a definite force of will to refocus on Emily.

And so it is for weeks. Maybe it's months, Naomi can't be certain because after a while, it becomes routine. Routine becomes habit. Habit becomes second-nature. Weekdays volley between part-time shit jobs and outings with Michelle or Effy, and occasionally dodging into shop doorways or behind rows of books to avoid Emily. She still hasn't worked out the perfect, romantic and ultimately persuasive thing to say to win her back and she can't risk an encounter until she's certain it'll work. Parties remain the same: mostly shit with the sporadic highlight, while she spends the majority of her time chasing after Effy, staring at Emily overtop the heads of strangers and pretending that Michelle's weekend-indifference doesn't sting, even just a little. She can't admit that something is switching on, the suffocating fog of past relationships dissipating just slightly when she calls Michelle “Chelle” for the first time. The only real change that she is willing to admit is that she begins to loath Tony's presence, and even moreso the mention of his name during the week. He's merely Effy's intolerable brother. She won't admit much more than that.

Once she falls into this pattern, time moves slowly, seeping down through the calendar. It just erodes gently like rainfall on stone. Keeping track of its painfully lethargic movement is a waste of effort.

The monotony breaks finally one night as Naomi is lying half-awake in her bedroom, staring at the shadows passing over the ceiling above. Her body is thrumming from an unrecoverable dream that has just woken her. Her mind lazily drifts to Emily as her fingers wander into the crease between her thighs. It's always Emily at these moments of bliss. Creamy skin set ablaze by the contrasting crimson hair, brown eyes deep and patient but bold and a gaze strong. She sees the freckles on her shoulders and the tiny scar on her bottom lip left from Katie stabbing her with a fork when they were little. It's been months and she can still recall the touch of Emily's hands and lips and her raspy voice as she begged Naomi for release. Laying prone and alone on a rainy Bristol night, Naomi only sees white sand and sunshine and Emily's naked body writhing against her own. She hears the moans complimented by the distant howls of delight from revellers along Anjuna or Vagator and the crashes of ocean waves pounding against the beach -- just like an ecological orchestra composed only for her own ears. Frenzy mounts as sweat trickles over them, the real-life pattering of rain becomes the countdown tick-tock of a bomb as she rides her own fingers, oblivious to reality.

Then from behind her eyelids come traitorous visions. Emily is no longer herself but instead, Naomi glimpses a different body, chestnut hair and the voice is altered, sparking memories of that long ago party. She feels Chelle instead against her. She cums fast before her mind can push the images back to Emily's profile, not that she can will that back into her imagination at the moment if she had wanted. Accepting the quirk in her fantasy, at least for the time being, she lets the vision fade as she draws in deep breaths. It's only after a minute or so that her eyes snap open again, fear coursing unbidden through her, spurring on by the pervasive confusion. She leaps out of bed, grasping almost desperately for her laptop, tossing the plush fox toy sitting on top of it aside. As she does, her gaze darts up and out of her window into the night sky, landing on Canis major. It provokes a momentary pause but shaking her head clear, she pulls open her computer and settles back into bed, pulling up photos of Goa and college. Anything to wipe away the realisation that she'd just come harder than she had done in ages, and it had little to do with Emily.

She falls back asleep with pixelated images of Emily burned into her eyelids.

It should have been obvious that with one small change in routine, everything else will unravel as well. It's physics. Or chemistry. Or something science-y that Naomi could not care less about. It's probably none of those things, just something like fate. And that itself is neither science nor rational. In fact, it's really just one of those things that no one sees while its happening but just in retrospect all the pieces seem to fuse together in an odd sort of puzzle that makes you wonder how on Earth you hadn't seen it coming sooner.

Naomi Campbell is not graced with a great deal of foresight however. And she hates physics.

It could perhaps be considered coincidence seeing JJ in the Bedminster Library two days later as she's idly flipping through an astronomy guidebook. It looks to be for children, teenagers at best, but she's got nothing better to do for a few hours until Michelle is off work, and all the books she had come here to look at are painfully dull. It's the last time she trusts the internet to make suggestions for reading material. Her gaze drifts over an illustration of Orion, one of the most recognisable constellations in the world. She already knows about the hunter and all that. She even knows, thanks to her father, about this set of stars and their relation to Frigg --the namesake of Friday-- a Scandinavian goddess with the gift of prophecy, of seeing everyone's destinies yet refusing to reveal her visions. She chuckles, thinking about Effy suddenly. Frigg was the only woman granted the ability to sit beside Odin and view the entire universe.

She's interrupted from her amused pondering when there's a tap on her shoulder. Immediately preparing some sort of nasty comment she swings towards the source. She's granted only a very up-close view of a blue and green striped jumper. Her gaze slowly shifts upwards towards the face of the boy standing far closer than is generally accepted as polite. She squints. Once. Twice.

“JJ?”

He quirks a small smile. “Hi, Naomi.” His hand waves hesitantly, as if he's not even certain if he should have said hello. The fact is, Naomi would never have noticed him otherwise. Not only is something strangely different about him now which makes him blend into the general mass of nameless idiots, but she doesn't give a shit really about anyone else in the library or otherwise. Without his previously noticeable differences, he's just morphed into one of the many. Despite his shy demeanour, he seems more confident, more self-assured somehow. His hair is shorter, the spots once all over his face have all but vanished and, well, he's not dressed like his mother picked out his wardrobe any longer. They play the staring game for a few minutes before Naomi rolls her eyes and gestures to the seat beside her as she pushes the stack of useless books she'd previously gathered out of the way.

“Christ, Jay, sit down. You're making me nervous.”

The boy follows her instruction and takes a seat slowly, tapping his fingers against the Formica tabletop. Neither seem in any hurry to start the conversation. It's not that Naomi dislikes JJ exactly, but she barely knows him; she's never bothered to get to know him, never had a desire nor need. His quirks had been too much for her to handle in her petulant and bewildering beginning days of college, and there was that whole fuss with Emily in Year 12. And afterwards, any chance she'd had to get to know him had dissipated slowly after Sophia's death when Emily had taken him for hers alone, as if when they semi-broke-up they each staked a claim to particular friendships in teenage divorce settlement. She'd got custody of Cook and Effy; Emily had taken JJ and Katie. Now, it's awkward, very much so, actually. She thinks of Freddie, and the initially inseparable trio of boys. Too much had happened in college, so much that should have drawn the whole group of them closer, but in the end, it had only worked to drive them further and further apart. He's not quite a stranger now but he may as well be.

Eventually, bored of the penetrating silence between them, Naomi speaks. “So, what are you doing here? Though you'd gone away to uni.”

JJ's eyes sparkle at the mention of university, or maybe at the idea of leaving Bristol. His lips form into a lop-sided smirk. “I have. It's just... just that. Well. I'm home to visit... Mum for a few days.”

He doesn't give her much to work with as she senses that it's not her place to ask why. There's just something about the way he says “Mum” that makes it sound personal, too personal to talk with an acquaintance about. Instead, she purses her lips momentarily and nods, humming. “Cool.” She realises she has no clue what to ask because she really has no idea what he's like. “Where, uh, do you study then?” This conversation is already like plucking hairs, one at a time. Tedious.

“London. Imperial College,” he says proudly but his grin falters. “Not sure I like London much though. It's not like Bristol.”

Naomi snorts. “Reckon that's probably a good thing, yeah?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

She doesn't know why he came over to talk to her. This is hardly engaging conversation. Neither of them are particularly good small talkers, and especially not with each other. It's as if someone had turned the awkward dial to full capacity. And sealed all the escape hatches. Just brilliant. Now she's thinking all sci-fi and geeky just like him.

“So are you at uni in Bristol then?” he ventures carefully. He's seeking common ground. Naomi restrains a sneer as she realises that they're unlikely to find any such place.

Shaking her head disdainfully, she chuckles. “Not me, no.”

He reaches over and slides the book she's reading towards himself and peers at the the pages. “So then why are you reading about astronomy?” The action is so bold for JJ and Naomi's put off by this change in him. He's no longer the painfully shy and completely socially inept boy she'd met in college. This is a different JJ, though maybe socially inept in a new way, unaware of personal boundaries. One that takes risks, even if they're small ones. Maybe university makes people change, in bad and good ways. She suspects it's more like it helps people grow up and fend for themselves in a way that she's not experienced living generally the same life as she had done since college began. Instead of praising this personal growth of his, she snatches the book page and closes it abruptly.

“Doesn't matter,” she snaps, covering it with her folded arms and glaring at JJ as best she can in this state of confusion. What she expects from him never transpires. He doesn't shirk away, bumble an excuse to leave or get that look of fear in his eyes as she has become accustomed to. Instead, his smirk is slightly wider. He still can't meet her eyes, but this new JJ is a bit disconcerting. It's like all her power that she'd harnessed in college has dissipated in the light of his higher education. That idea makes her feel uncomfortable in his presence, and somewhat paranoid and depressed about the state of her own life.

JJ's staring at the corner of the book poking out from under her elbow. “I love astronomy,” he admits matter-of-factly. “Wasn't able to fit in into my programme this year.” He pauses as if he's lost his train of thought for a second. “Besides, first year astronomy lessons are not meant for people like me.”

Naomi's certain this boy is going to turn into some nutty professor one day, sitting alone in a shit tip of an office and scribbling insane mathematical formulas over all his students' papers. Her own thoughtful meanderings are interrupted by his voice again. “You'd probably like them, you know.”

Her blue eyes latch onto him, trying to pierce him with sheer force of will. She's fairly certain he's just called her stupid. “What's that supposed to mean?” she scowls, believing she knows full well what he means. Finally, something familiar happens and JJ appears to be momentarily flustered at her outburst. He stumbles around for words, muttering out some sort of half-arsed apology. It should make her feel better, that things aren't quite as buggered as she'd thought; in fact, underneath it all, they're still just the same idiot kids they were at Roundview. But somehow, all she feels now is guilty for pressing him so hard only to make herself feel more at ease. Fuck. Guilt is such a prevalent part of her existence now. What would Emily do?

“JJ, look,” she starts but never gets the chance to finish before he's shaking his head quite adamantly against her words, his eyes clenched shut. He's blocking her out so she huffs out a long breath and waits for him to settle down a bit before continuing. “Sorry, okay?”

She watches his shoulders sag and dip, and the muscles in his face begin to relax until he's regained his new sense of composure. It's likely as new a state for him and it is for her. This adjustment to being a grown-up doesn't seem to happen in one easy swoop. They sit in the near-silence of the library surrounding them. Someone drops a book nearby and they both flinch at the sound. It's like a switch is flipped and JJ's reversed everything that had just happened, gone back to confident new JJ. “You were looking at Orion,” he states with an air of pride, but it's laced with hesitancy as well.

She nods. “Yeah.”

“You know what's interesting about that one?”

Blonde hair sways as she shakes her head, waiting for him to explain some completely boring thing about binaries or light years or similar bollocks. He clears his throat and she winces.

“Canis major and Canis minor can be found from following the line of his belt and his shoulders.”

The information doesn't intrigue Naomi in any way whatsoever. “So?”

“There are the interpretations of those stars as being Orion's hounds but they also represent the irresistible force paradox. The question of what happens when an unstoppable or irresistible force meets an immovable object. N-Not that any such thing can exist as any immovable object would necessarily need to possess infinite mass, and thus doing so would create a singularity, a black hole. Which, inversely, actually is surrounded by an event horizon.” Off Naomi's puzzled look, JJ attempts to explain further. “It's something that as a particle approaches close enough, it has such a strong gravitational pull that escape is then impossible.” He smirks as if privy to some secret knowledge about all that bollocks.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks, slightly irritated by the boring abstract concepts and jargon she's only ever heard whilst flicking through the channels on boring Saturday afternoons. “What does any of that have to do with constellations of dogs?”

JJ tries to keep his composure in light of her dismissive attitude towards the information he's belaying onto her. “H-Hound and fox, Major and Minor,” he clarifies and a darkness comes over his face, as if he doesn't want to speak about it any longer; as if he's tired of wasting his breath on someone who doesn't appreciate his cosmological offering. He doesn't tell her to look it up because as out of touch as he can be, he knows at least that Naomi would never actually do anything he asked of her. She barely did anything even Emily had asked of her at the best of times.

Naomi likes things to be simple. Suddenly what were just a bunch of stars twinkling in the sky every so often are transformed into things with this deep, unfathomable meaning that she can't quite grasp. Annoyed at this, she glowers at the boy, trying to impress on him how much time he's just wasted. Hers and his own. JJ's not exactly a skilled reader of emotional and social cues and as a result, the message flies over his head, yet something must click somewhere because he shifts away slightly, preparing to leave.

“I like astronomy too,” he repeats from earlier. “It's constant.” His voice has a strange quality to it, almost wistful. It's something she'd never heard from him ever before. As someone who is painfully blunt and awkward, he had never actually revealed that he felt emotions the same way as the rest of them. He was either completely overwhelmed or completely void of feeling, in her presence anyway.

Naomi's eyes flick sharply to him with the familiar sentiment. She hates the feeling that she and JJ may be alike in some way, well, other than both being able to say they shagged a fit lesbian in college. What a club they would make: The Shaggers of Emily and Lovers of Constellations Club. Gross. As she's considering the idea, JJ moves away, gathering his own books under his arm.

All she can do is leap at the chance. “Have you heard from Emily?” She hates how overwrought she sounds in her own ears.

JJ's pauses, halfway out of his seat for a moment, as if caught in some trap, a deer in headlights. He nods, swallowing hard before standing up fully. It's fucking pissing her off that not two minutes ago she couldn't shut JJ up, and now he seems incapable of speaking. Dumb mong. She's about to ignore him when he coughs softly. Glancing over, she sees his hands trembling and immediately another wave of guilt rises up from her gut, crashing into her mind. Her voice softens, “Did she say anything about me?”

Their eyes lock, icy blue on icy blue, like deep space meteors seconds before collision. He swallows visibly, obviously quite uncomfortable with the position he's suddenly in. She recognises the fear in his eyes. What was it that Emily used to call it? Locking in? Locking down? Well, no matter, cos whatever it is, she senses it's about to happen again. Her own gaze softens as she tries to shift the pressure from him specifically. “I just... I don't know where her head is at.” She pauses, uncertain about revealing any of this to JJ, who for all intents and purposes is almost like not only a stranger, but his loyalties are to the opposing forces. “Or what she's thinking about the future. About us. Or me. Or her. Like...” She trails off, having said too much already.

There is a very heavy, suffocating sort of silence that descends over them again as JJ just stares, not at her eyes, but her chin it looks like. He can't quite return her desperate stare but he appears to be thinking quite a lot, something is spinning in that muddled-up mind of his. Eventually, there's a slight raise of his eyelids, like he's had some kind of epiphany and Naomi's chest grows tighter in anticipation.

Reaching over, he picks up Naomi's pen and flips open the book she had been reading. Leaning down practically over her shoulder, he scribbles some mathematics formula on the back inside cover. It's just a bunch of triangles and funny looking letters that she vaguely recognises from maths lesson years ago. He underlines it emphatically a few times before handing her pen back.

“Have you ever heard of the EPR paradox of entangled particles?” he asks excitedly.

There's a moment where Naomi says nothing; instead, she just stares completely impassively at his jittery form, practically vibrating with energy. JJ doesn't pick up on her non-verbal cue so she sighs. “Why the fuck would I have ever heard about that bollocks?” She hadn't meant to sound like such a prick about it, but it was her default setting when people did and said things she couldn't understand. The sarcasm and disdain pass over JJ like he hasn't even noticed them. He shrugs, consciously considering the reason why she honestly may have heard about the concept. Giving up on finding a rational theory, he points to the formula again, tapping it a few times forcing her attention towards the garbled symbols.

“It's based around the Uncertainty principle, Naomi,” he says slowly to her, as if she's a child.

Clenching her teeth from coming up with a nasty retort to his tone, she responds with a measure of strong self-control. “Yeah, and? JJ, honestly, what's your point? What has Emily said?”

“Doesn't matter.” He mutters it nervously and against her better judgement, an angry scowl stretches over her face, threatening.

That's it. That's just fucking it. Her patience has reached far beyond its limit and JJ is just standing there, practically hovering over her and all she wants to do is grab the irritating boy and shake him into talking sense. Her fists clench of their own accord but relax when JJ begins stuttering, trying to force out his thoughts before they're quite ready. At least he's trying, she supposes.

“The more p-precisely the current position of a particle is determined, the less precisely the momentum is known in this instant, and vice versa. The more accurately you measure one property, the less likely you will be to measure or control the other. It's just nature.”

Naomi winces, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she stares blankly at the scrawled letters in the book. There's a message she's not quite hearing yet and JJ just keeps poking at the symbols, as if the meaning is inherently crystal clear. “I can tell you what Emily is feeling right now, quite accurately in fact,” he explains, again slowly but this time Naomi's somewhat thankful for the pace. “But likely it will only work to blur what you expect to happen. You won't be able to see the future or where she's going any better because of it. May make it worse. The observation even makes you part of the system, which alters it, or perception at least.”

“I'm already part of it,” Naomi protests, but finds her voice betraying her and coming out pathetic and weak. “It's about me.”

JJ merely smirks down at her and she's becoming really fucking tired of this attitude from him, like he knows it all just cos he throws around a bunch of triangles and maths theories and he's so clever at his uni now. It's all rubbish anyway.

He shakes his head, finding familiarity and comfort and thus, confidence, in his static formulas and their application to human life, as ridiculous as that is in itself. He really doesn't understand being human, she's sure. She huffs and waves a hand dismissively at him. “Thanks for nothing, Jay,” she growls, her voice sulky and disappointed that he couldn't give her a straight answer. Just for once. It's all she really asks. How is that such a bloody difficult wish to grant?

JJ's mobile ringing causes them both to jump, and his face turns a deep shade of pink as he fumbles desperately for the source of the noise. It's so him, the sound. All robotic, like lift-off aboard a space shuttle or some shit. “I've-I've got to go,” he squeaks out, pressing at various keys to silence the alarm. “My mum needs me.”

Naomi allows him to flee without even a goodbye. It's peculiar though. The name that flashed up on his screen hadn't looked so much like “Mum” as it had “Emily”.

It should have been a sign that the day was about to become even less ordinary. The thing is though, Naomi isn't really paying attention to any warning signs. She'd need a big flashing billboard with it spelled out to her in simple words in order to even consider the possibility that anything else was about to be turned upside down and inside out. Running into the irritatingly cryptic JJ had been the extent of things she could possibly imagine. Interesting things simply didn't happen too often in Bristol anymore, and certainly not more than one anomaly in a single day. Of course, the fact that the next situation began gradually doesn't help her recognise it for what it is immediately.

Michelle texts her, as is the norm, the routine. Nothing odd about that. She responds after a few minutes, trying not to seem too eager, which is odd in itself cos that's the sort of game people play with people they fancy, not regular friends. Normal people can text their friends a response milliseconds later and it doesn't mean anything deeper than “we're having a conversation”. But with people you fancy the rules change for some reason. However, well, Naomi doesn't fancy Michelle, like at all. At least that's what she repeated to herself last night while imprinting digital photos of Emily into her brain and making up excuses, for the 3rd night in a row. It's all very confusing and it's easier just to ignore the niggling questions her own behaviour raises within the cacophony otherwise known as her mind.

The moment she sees Michelle coming across the park, something is off. Her walk is hurried and sharp; it looks likes she's definitely angry and Naomi groans inwardly at having to listen to another play-by-play of her and Tony's latest stupid row. She positively loathes speaking about Tony now, or even listening to Michelle whinge on about him. It's terribly redundant and she honestly thinks the girl is an idiot for not just dumping the tosser straight up. In all fairness though, she'd prefer Michelle's incessant complaints as opposed to her disgustingly sweet gushing about what a wonderful boyfriend he is now and how in love they really are, despite their rows and how it may appear to everyone else. It's interesting that she always qualifies such statements of love with that disclaimer.

But as the brunette draws nearer, it's obvious the source of her ire is likely far more related to the wet stains covering her white top. She's fussing with it, flapping the loose fabric in an effort to dry it most likely. Coming up beside the blonde, Michelle is positively fuming.

“Bloody fucking wankers,” she shouts to no one in particular, and no one in particular even seems to care. Not a single head turns their way. Lovely, indifferent Bristolians. Before Naomi even has the chance to ask what happened, her friend is already involved in a rant to explain the situation. “Some cocky little bastards with water pistols thought it would be funny to scream 'Wet t-shirt contest' and assault me with water on my way here.” She groans again in agitation, flapping her hands around, fanning the nearly see-through fabric. “Boys like that need a proper kicking. Right up their little pre-pubescent arseholes.”

There's little Naomi can do other than stare, her eyes growing wider with Michelle's choice of language. She really could let out some quite impressive swearing when truly riled up. She shouldn't find it quite as amusing as she does and does an impressive show of hiding her smirk. Michelle was likely coming from Effy's just south there on Elvaston, which was literally not even 10 minutes away, and in that time she'd managed to be completely soaked by a bunch of brats. And now is growling and pacing like a near-drowned cat, muttering about some kids named James and Gordon. Naomi doesn't clue into who the little perverts really are.

Finally she finishes off her rant with a dramatically drawn out sigh. Naomi's not certain who Michelle's actually even speaking to anyone specific anymore, just venting to the grass and trees it appears. That is, until she faces Naomi face-on and asks, “Does it look like I wanted a shower?”

The question is meant to be rhetorical obviously. She's not meant to answer it, or even consider the realistic possibility. But that's the irritating thing about fancying someone (even if you deny it, and sometimes even if you don't fancy them at all): when they say “shower”, your thoughts immediately and without reserve take a leap into fantasy. And not really any dirty, smutty sort of way. More like a daydream. Naomi certainly is not standing in a public, very open park picturing her current companion butt-naked with water cascading over her shoulders. Not quite anyway. It's just the words somehow spark something in her belly, and her head tilts to the side slightly as if studying droplets of water trail down an exposed neck, or a bare leg. But it could hardly be counted as even a fantasy considering it evaporates as quickly as it came; the rational, practical side of Naomi's mind leaps to attention instead, reminding her that thoughts such as those are unwelcome in friendships. And this is very much only a friendship. She's in love with Emily. People who are in love with Emily Fitch should not be considering the curves of another girl's pelvis as water slides down into the dip. Not at all. Emily has a lovely pelvis, lovely hips. Lovely everything. Very lovely indeed. The image fades, but there's a nudge deep inside her belly that Naomi has to physically scratch at the surface to distract herself from.

Meanwhile, Michelle's regarding her curiously, apparently waiting for a response but Naomi's not clear if there was even a question. She's been a bit preoccupied and didn't hear it if there had been. She shrugs, mumbles a “Yeah.” out of habit and sighs, glancing away from the other girl.

“Ugh, whatever. Anyway, I need a drink,” Michelle states, pinning Naomi with an imploring gaze that the blonde attempts to ignore. She's not really in the mood to get drunk midday Tuesday just because some twatty kids got Michelle's top a little damp. Damp. That word should not be in her vocabulary. Not now especially.

She has a better idea and tells Michelle so but the suggestion is met with reluctance.

“Ah, I don't think so.”

Naomi scoffs, pulling out the spliff and waving it about. She forgets sometimes that Michelle isn't Effy, and baiting her with drugs won't really draw her approval. “Why not? I don't have any drink and neither do you.”

“There's a pub just on Windmill Hill, yeah? It's only a few blocks.”

There's really no need to inform Naomi about that particular place. It's right across from her bloody house after all. She could add in the off-license down the road as well but she decides to stay schtum. Honestly, there's nothing she wants less at this moment than to get sloshed at her local. Or at her house with supplies from the offy. Michelle's never come round and now's not the time to change that. Girls coming back to hers other than Emily always results in disaster. Plain and simple. Sophia. That pigshit Mandy. All of Emily's ladies in waiting. JJ's piece. Katie and Jenna Fitch. Oh, Jesus, that cunt Arsey. Or whatever the fuck her shit-stained name was that gave Cook up to the plod. It was just a bad temptation of fate, like her house is cursed. It'd be easier to just head back to Effy's really. It's just as close. Closer actually. By about 5 minutes. And not quite as cursed. Maybe.

Naomi shakes her head. She will refuse. She must. It would break she and Effy's schedule. They only get drunk on weekends and the occasional bank holiday. Spliff is the only acceptable option during weekdays. “Come on, Chelle. I know a place here. It's fine.” She hears herself and realises she sounds strangely reminiscent of those anti-peer-pressure adverts she'd seen as a child.

Michelle winces a little with discomfort. “I don't really... do that.”

The words don't seem to compute initially and the blonde blinks, refocuses and waits for clarification. “What do you mean?” The idea is foreign, like completely alien.

With an irritated sigh, the older girl gestures to the joint. “That. Drugs. Not really my thing. Never has been.” She smirks and offers a conciliation. “I do love my vodka though.”

Naomi's face morphs into complete disbelief. She's seen Michelle smoke, and drink of course. And she's friends with that whole bag of assholes, so Naomi's pretty sure that people like Anwar the Tit and Tony have never met a drug they didn't like. “So, what, you've never...?”

“Of course I have, you daft cow,” Michelle teases (but it comes out a little too harshly for Naomi's taste). “I just don't really care to now is all.”

It's been an odd, shitty sort of day and the last thing the blonde is interested in is debating the pros and cons of recreational drugs use. She shrugs, looks Michelle over with something resembling disdain, and puts the spliff to her lips. “Well, I'm going over to that grove at the south-east. Near the small hockey pitch, yeah? You can join me or not, I don't give a toss but I'm not going to get pissed on a Tuesday afternoon.” With yet another shrug, she turns towards her destination and isn't at all surprised to hear footsteps padding after her across the grass.

She really should have known better. Those children's adverts warned about peer-pressure and drugs. She should have listened.

<< PART 3 >>
PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6

FIC: i can't get out of love

doreah — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 03:31:11 GMT

i can't get out of love (a love i had a grip on; now it's gripping me)

Author: Eskimo Jo. for skins_bigbang!
Artist: shan_3414
Word count: 43,000
Link to art: HERE. HERE. HERE. Click it. It's honestly perfect & guh. It means so much to me just to receive art, and even more cos it's so amazing -- the skill and time and effort and beauty Shan infused into it is undeniable and unbeatable. Can't even formulate proper sentences to express how lovely it is! xx
Pairing(s): Naomi/Michelle, Naomi/Emily, Tony/Michelle; appearances by other Gen1/2/3.
Rating: 18
Warning: language, sexuality, substance use.
Fanmix: one and two;
Summary: Beginning in the summer post-Series 5, Naomi's home from Goa with Emily, falling apart and wasting time away with Effy when she finds herself helplessly entangled in a new (and very conflicting) web alongside the meddlesome and mental Effy, manipulative Tony, and his striking on-again/off-again girlfriend, Michelle but unable to let Emily go, Naomi spirals into bedlam and is uncertain which path to take in order to escape, or if that's even possible.

Notes: After the cut.
Mega thanks to Shan, my lovely, wonderful artist who put up with my finickiness and indecision, and gave me some much needed boosts. Also mega thanks to Leanne for the amazing support and allowing me to rant to my heart's content and never coming up short on piling on the encouragement. :)
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

DOWNLOAD PDF: normal format || book format
(there are quite a few typos and the like here that of course I didn't notice until it was too late. Please ignore them ;)

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6

Notes: Title from a Matthew Barber's song “Can't Get Out of Love”.

This fic contains a fair share of Greek myths, astronomy, hunting and biblical references, as well as a dabbling of quantum physics. Please excuse any glaring inaccuracies as I am absolutely shit at physics, but I tried to research as much as possible. I think I generally covered the bases necessary if you're not familiar with Greek mythology and such, but I'll gladly clarify anything. I hope the fic in general isn't too redundant, especially in light of my other most recent fic, but I just seem to have an obsession with emotional inner-turmoil and confusion, (especially relating to the hardships of coming-of-age – this is pretty much this genre, as most of my fics tend to be. Not surprising because I believe ultimately that's what Skins itself tells the stories of, or attempts to – or at the very least sets up the potential for a coming-of-age story, perhaps at the end of a generation). Doesn't help that I ship Naomi with so many people. Kinda of presents conflict and creates dissonance naturally. But it really isn't a romantic exploration as much as a journey of Naomi's (and at the heart of it, Michelle as well).

* This is in parenthesis only because it's up to your interpretation, and I hope it's subtle (or possibly just confusing) enough that it works either way. It wasn't exactly planned. If you see it, awesome. If you don't, no worries.

Also, apologies for the formatting here on LJ (most the lack of italics). I'll fix it up when I have some time. I'm just super, super busy lately.

“To horse and away; To the heart of the fray! Fling care to the Devil for one merry day!"
~ W.H. Ogilvy

The party is shit.

And not just the normal sort of shit that bad parties tend to be, like with a few too many girls wailing over whatever prick they've been sucking off lately, some idiot smashing a valuable piece of art and someone else chundering all over the floor in the only working bathroom. No. This is on another level. This is the kind of party that makes you question if humanity even has a hope in hell of surviving past Tuesday. This is the sort where you sit in the corner and tick off all the various ways in which you would murder every last person in the place if only you had the materials, means and guts – plus a nice side of psychopathic rage. It's precisely the sort that you loathsomely arrive at against your better judgement, is packed full of people from college that you would have rather never have seen ever again, and during which you have to drink cheap lager from a dirty cup alone whilst watching the love of your life being fondled by a minging, ridiculous blonde ape of a girl. All in the name of “having a good night out.”

This is Naomi Campbell's life. It's much the same weekend after weekend. And it had been hers for the better part of 4 months now. It hadn't been part of her brilliant life plan at all but Effy had a notoriously persuasive way of framing invitations that managed to fool her time and time again. After each one of these pathetic, agonising nights she would tell herself not to take Effy's offer the next time. Regardless, when Thursday or Friday night came around, the sneaky girl would create an impressive sounding fantasy that was often too good to refuse and Naomi would consider the fact that, maybe, just maybe, she was right this time and it would be a bloody good night. She couldn't take the chance and give it a miss, only to find out later that actually it had been the party of the year.

However, 19 supposed parties of the year later, Naomi was no closer to having the experience that everyone else around her seemed to be fully immersed in. She had tried the drugs and the drink. Neither seemed to make life all that much better except on occasion. Momentarily perhaps, and only if she got so off her face she woke up sprawled out on the floor of a stranger's kitchen with a horrid kink in her back and a pounding come-down headache, usually with her knickers nowhere to be found. That wasn't really her style however. Not many girls -- or boys for that matter -- found that sort of trainwreck particularly sexy or appealing, and the one girl specifically that she wanted to win over certainly turned her nose up at such behaviour. So, the drugs were the first thing to go. Effy wasn't easily convinced but learnt her lesson about spiking Naomi's drinks when she was faced with a blubbering, useless twat of a mate who proceeded to pass out smack dab in the middle of the bed Effy had been planning to use to fuck her latest forgetting tool. If there was anything that could get through the Stonem girl, it was an ill, cock-blocking moaner. Further, Naomi had refused to speak to Effy for a good week and a half afterwards.

As the two of them were already in such short supply of friends, it was quite a punishment. The compromise came in the form of Naomi agreeing to come out to parties, and Effy for her part, would refrain from drugging her up against her will. Fucking friends. What kind of mate is that anyway? Who do you have to be to think that a compromise like that is actually desirable? Naomi wouldn't really know. With Cook in prison, Freddie dead, JJ at uni someplace, Thommo and Panda fucked off to live the American dream, a decent mate is in a high demand at the moment so she lives with what she can get, and tries to be grateful all the same. Effy just happened to be there when Naomi had felt completely alone after Emily, and she's quite all right when she isn't in the midst of yet another bout of self-destruction. Luckily such episodes were scheduled for mainly Friday and Saturday nights. The rest of the time, the two of them pretended to be normal.

It worked. Most of the time.

Sort of.

The pretending to be fine, that things are normal and that life is just peachy, becomes rather difficult on occasions like this when she is forced to watch Emily grind up against some blonde cow on the other side of the living room. It's fucking bullshit and there's no way anyone in her position could possibly be fine about that. They'd only split 5 months ago, and while that may be an exceptionally long period of time to nurse relationship wounds for an average person, Naomi was not average and her relationship with Emily was nothing short of exceptional. (Exceptionally amazing and exceptionally awful in retrospect.) She doesn't think it's quite fair when Effy gives her that pitying look that says “Oh, just get over it already.” Naomi is not going to take advice from a girl who's solution to pure anguish and heartbreak is to dope herself to oblivion and shag everything within a 45 mile radius. Boy, girl, sheep, fencepost. Didn't seem to matter any longer. It's even worse when she visits Effy and her insufferable brother is there, and he simply suggests the exact same thing, just with even harder callousness. He'd even said he'd see to her properly. The suggestion had left Naomi feeling worthless, and mental. Like she was odd for reacting and carrying on as she had done for so long. Sure, maybe it had been a while but regardless her heart was in fucking pieces and no amount of little white pills or painfully average-sized cock would fix that. (Effy's brother could walk around in those stupid boxer-briefs all he wanted, and Naomi would continue to judge.)

Deep down she's certain Effy knows this as well and how, in the long run, her remedy is likely to fail splendidly, assuming it hadn't already. It won't be a blaze of glory. It'll dissolve her, slowly eat away at her existence until there's nothing left but her bones. It's probably why apart from these weekend flights of fancy, she keeps to herself, makes weird fucking collages alone in her bedroom and cries. Yes, Effy Stonem cries. It's rare, but it happens. And Naomi learnt that giving Effy a taste of her own medicine and telling her to get over it already was not an acceptable piece of advice. After doing so, she'd walked in on Effy crying more fitfully and working on a disturbing piece of so-called art that featured photos of Naomi's body dismembered in very odd and gory ways. They'd inadvertently hurt each other quite a lot in these first stages of having a go at a legitimate friendship. It helps now that Effy is taking at least some of her medication and taking time off from her art to see a psychiatrist. And not a fucking whack-job like that Foster bloke. Perhaps most impressively, since returning, her brother has reigned her in considerably better than a professional ever could. Sometimes it's unbearably sweet the way they speak, or like those times she comes round the Stonems and finds Effy asleep with her head in her brother's lap as he silently reads some pretentious novel. He'll just smirk, hold a finger to his lips, maybe run a soft hand through her hair and go back to his book.

Naomi wishes she had an older brother too. All she's got is a dozy mum who thinks chakra stones and organic vegetables are the solution to all of life's many woes. She's well-meaning but ultimately clueless. The blonde isn't clear how locally grown, pesticide-free carrots would really help her out of her current predicament.

Emily is so fucking happy. She's obviously on something illegal and wonderful. Probably ecstasy again. But it doesn't matter because she's smiling and laughing with that wide, bright grin and her brown eyes are huge and shining. Of course, she's focussed on the horsey girl she's with like she can't look away, and that stings further. Naomi wants to just throw things at them both but a stint in women's prison is not on her current to-do list. That would certainly set her plan back a few months. Emily's been looking progressively better and better the longer they've been broken up. It's a sign that she's healing, Naomi reckons. She's jealous that she can't seem to find the same peace. Maybe that's the role of the dumpee. It's harder to reconcile with.

Whatever. Emily still shouldn't flaunt her new-found freedom quite so blatantly. Naomi narrows her eyes one last time at the troll with her paws up Emily's top and wanders over to the sofa, spilling half her drink when some annoying fuck shouting “Buddha Buddha Cheeeeese Buddha!” slams into her while doing what she could only generously refer to as dancing. Luckily, her spilt beer gets all over his ugly t-shirt in some fit of karmic revenge and she shrugs, continuing towards her desired perch. It's currently occupied by a couple of brats –a metalhead twat and some posh kid– sucking each other's faces off on the one end, and some random girl on the other. Naomi plops herself smack in the middle and takes a long gulp of her lager.

“You met Anwar then?” A voice to her right breaks through the cacophony that is considered music at this party.

She turns to face the girl there. “What?” She's somewhat irritated about the need for conversation. She just wants to sit and mope until the time comes to drag Effy home.

“Anwar. The bloke that you spilt your drink on,” the girl explains.

“He's a tit,” Naomi states plainly. “Don't care what his name is.” She feels a right to be so surly. Glancing up in Emily's direction, she glimpses just the flash of her ex-girlfriend tongue-wrestling while swaying to the irritating, teeth-grating wobble of commercialised dubstep. Yeah, it's a fucking horrible party and she shouldn't have to play nice just to appease some girl.

The other girl shrugs. “He's my mate.”

Naomi sighs. “You've got shit choice in friends then.” Maybe if she's just slightly more of a ridiculous cunt, the girl will move away and allow her to sulk in peace. Naomi chooses to ignore the fact that her own friends are in prison or have a tendency to slip her drugs and drag her to places she doesn't want to go, time after time.

“Yeah, probably. Goes nicely with shit taste in boyfriends.”

Great. Another one of these girls. Naomi does not want to talk about how stupid boys are and “Why don't they love me?” and all that rubbish that drunk girls prattle on about on a regular basis, usually ending in a flood of hysterical tears until they puke from the sheer exertion. She chooses not to engage, not to push the subject to avoid exactly that situation. She's got new trainers on and doesn't want them spoiled by vomit. She chooses instead to shrug, give a non-committal grunt and put her cup back to her mouth, knocking back the remaining bit of lager. Her eyes stay focused on the crowd of people milling about the room, searching for her redhead. Yes. Her redhead.

The sofa cushions shift slightly as the stranger rises from her seat. She stands directly in front of Naomi until the blonde glances up, half in annoyance, half in curiousity. She's struck suddenly by green eyes peering down at her intensely. They're complimented by a very pretty face framed by loose brown curls. She doesn't dare look any further down because the temptation to like what she sees is already a tad too strong.

“I'm off to grab a drink,” she says reaching her hand out for Naomi's cup. “Want me to get you one as well?”

The blonde squints for a moment. This is odd. Girls like this aren't usually nice to her, and furthermore she hadn't expected to make any friends at this party but now it seems like that is a very likely possibility. “Sure.” She hands over her plastic cup carefully, making sure not to let their fingers touch.

“Brill,” the brunette smiles and twists around in the direction of the kitchen. Her face seems relieved before she leaves.

Naomi watches, finally feeling free enough to chance a look at the rest of her. Dangerously fit, indeed. Not that it fucking matters, cos her heart is owed to another. Still...

The girl bumps into Anwar the Tit and he immediately loops an arm over her shoulders, involving her in what looks like a serious conversation. There's another boy with him, shorter and geeky with an ugly, worn beanie on his head. He's saying something as well. They all look unhappy; a sharp change from Anwar's disposition a few minutes prior. The short boy is insisting something and her new friend shakes her head emphatically, looking quite flustered and pushes away from them both, moving towards the kitchen a brisk pace. She pushes another random person out of her way in the process. Naomi visually follows her retreating form until a certain other girl comes into focus nearby. Emily's standing alone against the wall, bottle of water in hand.

It's kind of eerie, magical almost, how two people's gazes can meet even in such chaos, across such distance. It's almost like old times and Naomi's heart beats more rapidly in her chest. She can see the deep intake of breath in her ex-girlfriend. Emily's not completely happy. That's clear enough. She puts on a good show, of course. Years of lessons from her sister no doubt contributed to her skill. But Naomi knows Emily; she knows that underneath her new persona something's still tugging at her. Pulling them both. The moment ends abruptly as Emily breaks eye contact first. She looks away. Naomi follows and realises that the blonde tart is in that direction. She squeezes her own eyes closed, willing the image to dissipate.

Someone clears their throat nearby and her eyes fly open. A beer can is dangling in front of her face. She takes it hesitantly, forcing a tight smile. “Cheers,” she mutters as the girl sits down beside her again.

“There were 4 types of manky beer. I chose the least repulsive for you,” she states. “Figured, let the boys have the others. They've no taste anyway.”

And just like that, it's back to how boys are complete wankers. It is not her desired topic of conversation. In fact, she has no desired topic so she gulps down an impressive helping of her drink, still staring out at the partygoers stumbling over each other. She can't make out Emily amongst them any longer and she strains to see around some of the idiots blocking her view. It's futile. A waste of energy.

“Hey.” The voice is softer now and more imploring. Not so charming and upbeat. Not so false. Naomi can't help but turn towards her. “You all right?”

It's very bizarre to hear that question. It's almost like the brunette is speaking in a foreign language. She could be speaking in bloody Swahili for the amount of sense it makes. Naomi hasn't heard those words uttered to her (at least with any actual concern) in months it feels like. Effy never bothered –mostly because Effy didn't ask, she told. And her mum never seemed to actually understand. So now she's momentarily taken aback with the fact that there is sincere curiosity in the tone. Her eyes lock of their own accord and suddenly she's feeling very much like a deer in headlights. However, the oncoming car is weirdly soothing. She can't really explain the feeling, so she does her signature shrug of indifference, sipping her drink again. Her company does the same before sighing.

“It's kind of a shit party, yeah?” she asks, changing the subject. When Naomi glances over, the girl is staring off towards a darkened corner where a couple is having an intimate-looking conversation.

“Yeah,” she agrees.

There's a sigh. “That's my boyfriend,” she says, pointing in the direction of the other couple. He peers around at the same moment and sees her pointing in his direction. With a cocksure smirk, a wink and a wave to the girl beside her, he turns around again, refocussed on the other girl who is apparently not his actual girlfriend.

“You're seeing Tony Stonem?” Naomi is aghast at the idea. What little she knows about him is enough cause to be scandalized by the notion. She decides not to mention to his girlfriend how Tony had offered, not once but multiple times, to sort her out. She can kind of see now why this girl is so distraught about the male species. Who wouldn't be if they were dating that tosser?

The brunette chuckles derisively. “Of course you know who Tony is. Who doesn't?” She shakes her head in sad sort of disbelief before necking a large helping of what smells like almost pure vodka.

“I haven't--,” Naomi starts but is cut off.

“I know. I've become quite good at picking out which girls he's shagged behind my back.”

Naomi grimaces. “Or in front of you.” It slips out more condescendingly that she had intended and she winces again. Shit. The girl beside her stiffens and let's out a controlled huff of irritation. She takes a sip of her drink again before turning more fully to Naomi.

“I'm Michelle,” she states, offering her hand as if blocking out the entire last few minutes. It happened but it never happened, or whatever it was that Effy used to recite. A smile pulls at the other girl's lips and it's quite possibly genuine so the blonde accepts the offered hand, feeling like she's suddenly ended up at the most fucked up job interview ever.

“Naomi.”

After a slightly lengthy and almost awkward pause, Michelle speaks. “So how do you know Tony Stonem, Naomi?”

“He's my best mate's brother.”

Michelle snorts. “You're Effy's friend? Good luck.” She doesn't catch Naomi glowering at her briefly. The younger girl doesn't want to talk about Effy and certainly doesn't want to bring on a row defending her only friend to Tony's dozy girlfriend. Biting her tongue, she drains her remaining drink. Her head is feeling woozy, a bit soft.

“How do you know Tony then?” she volleys back. They're good at this kind of conversation: bouncing back and forth past topics they'd both rather avoid, switching focus constantly. Never lingering on the shitty parts.

Michelle squints before bowing her head to stare at the carpet under their feet as if it holds some important secret. She clears her throat daintily before sipping again. “We met in Year 8. Through a friend.” She glances up towards that geek in the beanie hat with Anwar. “Then you know how it goes in school. Year 10 we got together. And then after college we went to different universities. Came back here not long ago and, like, are giving it a go for the 10th time around.”

Naomi stares off into the corner that hides Tony and whatever girl he's chatting up. “Seriously?” Naomi can't understand how the fuck miserably watching him trying to pull some slag is considered “giving it a go”. It's completely the opposite of what she would consider that to mean. Michelle must be a bit thick. Like actually have something wrong in her head. Then again, mental dysfunction seems like it's kind of a prerequisite for dating a Stonem, she supposes, and even more so for this predicament.

Sounding fatigued, Michelle lets out a long sigh. “Yes. He's just... being Tony. He's playing games.” She glimpses her boyfriend across the room but turns away quickly. “He's not serious.”

Naomi arches an eyebrow as she watches him kiss along the other girl's neck. Yeah fucking right he's not serious. This is well fucked up and Naomi wonders if maybe she would have preferred a drunk bird getting ill on her new trainers. It's possible. Looking over to Michelle, Naomi's still a little disbelieving. “You just let that happen? Why don't you do something?”

The brunette shakes her head before tipping her cup back and necking the rest of her vodka with impressive ease. She tosses the cup aside. “It's complicated, okay?”

“There's complicated and then there's just proper spackered,” she mumbles, only half-hoping the other girl will hear.

Apparently she hears it loud and clear as she releases a very disgruntled groan. “Nevermind. I thought you'd understand.”

“I don't even know you,” Naomi blurts out defensively. How the hell would she get that impression? “What made you think I'd understand?” Because she's friends with Effy? That barely makes sense even on its own. She's not exactly a Stonem family expert, and considering Michelle and Tony had been together for quite a while and she has heard nothing about his having a girlfriend only shows how little she knows about Tony. She's Effy's mate, not Effy's brother's mate.

Michelle's brows wrinkle in something resembling pain. Closing her eyes, she takes a long breath. Eventually she focuses on Naomi, squarely and intensely again. “You look as miserable as I feel.”

Ah. Heart-to-hearts with strangers. Not Naomi Campbell's speciality, to be fair. She squirms with discomfort. “I'm not--.”

“Oh, come off it,” Michelle cuts in. “Who is it? Is he here? Must be.” She pauses, staring around at all the people in the room as if she's excited about a new mystery, a new romantic drama to immerse herself in. Offhandedly she adds, “I'm not soft in the head, you know.”

Emily isn't anywhere to be seen at the moment as Naomi glances surreptitiously around, not wanting to linger lest Michelle pick up on where she's looking and come to the wrong conclusion. “It doesn't matter.” The words are barely pass her lips before she sucks in a sharp breath as she spots Emily and the minging cow full-on snogging and groping by the stereo system. Her gaze freezes, locked on the display. She's vaguely aware of Michelle shifting about, trying to follow her line of sight. Naomi knows she should look away or else risk giving herself away, but the scene is too horrific in all honesty. It's like her nightmares in fullview, projected for everyone else to gawk at. Yet no one knows the evil nature of them, and thus no one tries to stop them from happening.

Michelle sighs beside her, whispering an understanding, “Oh.”

They say nothing for what feels like ages. Naomi can't be certain what Michelle is looking at because it's not exactly the most important thing at the moment. Oh, and there it is: Emily's hand moving, dipping under the waistband of the bitch's jeans. As fucking if. She feels eyes boring into her suddenly. And almost as suddenly, there's a commotion and Anwar the alleged Magnificent lurches sideways into the couple, knocking them both off-balance and completely ruining their disgusting moment. Good. At least he was good for something. Emily takes the opportunity to look around, not likely for anything particular but she finds it anyway.

Her eyes widen slightly when she sees Naomi staring hard at her. She doesn't smirk as Naomi had been accustomed to in recent weeks. She looks almost apologetic, as if she actually is regretting her actions just a little bit. There's something glistening in her eyes that seems sad and weak. Naomi's hoping that's reality and not just her drunken mind playing tricks on her.

Whatever is happening is interrupted by Michelle snatching Naomi's hand, pulling her up from the sofa abruptly. “Let's go get another drink, yeah?” She yanks on Naomi's arm, dragging her through the crowd and towards the kitchen. Past Emily, past Tony.

A small, boisterous crowd of college rugby lads is gathered around the table where there seems to be an assorted collection of unclaimed liquor bottles. Michelle reaches over and snatches a almost half-empty bottle of Bacardi, ignoring the one bloke objecting to her choice, instead bending over to flash his mate a view right down her top and complaints are silenced. Looking down, Naomi realises that her hand is still cradled tightly in Michelle's. It's warm, tight. Confident perhaps. If holding someone's hand could have that quality.

“Come on,” she says earnestly, pulling again on Naomi as the blonde reaches for a small bottle of Coke. It's much like she'd seen Emily be dragged about by Katie from time to time. The similarity is slightly appalling.

Tony's still in the corner with the slag and he watches carefully as they breeze by him, back into the sparse crowd dancing near the stereo. Michelle takes a long swig straight from the bottle and Naomi offers up the Coke to chase it which she accepts graciously before passing the rum to Naomi. She's not as keen on chugging straight liquor but it has to burn less than seeing Emily out of the corner of her eye getting felt up by that blonde cow. A wince crawls over her lips as she swallows, gesturing wildly at Michelle for the soft drink. As the liquor swirls down towards her stomach, she relaxes slightly, watching Michelle drink again. This girl is a fish. Anwar's back beside them, grabbing at Michelle and begging like a child for the alcohol. She plays a friendly game of keep-away for a few seconds, giggling before handing it to him. With good etiquette, after his helping, he passes it over to Naomi. In a matter of minutes after exchanging large swigs of drink, the bottle is empty.

It's going to be a fucking messy night.

Lethal Bizzle is blasting through the speakers as Naomi stumbles sloppily against Michelle and Sid, laughing. It's quite an odd feeling, this idea of having actual fun at a house party. She'd lost track of Emily's whereabouts about half an hour ago, she reckons. Who knows what time is anymore. Bass is pouring from the sound system, vibrating the floor at a wonderful frequency. The beats begin pulsing against her body.

Wait.

No. That's Michelle.

This random girl she's only met tonight is up and grinding on her like she thinks she's at a club. The funny thing about alcohol is its lovely way of making normal reasoning ability severely impaired and, truth is, Naomi has had a lot of liquor tonight. Michelle presses back, her nicely firm ass gyrating to the music against Naomi's crotch as her hands snake back and down Naomi's thighs, grasping at denim. And even though she's never been big on dancing, Naomi can't help it. Not at this moment. She also can't resist sliding her own hands over a sparsely clad waist and down to pull on Michelle's hips, pulling her intensely closer. The brunette's head falls back on Naomi's shoulder and, yes, this is far worse than any temptation even Jesus himself faced.

Mostly cos for one thing, Jesus wasn't drunk as far as Naomi remembers from that time her mother had gone on an 'all religions of of the world' kick and told Bible fairy-stories for a week straight. Also, Jesus wasn't a lesbian with an incredibly fit girl all up on his tits. She reckons even the Lord himself would think twice about the Devil's offer had he been in her shoes.

This whole ordeal may just send her to Hell, so it's an excellent thing that Naomi isn't religious then.

Her lips touch tentatively against hot skin over Michelle's pulse. This is probably bad form and she's about to get a Stonem fist in the face at any moment. Or, as it happens, Michelle pulls away. Naomi's cheeks flush hot and she freezes. Shit. It's been so long since she'd even been with anyone –let alone Emily-- that maybe the rules have changed. Or perhaps Michelle is just fucking straight. Obviously she is, Naomi, you daft twat. She berates herself for getting mixed up in this bloody mess in the first place and is about to dash from the dancefloor, tail between her legs, when Michelle faces her, flinging her arms around the blonde's neck. Naomi's breath catches in her throat. The older girl is practically throwing herself at her, and Naomi is completely baffled about how to respond, what would be considered crossing the line. Does a line even exist anymore? Thinking becomes a much harder task as she feels an incredibly warm body pressed right up against her.

“Where's your girl?” she whispers in Naomi's ear and a shudder passes straight down her spine at the thought. She looks around quickly, trying to spot Emily. She fails and shrugs. It's at that moment she catches Michelle glancing at Tony who's moved out of the shadows, but still with the slag of his. He's eyeing the two of them with something mixed between arousal and disbelief. It makes Naomi slightly ill and she attempts to put some space between her and Michelle, bumping into a grinning Sid in the process.

“What's the problem then?” the girl asks again suggestively, pulling Naomi back. Her lips are mere inches away. Fuck. It's Michelle that closes the distance with little to no hesitation. Her arms tighten around Naomi's neck. It's just the drink, Naomi reminds herself when she feels like the music is actually covering her body, rippling pleasure through it at regular intervals. She groans quietly as a tongue pushes against her mouth.

She is snogging a girl. A girl who is not Emily. At a party that Emily is also at, somewhere. This is most likely going to end horribly but the second wonderful thing about alcohol is that very few things seem undesirable. In fact, most everything seems like a good idea in the spur of the moment, including but not limited to a stranger's tongue down her throat as her hands slide up bare thighs, inadvertently pushing underneath a skirt. Naomi is so fucking turned on at the moment, she can barely function beyond the very basic primal instincts. Her peripheral vision doesn't exist. Her hands are beasts of their own mind, and her mind itself has taken a direct flight into fantasy.

This is likely the real sort of dirty dancing that parents and schoolteachers despise. None of that camp 80s rubbish. She's got a hot girl's thigh grinding against her clit and she can barely breathe. Michelle breaks the kiss to pull in a breath. Naomi's legitimately surprised at how hard the other girl is breathing. She shifts, changing the angle of her own leg, expertly, and waits for the gasp. It comes sharply in her ear, punctuated with a tiny moan.

Oh, Jesus fuck, this is not good. Not good at all. This is why they had brought in the temperance movement, she reckons. It must have been. So wankered neglected, lonely sorts didn't start dry humping like feral animals on a dancefloor at a shitty teenage house party. Nullifying the source of social ills and all that. Too bad it feels so fucking good or Naomi may have been tempted to stop.

It's only after Naomi's been feverishly leaving her mark on the other girl's neck does she feel large hands pushing against her shoulder. There's a moment of readjustment to reality as she comes to, blearily focusing on the tall boy standing far too close for comfort. His blue eyes pierce her in all the wrong places and for once, she's actually intimated by Tony Stonem. He says nothing but Naomi's hands fall away from Michelle's body like lightning. It's somewhat comforting that her partner in crime appears equally as dazed by the interruption... except there's a very slight smirk on her face when Michelle realises who it is that has interrupted them. The song shifts to something far more upbeat and it breaks the spell for good.

Naomi suddenly feels ill, the sick rising to the back of her throat. This is just not on. She'd just been effectively used as bait in Michelle and Tony's fucked up relationship. It's probably a good thing that she's a little numbed from the rum. She pushes away from the older girl who barely gives her a second glance, choosing to focus on Tony, a glint of challenge in her eyes. She shoves Anwar aside as she squeezes away from all the dancing. Her gaze darts around and her heart plummets. Emily's standing there, pained brown eyes locked on her. She'd seen it all.

“Ems,” Naomi calls out, her voice cracking but to no avail. The redhead cringes and rushes away, back through a crowd of girls and out of sight.

The blonde rubs a hand over her face, trying to orient herself in the house. The front door catches her eye and she stumbles over to it, stepping out into the garden, the cool night air feeling like heaven against her burning skin. She staggers out of the doorway. Effy's standing alone the shadows, lazily pulling on a cigarette and cocks a smile at Naomi when she takes in her friend's state.

“Smoke?” she asks, already tapping one out of the packaging. Naomi groans and takes it from her, lighting it with incredibly shaky hands. The moment the smoke is drawn into her lungs, the blonde feels a little better. Effy doesn't have to say a word. She's probably sussed it all out anyway. Naomi leans against the wall, feeling her nerves and sickness start to disappear in the absence of Emily, Michelle and that whole rat's nest of fuckery. They stand in silence, wisps of cigarette smoke swirling around them in the calm air. Thudding bass from indoors is like a fading war drum now. Nothing to be scared of anymore.

Looking up at the sky, Naomi picks out the Plough, following it to the North Star, a trick she'd picked up from her father long ago on a caravaning holiday to Wales. She retains very little of use from him, except his love of stars. She's never been one of those children preoccupied with outer space or aliens or any of that comic book bollocks, but constellations appealed to her. They were constant. If it was a clear night, she could just look up and recognise familiar faces, recall Greek myths. Most people felt small and lonely in comparison to the vastness of space and the uniqueness of Earth. She feels less lonely. There were stars up there, just sitting alone as well, like her, minding their own business. Completely indifferent to her existence or petty problems. Billions of miles from each other, but from far away they make stories and pictures. They carry memories on waves of light.

Taking another drags she squints, surprised how her drunken double-vision isn't interfering too harshly with her contemplation of Cygnus.

She takes a long breath, staring upwards. “Once, there were two friends who flew too close to the Sun and crashed to Earth. One died, and the other, Cygnus, begged Zeus for help to help him dive for his friend's body that was at the bottom of a river,” Naomi recites, almost to nobody in particular. Effy raises an eyebrow at the tale coming from her intoxicated friend's mouth. “He was proper torn up about it all, like wailing and crying on the riverbank. Zeus offered Cygnus the option to change into a swan and retrieve his best mate's body but only if he remained a swan afterwards and gave up his immortality, living only as briefly as a swan. Cygnus agreed without hesitation. And Zeus, he was so bloody impressed with Cygnus' unselfishness that he placed a swan in the sky in in honour of him.” Naomi sighs and takes a drag of her cigarette again, gazing up. Her brunette friend says nothing for a long while.

“Fancy story, Naomi,” she finally muses aloud.

Naomi peers over, and chuckles at Effy's expression. “You're not the only one who likes a myth here and there, Eff.” She quirks a smile at her friend.

Effy shakes her head and smiles. “Something to do with Emily again?”

Naomi stares at the ash burning on the end of her fag. For once, it really wasn't. “No, the stars just caught my eye is all.” She laughs again at the fact she'd just rambled Greek mythology in a drunken state in a stranger's front garden. “Ready to go?” she asks Effy quickly. Scrunching her nose up, Effy waves her half-finished cigarette at Naomi. Okay, she knows that language. It means, 'in a bit'.

The music becomes louder suddenly and both girls look over to see the front door open fully and another brunette slip outside. The music fades as quick as it began. However, Naomi feels the familiar sick rising up. So much for a good end to the night after the previous disaster. Michelle hesitates briefly before moving towards them both. Effy looks almost amused at the situation, her gaze jumping back and forth between Naomi and Michelle. The older girl steps close to Effy.

She avoids eye contact with Naomi. “Mind if I bum one?” she asks, her voice wavering a little.

“Thought you quit,” Effy deadpans.

“Christ, can I just have one, please?”

Naomi watches as Effy pulls a fag out for her brother's girlfriend and hands it to her, a wide smirk on her face. Michelle takes a deep first drag before exhaling slowly to the side. Only then does she chance a look at the blonde. “Sorry about earlier,” she says with an air of sincere apology. “I didn't...”

“It's fine,” Naomi snaps. It comes out much harder than she intended so she attempts to amend it. “Don't worry about it. Just got carried away is all.” Her feeble excuses seem weak even to her own ears. No doubt Effy is thinking the same.

Michelle shifts her weight, touching her hair briefly. “So, Tony and I are back on. Properly,” she states. She sounds as if she's perfectly aware that neither of the younger girls care. Effy snorts and tosses her cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the toe of her boot. Michelle straightens her spine a little more. “We are.” Her voice is adamant, like she's trying to convince Tony's sister, as well as herself. Her mouth sets into a hard line at Effy's disbelief and she rolls her eyes at the younger girl, turning to Naomi instead. “I'd like us to be friends.”

Naomi tilts her head to the side, recognising the unfortunate feeling of alcohol-induced vertigo. She dare not move it further now. She may actually tumble over. That would be classy. Regardless of the state of her liquefying brain, Naomi's not certain she wants anymore friends. She's got Effy. That's enough headache. Especially not friends that use her for sex games to make their boyfriends jealous. Not really a sign of a great mate, in her opinion. But apart from that, she rather enjoyed the older girl's company. Michelle raises her eyebrows, awaiting a response. She actually looks quite genuine. Naomi balances the last of her cigarette between her lips as she reaches into her pocket for her mobile, handing it to Michelle. “Go for it,” she sighs and watches the brunette's fingers work quickly to put in her number then ring her own phone.

Of course, an obnoxious Peaches ringtone breaks through the peaceful silence in the neighbourhood. Michelle quickly silences it and quirks a partly shy smile in the girls' direction. Both Naomi and Effy stare back impassively. Naomi's expression shifts however when she notices the very definite mark of her mouth's handiwork on Michelle's neck. There's a flush of an ugly, tangled sort of feeling; something between embarrassment, arousal and resentment. It boils slowly in Naomi's chest as she stares fixedly at the lovebite. Eventually the older brunette notices, her hand self-consciously touching it and then turning to the side, effectively hiding the red bruise from Naomi's nosey view. Effy's eyes are darting back and forth during the silent exchange and Naomi's unsure if her friend had been in the house at the time, but she seems to have pieced it all together regardless.

Thankfully she doesn't have a chance to make any snide comments before the front door swings open again and a redhead stumbles out onto the walk, followed by the blonde rah from earlier. It's a terrible reunion and Naomi feels the pace of her heart quicken immediately. This isn't how she wanted to talk to Emily, not with fucking Michelle and Effy and that blonde cunt as their audience. She opens her mouth and moves towards Emily by a step but the strange girl's voice breaks the awkward, heavy silence.

“How totally, um, safe to see you, Michelle. Thought you went away, yah?”

Naomi shirks back against the wall, completely lost as to the situation that is occurring. Michelle knows Emily's date? How does everyone know everyone else in this fucking town? At least Emily looks just as taken aback at the revelation. For a moment, Naomi is distracted by the fact that Emily of all people would find this person to be attractive. Looks-wise she's not terrible, but her personality? She seems horrid. Simply must be great in the sack. Then again, Emily never really had good taste in girlfriends, present company admittedly included.

“What are you even doing here, Abi?” There's a sigh. Michelle just sounds tired and dismissive. “You're not even...” Her sentence trails away as she gestures at Emily.

Abigail perks up, a horribly fake smile spreading over her face. “You're not the only one that can have fun. Get Tony's notice, yah? Boy, Michelle, you've really missed a lot in the last year.” She gives the brunette a placating smile. “You really shouldn't have bothered. I mean, like, you're not even popular here anymore.” Every word that comes out of this girl's mouth sounds so fake and patronizing, like some sort of posh psychiatrist. But Abi's background and inflection aren't really Naomi's main point of focus. Instead, she sees Emily's face go from uncomfortable to irritated, offended possibly at Abi's insinuation. Playing gay for Tony's attention seems to be a disgusting trend for these girls. What the bloody hell was so great about him anyway? And why the fuck did they all think being lesbians for a night would be the great solution to their problem of his wandering eye? Emily huffs and shakes her head disdainfully, strutting away.

Abi starts after her. “Aw, Emsy-poo, I didn't mean it like that, you know right?”

Naomi smirks as Emily's stride never falters. They're done. One less obstacle to winning her back.

Good. She supposes she should thank Michelle for that. The brunette groans and pulls on her fag. “Bitch,” she hisses as Abigail's pleading voice fades away. She glares at Effy. “Thanks for your help, by the way,” she says with a glower.

Effy shrugs. “I care why?”

“It's your brother she's trying to manipulate.”

Again, another shrug, this one even less noticeable than the last. “Same as you are, you mean?” Michelle's eyes narrow but she can't argue with the assertion. “Tony's clever.” Effy says the statement with an air of finality. The discussion is over. And it's the truth anyway. Tony hardly needs anyone looking after him any longer. If anything, the girls in his life need more saving from him. Whatever. It is all too complicated and irrelevant to the plans Naomi is intent on making.

1. Ring Emily. 2. Make things right.

Maybe not when so drunk. Yes.

No. Best right now. Sooner the better.

Yes, but after chips.

Naomi picks herself off the wall and wobbles into the garden. Ring Emily. Go see Emily. Must do right now. Chips first. If she could get her legs to work properly it would be a start. Glancing behind her, she waits for Effy to join her and they leave the party together and Michelle's left to fend for herself. Naomi doesn't feel guilty about that. She's more concerned about the chip shop around the corner still being open.

They make it to the house just before Naomi drops her half-eaten packet of greasy chips to the pavement and feels the wave of nausea pass from her toes right to her tongue. With a bin beside her, she spends the night retching and sleeping fitfully in Effy's bed instead.

<< PART 2 >>
PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [epilogue ii]

doreah — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 19:51:59 GMT

echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you)

Author: Eskimo Jo
Rating: M
Warning: language, sexuality.
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

Full notes in Part 1.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

The smell of fresh coffee wafts through the ground floor of the Stonems' flat, causing Michelle to stir with curiousity. Naomi follows soon after and blinks slowly, adjusting to the light in the room, from both the Christmas tree lights and the sun which is shining in through the kitchen windows. Anthea's bustling about, preparing a plate of snacks and a huge pot of coffee. She wanders in and places the sweets down on the small table and smiles at the girls on the sofa. Naomi rubs her eyes.

“Happy Christmas, girls,” she grins. “Michelle. Nice surprise, isn't it, Naomi?” She winks at the blonde and she can feel her cheeks redden. That wink likely doesn't mean what she thinks it does, but all the same, just thinking about how good a surprise it was is enough.

“You too, Anthea,” Michelle says with a smile of her own. “Hope you don't mind. My aunt's gone to Brighton.”

Anthea gives her a dismissive wave. “Of course it's fine. It's Christmastime.” She straightens up a few of the loose biscuits. “Any time now Tony and Effy'll be down.” And then she's disappeared back into the kitchen to check on the coffee. The girls untangle their limbs and Naomi reaches down and tosses Michelle her jumper. The brunette smirks before pulling it on, and flipping back the blanket. Not long after, there's another pair of feet padding down the stairs and Gina makes her grand Christmas entrance looking like she desperately needs that coffee.

“Morning, mum. Merry Christmas,” Naomi laughs and takes a bite out of a piece of shortbread. Gina grimaces mildly, and shakes her head.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” Then she sees Michelle perched next to her daughter, in pjs as well. “Oh, Michelle. Lovely to see you again.” She manages to break her morning funk for Naomi's girlfriend's sake at least.

“You too, Miss Campbell,” Michelle responds with her typical, saccharine “meet the parents” smile. It's really only like the 3^rd time they'll be spending any sort of time together and Naomi is secretly slightly nervous. Gina adored Emily, and after all the ruckus in Bristol, she hopes that her mum does an Anthea and comes round to the whole idea.

And so it happens, actually. By the time everyone is gathered around the plastic and peculiar botanical symbol of Christmas giving, and unwrapping various bits and bobs, Gina is smiling, happy even in the face of such a (to her) disagreeable tradition. Naomi hadn't asked for anything from her mum, but when she sees Gina and Michelle chatting about some trinket that Tony had bought for the older woman (such a thoughtful boy) she's certain that's her gift. And to be fair, it's not as if Gina is a rude or judgemental person even on the worst of days, so obviously she'd like Michelle. Eventually. It's just that it's happened quickly and so painlessly that Naomi often has to ask herself if she's actually in reality. Nothing gold can stay and all that. When her mum rises to go fetch some more tea from the kitchen, Naomi follows right behind her. She leans against the cupboards as her mum gets to work procuring some breakfast tea from the shelf. She smiles sideways at her daughter.

“All right, love? Brew?” Michelle and Tony's voices tinkle with laughter over top the bustle in the other room. Naomi shakes her head.

“I'm fine, mum.” She feels fine, definitely. That's about the only thing that feels weird. “I'm glad you came.”

Gina laughs, setting the teapot down. “Couldn't have you traipsing back to Bristol this year and interrupting your studies, could I? Plus, I'm starting to enjoy these little gatherings.” She offers Naomi a genuine smile, and the younger girl is fairly sure part of her mother's pleasure is in Anthea's company. She can't remember the last time her mum's had a real friend, like one that isn't into hot yoga, incense and ecstasy. Anthea, while not exactly resembling normal, is the closest thing to it. Their histories are similar. Hell, they even share the same brand of hair bleach. Gina pulls out four mugs. She pauses midway between reaching for the teapot and focuses on her daughter. “Michelle is– Are you happy?” Point blank she fires the question Naomi knew had been coming for a few days now.

Chewing her bottom lip, Naomi bows her head away from her mother's insistent gaze. She can't pull back the small smile though and when she looks up at her expectant mum, it's obvious. “Yeah, mum.”

“Good. That's very good.” Naomi narrows her eyes, trying to decipher what's really being said here. “Are you sure?” There it is. Her mother had never much cared for tricks and liars.

“Yes!” Maybe some emphasis will help get the point across but Gina still appears sceptical. “I'm in love, okay? Can we just drop it?” Her cheeks flush quite heatedly with the admission anyway. The younger blonde has never been very fond of talking about feelings straight up, especially with her own mother. It always turns into some deep, metaphorical or spiritual discussion and right now she's certain she actually doesn't need convincing or encouragement towards any particular goal. She's already there.

Gina's lips purse and she nods curtly. “Okay. Because I can see Michelle there is in love with you, for some incomprehensible reason,” she says with a smirk. “And she seems... quite easy to hurt.”

“Mum, I get it.”

“Okay, okay,” Gina says in a placating, hushed tone and reaches out to pull her daughter into her arms, brushing her fringe back from her face in the process. “I'm just making sure I didn't raise a perpetual heartbreaker, is all.”

Of course she'd have to bring up Emily. Naomi stiffens noticeably in response and Gina gives her a friendly shake. “Don't be like that, sweetheart. I'm only your concerned old mum being nosy.” She lets Naomi wriggle out of the embrace and chuckles. “Really, Naomi.”

There's a shrug from her daughter. “You don't need to worry. I'm not trying to set any records.”

Gina leans in and places a soft kiss on Naomi's forehead. “That's my girl.” She pats her head and returns to pouring the tea.

Anthea appears suddenly in the doorway. “Everything all right?” Gina nods and holds out two mug of steaming tea which Anthea takes with a grateful smile.

“We're all lovely, thanks, Anthea,” she says, and takes the remaining mugs out to the lounge.

Naomi hesitates, hovering on the edge of the room. Gina hands a mug to Effy, as Anthea does to Tony. They're laughing, chatting and it strangles Naomi's heart for a moment. This is what a family looks like. She hadn't really known one for so long that it had been almost forgotten amongst the rubble of her parents' divorce, and her own troublesome young adulthood. Now, she feels like she has not one, but two, because just as she'd felt with her friends a few nights ago, she feels again. Like there are wires linking everyone to each other, with indestructible types of materials. The sorts of chains that you lock yourself to voluntarily knowing there's no escape. She sees Effy laugh, a big, wide sound, triggered by something Tony's said. And Anthea's eyes reflect that joy too. And there's her own mum pulling a dopey Santa hat over Tony's large head, flicking the pom-pom into his face. And Michelle... she's not there. Naomi's heart leaps into her throat briefly, in fear. Out of habit, really. Used to being left behind. But she needn't have worried. The brunette, in her stupid penguin pyjamas, materializes at her side, a soft hand sliding down her arm until their fingers twirl and intertwine. She glances at their joined hands briefly before back at the Christmas scene in front of her. Effy looks up, her blue eyes bright and meets Naomi's gaze across the room. She quirks her lips, lifts an eyebrow.

I told you so, she says without a sound.

Right again, Effy Stonem. It did turn out okay. Naomi winks back, and huffs out an amused sigh before pulling her girlfriend back over to the sofa to join the rest of the family. Tony, always the catalyst, tosses a small box in her direction with some slightly rude demand to open it immediately. Anthea starts to hush him up about telling people what to do but Naomi's not really listening. Michelle pulls up her legs and leans in, whispers in her her ear. “It's from me.”

Expectation is written across Michelle's face as she watches every movement. Naomi pulls off the wrapping, knowing that whatever is inside the box doesn't really matter. She doesn't need it because she has this morning, this moment. When her heart beats, she can feel the echo again reverberating around her, bouncing back from the soul beside her. In sync. In their own dance. She plucks the box open still, peers inside, pauses as everything settles into place and just smiles.

The echo is louder than ever.

THE END

“Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson, Princess (IV, Bugle Song)

AND so there you have it. My attempt at writing a fluffy, happy ending for Naomi. And Michelle. And Emily. And Effy, for that matter. But, yeah, is anything ever perfect for Skins girls? Heh... There's always somewhere else to travel. Also, massive heaps of apologies for the f-list spam. I'm really, really sorry. LJ really needs to increase its (sometimes completely arbitrary) word count limit. I mean, the fic is only about 50,000.words. It should have fit into 6 entries, but for some fucking ridiculous reason, it didn't. And I'm sorry. But I hope it was at least moderately enjoyable anyway :)

Notes:

The Iron Queen is a nickname for Persephone, goddess of the underworld. It's not exactly a meaningful reference. I just wanted something like “Ice Queen” and the concept of Persephone bringing life back to the earth in conjunction with another person (and as such, surprisingly bringing something good from the Underworld) was kinda cool too.

I'm sure everyone knows this, but Lesbos is a real Greek island and the birthplace of lyrical poet Sappho, and “lesbian” is derived from this.

The documentary film Tony and Michelle are watching is Sharkwater. It's completely personal choice cos Sharkwater pretty much changed my life (I honestly couldn't breathe I was crying so hard) but I thought its meaning (beyond the literal) fit well with Tony, and to some degree Michelle, as well. A fierce, beautiful and misunderstood creature persecuted unjustly. Also, you know, sharks, white whales, etc...

The book that Naomi is reading during revision is Public Morality and Liberal Society: Essays on Decency, Law, and Pornography by Harry M. Clor. I didn't make it up myself. But I did study it years ago. It's actually kind of funny cos I just randomly grabbed a somewhat sociological/law textbook and flipped open to that page and voilà! Felt it fit rather nicely.

Tony refers to Effy as Starbuck and Naomi as Ishmael, and Naomi herself addresses Tony as Ahab. I'm sure most people have read Herman Melville's Moby Dick. Ahab is the captain of the ship –a tragic hero, and Starbuck is his first mate. Ishmael is a sailor as well, and the narrator of the story. If you're not familiar with what each of these characters represents, check out a condensed summary on Wikipedia or the links I've provided. I'm not totally random ;) I may go so far as to waggle the name Queequeg at Michelle. But that would be even more pretentious of me than these notes already are. I'm not Melville, that's for damn sure. Obviously.

The book that Tony is reading at the supper table is On the Genealogy of Morals by Friedrich Nietzsche, one of Tony's admitted interests in canon. I find it very fitting for Tony and is incidentally one of my favourite works by Nietzsche. One of the best papers I've ever written was on this text. Guh.

In his conversation with Naomi, Tony quotes Lady Macbeth from Shakespeare's Macbeth (Act 1, scene 7). It is a scene where Lady Macbeth is trying to coax Macbeth into action. We all know Tony has a penchant for quoting Shakespearean plays.

When Tony barges into Naomi's room just before the funeral, he quotes Friedrich Nietzsche again, from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None this time. It's the same book he's reading in 1x05 on the bench onthe College Green.

“Schadenfreude” is a German word meaning “satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else's misfortune”.

I feel too I just have to make a quick note about one of the underlying issues that was a recurrent theme (at least in the earlier part of the story): Michelle's sexual (dys)function. Just to make it clear, there are multiple references to this in the programme itself (from Michelle herself and then from Sid, I believe on two separate occasions – though his were more in the vein of the quality of sex). Without going into a lot of detail, some quick reading about FSAD and anorgasmia cos I think it's actually a subject that is quite pervasive in the story and very in tune with the events of S1 and 2, as well. I didn't want to address anything specifically in the narrative but it is tightly though subtly tied into the whole arc. There's also a much more philosophical slant to all this, and the chapter The Ravished Bride in Marion Woodman's Addiction To Perfection: The Still Unravished Bride rings so clearly true in terms of Michelle. It's a text you need to read in its entirety (and have read Carl Jung as well) to really understand where I'm coming from with this, but really, there is so much here that is quite Michelle, and even Naomi to an extent as well, since I think, while physically speaking their issues are not the same, psychologically they can be drawn from the same general source and often emerge in a similar pattern (of relationships, and the issues with them). I honestly just can't get over it so you're quite free to ignore these quotes but here they are:

(from various pages; they're not continuous)

For the Ereshki gal sexuality is part of life, part of nature. She cannot be devastated by it. She IS it, she is one with nature. She has nature's raw power, and that she will protect from ravishment: if it is penetrated, her experience is earth-shattering because she is separated from her unconscious grounding. Such a woman must make the journey down through her undifferentiated identification with matter, recognise her individuality and separate.

Like the psyche, the body has lived its life holding on. Now the holding becomes conscious and manifests in pain. As loving mother to her own body, the woman can allow it to relax into her own love. Strong lesbian feelings often emerge because the feminine body needs the love of a woman in order to accept itself. Sometimes that need has to be projected in order for it to be recognised, in which case a lesbian relationship may happen […] Physical cherishing by a woman, whether sexual or platonic, gives the feminine ego the grounding it requires.

If, for example, a woman is genuinely in her body so that spirit and matter are one, she cannot separate her sexuality from her love.

Consciousness viewed in this way is Eros. The greater capacity to receive and give, the greater consciousness of the essence of everything. That interplay is creativity; in the moment we are constantly creating. I in my Being give a muffin –or an orange or black-eyed Susan-- to you in your Being. Something has happened between us.

Living energy is interacting with living energy and transformation happens because we recognise each other and in that recognition is the love that brings us and others to out full stature. We see new eyes. [...] We love, and that love goes with us [...] Sexuality is no longer limited to the genitalia. It becomes out total response to the whole world. Love engenders soul.

To be true to the soul is to value the soul, to express it as uniquely as possible. It is loving from inside, rather than accepting a foreign standard that does not take out essence into consideration. To strive for perfection is to kill love because perfection does not recognise humanity. Only by opening ourselves to the inner Reality do we open ourselves to the possibility of the gift of love. Action and ego choice are involved: we can accept; we can reject; we can withdraw at any point. But we cannot make it happen. Love chooses us.

There's also a very subtle exploration of the role trust plays in reaching love but I can't find the page now. Which I think is pretty common sense. Truthfully, I'd written all but two scenes of my fic when I read this book, so I think that speaks to the truth of what's being said in terms of my personal views on love and its interaction with (reliance on) trust. I wanted to address, though not explicitly Michelle's trust issues in others, and Naomi's mistrust of herself as well as others. And then the consequence of trusting each other... Resulting in love. Aww. Puppies and rainbows and lollipops for all!

A note on a note: It's important to understand that as the terms are used here “feminine” does not mean likely what you expect it to (It's not a gender/social construct in Jungian theory. It's conceptual and is analogous to “soul”, whereas masculine is analogous to “spirit”). It's psychobabble really. Same as “ravishment” and “rape” (not mentioned here but it is the contrast to ravishment) are conceptual more than the blatant, literal meaning, and really, to get the real context it requires reading the text. But, just... yeah. Trust me. ;)

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [epilogue]

doreah — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 19:38:40 GMT

Rating: M
Warning: language, sexuality.
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

Full notes in Part 1.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

Note: Yes. It's a Christmas bit. I wrote this actually before a rather large chunk of the actual piece. On Christmas break. Yeah. It was pretty much ~completely inspired by Vienna Teng's "The Atheist Christmas Carol" [lyrics, like, every. single. word].

EPILOGUE

Christmas carols are tinkling from a stereo across the room as Anthea and Tony place various baubles and decorations on their fake plastic tree in the front room. Fairy lights adorn it already and twinkle with a mischievous kind of promise. Christmas with the Stonems always reminds Naomi how much she's missed out on before. She's never been bothered about the lack of gaudy dead trees displayed so proudly and small magic babies born in barns. Those are still strange rituals she can't quite understand. But the feeling is what she'd never quite had. This communal effort to make something beautiful, for no other reason than to just savour being together. Her mum, while obviously a mega fan of community, must have missed the memo about Christmastime. It was always the same as every other day, except with that feeling that she was missing something important that everyone else had. Occasionally they did the Pagan thing, with the Yule cake or the Festivus thing, but that never lasted too long because it was seen as just another forced holiday for the sake of fitting in with the rest of the holiday season. And of course, Jenna Fitch wasn't, even in the spirit of Christmas, in favour of having Naomi over for supper or any festivities. Naomi had been allowed merely a glimpse of the tree surrounded with (useless, Capitalist-consumerism-inspired) gifts as she had snuck up to Emily's bedroom that one year.

The first Christmas in London was a time of serious readjustment. The Stonems, in some sort of 'make Effy happy' show, had gone all out. And going from nothing to everything all at once had been intimidating. She wasn't stupid; she knew what everything was, the reindeer and Santa and crèche and stockings. But to have it all in her face was an altogether different experience. And now, her third year, she was revelling in it and thankfully, Anthea had taken the enthusiasm down quite a few notches in the meantime. Now, Tony and his mum go about their practised routine and Naomi follows from her position on the sofa, basking in how comfortable it seems. She'd offered to help as she had done every year, but was always told that this was “their” thing. That was okay, though. It was just Tony and Anthea. Even Effy was shooed away and ended up laying on the settee with her head on Naomi's lap, observing the action with a keen eye, but occasionally dozing off. She's slightly more talkative these days (which isn't saying much) but the holidays always seem to make her extra pensive and silent. Tony drapes an angel onto a high branch at his mother's request. It shimmers for a moment, glinting brightly as it spins slowly. Naomi can't help but hope for her own mum to come by soon. She's meant to arrive in a few days, right before Christmas eve and spend it with them. At Naomi's insistence. She'd finally managed to show her mum that it wasn't about the gifts or fat paedo doing break and enters; it was about the feeling.

Tony chides his mum gently when she places a penguin on a sled too close to another penguin with a snowball and suggests somewhere else to put it. Christmas brought the best out of Tony Stonem, to be honest. Especially at home in these quiet, co-operative moments. She wishes he'd just be this way the rest of the year. The front bell chimes 4 times and Anthea looks a little surprised. Tony smirks and Naomi smiles widely. “That'll be Chelle,” she says with barely veiled excitement to Anthea and is about to rise when the older woman waves at her.

“I'll fetch her. Stay there.” It's pleasant, Anthea's shift in attitude. There's still a sore spot deep down about Michelle and Tony, but time has all but totally healed that wound.

Effy stirs. “Ooh, I luurrrve Chelle,” she taunts in a nasally voice obviously meant to badly impersonate Naomi. The older girl glances down at her lap, and Effy's face, and promptly slaps a hand over her mouth.

“Jesus, Effy. Hasn't anyone told you to talk far too much? Shut up once in a while, yeah?” She and Tony share a laugh at Effy's expense before he focuses again on the tree and all its necessary accoutrements. Her hand slides away from Effy's mouth and a grin takes its place. There's some chattering in the foyer before Michelle enters with a fuckload of baggage. Naomi and all the Stonems take her in curiously. She dumps one carrier bag on the coffee table and roots around in the other, pulling out 3 small gifts, pushing past Tony and placing them out of the way on the mat under the tree. They're the first presents to appear.

“My aunt insisted on bringing over some of our absolute mountain of cakes,” she explains, mostly to Anthea as she pulls out plate upon tin of various baked goods. “Sort of a thank you for keeping me out of her hair this year,” she jokes. Anthea's poking around the offerings with interest, pulling open tins and quietly oohing and ahhing at what she sees.

“These are lovely, Michelle,” she says finally and seems to genuinely mean it.

Tony turns and chuckles. “I wouldn't touch those if I were you, mum. Not if Nips has helped with them. Probably make you ill.” He's smiling.

“Oi, wanker,” she protests and hugs a plate protectively to her chest.

He winks. “I'm just saying. You're shit in the kitchen.”

“I am not, Tone! They're well delicious even if I did help out.” He shrugs and grins wider at her defensiveness before plucking another ornament from the box.

With the requisite bickering out of the way, she places the plate down and Anthea's already plopped a small biscuit into her mouth with a hum of approval. Michelle moves to the sofa and perches on the armrest beside Naomi, running a hand through the blonde hair in some sort of hello. Naomi leans her head against the warm hip beside her. With a trail of crumbs following Anthea across the room, she's back to helping Tony out with the last of decorations, nattering amongst themselves about the empty spots that need filling. Effy's eyes are closed again and she's breathing steadily. If Naomi didn't know better she'd swear the girl was narcoleptic. But it's infectious maybe cos the way Michelle's slowly stroking through her hair is causing her own eyelids to feel heavy. Everything is so relaxed and the blonde feels that life, despite how it may try to convince you of the opposite, was actually pretty fucking perfect.

The doorbell going off again startles everyone, and even Effy jumps a little. For some reason, Naomi feels everybody's eyes on her for explanation, as if she's some psychic visitor-predictor. And then something must click in Tony's mind cos he breaks out in a grin again. “Ah, I know who that is.” At his knowing tone, Effy pulls herself up, glaring suspiciously at his back as he heads towards the front door. She runs a hand through her hair to flatten it a bit from sleep. Anthea glances at her daughter who merely shrugs in response.

There is a lot of sound. Loud sound. Multiple people. Distinctive, familiar voices. Male, female and soon after a cacophony of boots are removed the visitors follow Tony into the lounge room.

“Merry merry!” comes an exuberant voice and Cook spreads his arms wide in some sort of celebration as twin girls follow in his wake, one rolling her eyes at him and the other smiling shyly. He immediately makes a beeline for Effy and scoops her up in his arms. “How're doin', princess?” he asks and kisses her cheek sloppily. The resulting smile on her face is sincere, an amazing feat to draw out of that enigma. He quickly moves to Naomi, takes her in a similar embrace. “Naomikins!” And then he takes Michelle's hand and graciously kisses it. “And the lovely Michelle. Fancy seeing you here.”

When the hellos are finished, the man of the hour turns his attention to the older blonde woman. “Miss Stonem, I've missed you the most, babe.” Naomi cringes in amusement at the greeting. “How's my leading lady holding up with all these youngsters?” Anthea for her part looks equally shocked and flattered, as if she's seeing a friendly ghost.

“Nice to see you, James.”

Never one to be outdone, Tony pushes Emily and Katie forward towards his mother, taking the attention away from Cook. “This is Katie and Emily,” he says, gesturing to each respectively. “Old mates of Effy and Naomi's, and mine.” Anthea mentions that it's good to see Katie looking so well, and shakes Emily's hand politely.

But then she pauses, her face crinkling in confusion. She scratches behind her ear absently. “Lovely. What exactly are you all doing here?”

“I invited them,” Tony states, as if any other possibility is ridiculous. “They were supposed to bring Sid,” he adds and pins Cook with a look.

Cook rolls his head in disbelief. “Ah come on, mate! I'm not a fucking taxi.” Katie snickers beside him and Effy laughs. Tony however doesn't appear as pleased with the joke. Cook steps forward and slaps his shoulder. “Relax, man. He's parking somewhere.” He shrugs dramatically and wanders over to the sofa, plops himself between herself and Effy, his arms stretched along the back of the cushions. King of the fucking castle and he's only been here 3 minutes. He pulls Effy against him, giving her a shake and ruffling her hair. She glares at him, smooths the mess but there's a small smile there. Katie watches with a surprising lack of jealousy. Naomi realises that she and Cook must really be happy. Emily, who as far as Naomi knows, has never actually met Anthea before hangs back behind Katie who's now chatting with the older woman. Naomi stands, interrupts the burgundy-haired twin briefly, giving her a hug in greeting before coming round to Emily and doing the same, and then taking her hand. She leads her over to the sofa and the redhead appears to be grateful for the removal from that awkward social situation.

“Hi, Emily,” Michelle says, standing and adjusting her top. She reaches out and gives the younger girl a quick, polite hug. It's better than nothing. Naomi smiles gratefully at her girlfriend for the effort.

“Hi, Michelle.” It's still tentative but it's nice. Naomi sees hope. To break the mild tension, Naomi pushes Emily down onto the sofa beside Cook and Effy and the boy laughs, yells “Emilio!” for no particular reason and pulls her into his little group embrace. The blonde watches them as a sprinkling of nostalgia threatens to build the beginning elements of tears. It only lasts a moment because Michelle's hand slips into hers and she squeezes in response. There is some thumping from the front corridor and suddenly a very wet looking Sid Jenkins marches into the sitting room and is met with Anthea's loud & shrill voice demanding he get back in the foyer and take off his boots and jacket. Naomi and Katie burst out into simultaneous fits of laughter at the drenched boy who looks like he fell in a pond somewhere along the way, whilst he looks thoroughly unhappy. Anthea's fussing over him and Tony is smirking at the commotion.

“Sid, you tit! What happened?” he calls over. He's only met with a response that is some sort of mumbled complaint about roadworks and puddles and “fucking London twats” as Anthea quickly runs to the kitchen with his soaked jacket to wring it out or something. Tony pats Sid on the back, gives the pathetic boy a once-over and motions upstairs. “Let's get you out of those wet clothes, yeah?” he suggests in the most ridiculous way possible. Katie makes a snorting sound as she watches the boys go upstairs.

Suddenly, they're alone. Their rag-tag group of misfits, or what's left of them, plus Michelle. No one speaks immediately and the irritating voice of Bing Crosby floats over top of the noise in the kitchen and the muffled arguments of the boys upstairs. It's Christmastime, and they're all together again. Like people are supposed to do at this time of year but now, unlike before when it was just Naomi and the Stonems, it seems oddly formal. Forced, even. No doubt because of all the history or whatever, but it's bringing Naomi's holiday spirit down just a tad. She needs to do something cos, well, she's technically the hostess since Effy doesn't really speak much and none of the others live here. She points behind Katie.

“Have a seat, Katie,” she prompts and the twin obliges easily and Naomi nudges Michelle towards the other. “Who wants some drinks?” she asks, putting on a happy face. There's a general murmur of agreement, and obviously overhearing them, Anthea calls from the kitchen that she'll take care of it all. Naomi shrugs and grins. That was easy, she thinks as she glances at Michelle, plonking herself right on the older girl's lap, and feels an arm slip around her warmly. There. Sorted. Everyone's sitting and now talking can commence.

That is, if anyone would actually say anything. Michelle, lovely lovely Michelle, breaks the silence this time. “So, Cook,” she says, as if calling him by his last name still feels off, “How'd you manage to get the time off. It's a busy season, yeah?” Ah, work-related small talk. Well, it's better than nothing.

“I make my own hours, don't I?” he says with a very self-satisfied grin. “Plus, yeah, your man there offered some nice dosh if we'd drag that sodding mopey bugger with us.” He nods towards the ceiling.

And that's all it really takes: a few choice adjectives about Sid Jenkins and Katie is off yapping about how bloody emo he is and Emily reciting, in tandem with her and almost at verbatim, the entire roadtrip. By the time Anthea comes out with a tray of mimosas and sweets, the conversation is in full swing and it feels like home again. Eyes are sparkling, smiles are stretched and, best of all, Naomi feels comfortable wrapped in Michelle's arms with Emily in her presence, like wounds are finally healed and everyone is moving on. But not just moving on, moving forward. When she exchanges a smile with her ex-girlfriend as Michelle, Katie and Cook are again in the midst of some fascinating hot topic discussion, she knows everything, at least for this moment, is perfect.

The afternoon and evening pass in a blur of drinks, laughs and memories. They catch up on Katie and Cook's adventures in hilariously mismatched coupledom, Sid's uselessness, and Emily's new girlfriend, or almost girlfriend as it stands. It's half 11 by the time Emily yawns unabashedly, in her adorable drunken way and Katie scoffs loudly, in her own, equally half-sauced way. The younger twin curls against the sofa cushions with a dopey smile on her face, and struggles to keep her eyes open. Effy's part way through chugging a lager down just like old times and Cook and Tony are hollering nonsense at her to keep it up. Beer splashes down her face and neck as she finishes it off. Katie grabs the empty can from the brunette's weak hold and tosses it on the floor. Oh, mother Katiekins. All the boys, and Effy, boo at her in jest but she pins Cook with a very pointed glare that silences him almost instantly.

“Ems is fucking falling asleep. We need to go home.” It would be incredibly convincing if Katie didn't have a lisp that became far more pronounced the more she drinks. Cook waves her off dismissively and grabs another Carling for himself. “James!” Katie squeals again. Naomi has to hide her face in Michelle's shoulder at Katie's enunciation.

“Chill out, Katie,” Tony pipes up. “Emily can have my bed.” That may just be the most revolting yet amusing thing Naomi's heard all night and she makes no quiet show of her disdain, sliding to the floor at Michelle's feet in the process. Closer to the liquor, she reckons. Effy grins and giggles, falling into her brother who props her up with his non-drinking arm.

The thin brunette holds her new beer aloft. “And you can come in mine!” she says to Katie triumphantly, if slightly pissed. She waves her can at Katie's face as some sort of peace offering. “Both of you!” she adds and pokes Cook's cheek with her finger. It's always good to see Effy legitimately enjoying herself, and the company. The younger Stonem is only rewarded however with a very raised and well-arched eyebrow from the older twin. Sid shifts about on the floor.

“Oh and what about me, yeah?” he asks, still sober and petulant. His part of the deal with getting a lift to London was that he was the designated driver. No drink driving at Christmas was the rule, Cook said, as if it were acceptable at other times of the year.

Tony slides a bottle towards him. “Drink up, Sidney. You can share with Mum.”

And so with a giant riotous wave of laugher, it's settled. (Though the sleeping arrangements do end up being altered in the end.) Naomi looks around at her friends, family perhaps as she gazes at Effy and Tony tickling each other until Effy rolls off the sofa, tumbles into the edge of the coffee table and succeeds in knocking over Sid's first drink right onto the sullen boy's trousers. It's fucking hilarious though and Effy and Cook both squeal with delight at Sid's continued misfortune. Emily's perked up with all the commotion (and Red Bull) and is bickering with Katie about the choice of liquor for the next round of shots, which is only broken by Katie turning to Effy mid-pour and shouting “Watch it, you manky drunk cow!” as Effy knocks the table once more with her knee as she attempts to sit up again. She's laughing too hard to really pay attention to Katie, and Naomi reckons it's kind of a term of endearment between them anyway.

Anthea comes down only once to cast a disapproving glance at Tony and the state his little sister is in, but miraculously she lets it slide. It's a sign. Effy's better. They're all better. Drunk, yeah. Still fucked up. But also better, even deep down.

Cook jumps up onto his feet, standing on the sofa and shouts “Tuuuuunnnee!” as Brenda Lee's “Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree” comes on the radio and Michelle clambers off the armchair to crank the volume on the stereo. For some baffling reason, Effy and Tony see this as a signal to dance and they pull both Katie and Emily up to their feet. Cook's jumping on the sofa haphazardly, and even pouty Sid is shimmying about with Katie and Michelle. It's all very Home Alone, if those mannequins had been real people. Naomi just watches them all with the stupidest grin on her face.

Like most good things, the end comes far too soon and there is a chorus of “Aahh”s and “Nooo”s, until Tony stumbles over, fiddles with his iPod and suddenly there's a heavy 'whoomp whoomp' of techno music and Katie starts complaining before the melody kicks in. Effy hoots and throws her hands up in the air and the dancing resumes again, slightly differently than before. It's barely controlled mayhem now and Naomi's heart actually feels like it's going to break a little with the nostalgia. She's on her feet before the feeling can get too heavy and knocks back the last of her lager. She stumbles a little with the effort but Michelle's at her side, giving her a nudge of support and not soon after a very enthused kiss on the mouth. Tongue and everything. Tongue. It makes her a little woozy for moment, in a good way, but she laughs quickly, passing it off. But Michelle can tell anyway and smirks at her. To shut her up, Naomi plants one on her again and manges to catch the older girl slightly off-guard with her impulsiveness. Nice. Arms wrap loosely over her shoulders and around her neck as Michelle begins shuffling to the music again, and Naomi finds herself easily pulling her closer without a second thought, swaying slightly in response. It's relaxing, and right. But of course, it being Michelle, this nice moment doesn't last too long before her hips start gyrating a little more pronounced. Her and her fucking dirty dancing at any opportunity. Naomi's suddenly all too aware of every lithe movement in front of her and she groans very quietly, and presses her lips to the shell of Michelle's ear.

“You're terrible. Stop it,” she whispers fiercely. “We've company.” Both of them know Naomi doesn't quite mean it and the smile is obvious in her tone. When she looks up, Tony's got his eye on them with that familiar leer even whilst involved in an intense-looking conversation with Cook and Katie. He likely knows Michelle just as well as she does and often times that's distressing, but sometimes it's like they're part of some special club and they share knowing glances with each other. He finds amusement in things no one else would pick up on. This is one of those times and Naomi's fairly certain its because of her vague discomfort and not really anything else. Tony is a sucker for Schadenfreude. Michelle only giggles drunkenly in response to Naomi's request and amplifies her dancing. She likes this kind of attention on her, and being in the presence of her ex-boyfriend and Naomi's ex-girlfriend (and honestly frightening twin sister of that ex) seems not to matter in the least. It's Christmas after all, right? Love is all around and all that bollocks. Hopefully. When Naomi catches Emily's gaze, there's a moment of fear, doubt again until Emily grins and nods enthusiastically, before raising a shot in a toast to something. Things relax at that moment and Naomi's smile in response is completely and utterly genuine.

A bit later, when Michelle, Sid, Cook and Tony are having some sort of silly-looking dance off and Katie is talking with Effy, Emily comes to stand beside Naomi. It sparks a memory of the last time they did this, in Motion, that horrible night in Bristol. They're both just surveying the scene.

“You're all right?” Emily asks, sneaking a glance up at Naomi.

The blonde smiles and let's out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Yeah I am.” She pauses. “Don't know what the fuck I'm doing. It's serious, you know?” And it is. It's been months now and Naomi's never in her life been in a steady, consistent and good relationship like this. She had been with Emily longer, but it hadn't been healthy. This is different. “Bloody scary,” she admits. “But, yeah. It's good. I'm good.” She gazes down at her ex-girlfriend.

“Good.”

Naomi cocks her head. “You? You okay?”

Emily stares out at the meagre crowd, sways a little and raises her cup to her lips, taking a sip. “Very,” she says with a grin, tickling Naomi's fingers with her own until Naomi moves and grabs Emily in a tight embrace. The redhead wiggles a little to prevent Naomi's enthusiastic hug from choking her and laughs. Naomi doesn't let go however, not even a little bit and Emily resorts to snaking her arms around the body in front of her. The tender moment is brutally interrupted when a sloshed young Stonem grabs them both, her fingers digging in as she holds on too. Naomi lessens her headlock and pulls in Effy. There's silence between the three of them, heavy but patient, as if waiting for the exact moment when everything falls into place.

“Thank you,” Naomi slurs, whether from the drink or from emotion, it's not clear. But it's sincere and she means it for them both. She's not daft. She knows Effy's orchestrations have been no small contributor her success with Michelle, especially those times when she looks at Effy it's like there's a “thank you” of her own sparkling in her blue eyes. It's like they're finally even now. Tit for tat. In a sense, they've dragged each other out of darkness. And Emily, well, it's obvious where she comes in. Without both these girls, Naomi wouldn't feel as she does now. And it's fucking Christmas, yeah? Time to share joy and love and gratitude and all that soppy bollocks. Effy breaks away first without a word and rejoins the others in taking more shots. As Naomi loosens her hold, Emily pulls back and chuckles.

“You get so emotional when you drink now,” she laughs.

Naomi mock-sneers and shoves the twin away from her. “Ugh, shut up.”

“No, it's nice,” Emily breathes. “You've changed, you know.”

The blonde raises a skeptical eyebrow in response, snorts and gazes at Michelle as she shot-guns a can of lager like a frat boy.

“I mean, you're obviously still a twat, just a softer one.”

Naomi shakes her head and smiles, elbowing Emily again. “And you're still a pest, just a slightly taller one.”

Emily nods with a grin. “Yep, twat.” She giggles at the playfully appalled look on Naomi's face and grabs her cup again, taking a sip leisurely. Naomi smiles too, and sighs, looking first at Emily, then at the crowd of people hovering around the coffee table with shots in their hands. Michelle looks up, over at the two of them before she catches her eye, and then she winks at her girlfriend with a mixture of both amusement and flirtatiousness. Yes, Naomi feels good.

At 6:29 AM Christmas Day, Naomi Campbell is fast asleep, and gently spooning a thin brunette. Effy breathes steadily into her pillow and curls up around Pato a little more. It had been all she had asked for from Naomi for her gift. They had done this ages ago when Effy had just come home from hospital. She, Tony and Anthea had all taken turns because Effy's paranoia about being crept up on by a killer had caused consecutive sleepless nights for everyone in the flat and this had been a way to quiet the fear. Eventually Effy healed and no longer needed the extra comfort, but every now and then it was still nice. So that was her single request to Naomi. Just Christmas Eve. It worked out well since Gina was occupying her bed anyway. However, at exactly half 6 in the morning, Naomi's mobile vibrates loudly on the night table. She rolls over quickly to silence it, only to see a familiar name in the caller ID.

“Hullo?” she whispers groggily into her phone.

“Happy Christmas!” Michelle's voice sounds far too alert for this ungodly hour.

Naomi tries and fails to repress a yawn. “Chelle? It's not even daylight yet,” she whispers adamantly.

“Happy Christmas to you too, Chelle,” the other girl supplies in Naomi's place. She shifts about trying not to wake Effy. Her attempts must fail cos all she hears is a quiet “Go.” come from the other side of the bed, and she smiles, places a quick kiss on Effy's temple and crawls out quickly and slips downstairs to speak slightly more freely. She pulls her legs up under her on the sofa after plugging in the fairy lights on the tree. It's lovely actually, the glow.

“What's going on?” Naomi finally asks, curious as to the nature of this still slightly unwelcome wake-up call.

The girl on the other end sounds out of breath, and tinny a bit like she's walking. Maybe she's wanking, Naomi thinks, and chuckles a little at the idea of Christmas morning phone sex at the crack of dawn. Then the thought really hits and she suddenly can't seem to focus on anything but the idea of Michelle touching herself, under a tree or some shit.

“Nothing.” Yes, out of breath. Wanking. Holy fuck. “My aunt left last night to go on her mini-break early.” Yep, home alone and everything. Then Naomi pauses.

“Wait, you're alone? You spent Christmas Eve alone?” Her heart that had previously been beating faster in anticipation of a little morning fun feels heavy now. She's alone on Christmas. “You should have called, you muppet. Could have stayed over here.”

There's a sound of disbelief on the other end of the line. “Where? On the sofa?” She laughs. “Yeah, that's much better.”

Naomi smiles even though she knows her girlfriend can't see it. “No, kick Tony out. Take his bed. Simple as.”

“Right.” She does sound out of breath; there's no mistaking it. Naomi yawns again, gathering her thoughts.

“Come over now.” It's a demand that Naomi has no difficulty making. She's sure Anthea won't mind in the least and it will be good for her own mum to spend some time with Michelle too. She barely knows her really. Sure, it Christmas and the time for family, but fuck it, Chelle is as good as family now. In a totally non-relative sort of way, of course. She hears a small sigh come through the phone.

“It's cold out.”

Naomi groans. As if she's been woken up for merely a chat. “What? Chelle, this is mental. Why did you ring so--?”

She's cut off before the question fully comes out. “Cos I didn't want to ring the bell and wake everyone, now did I?”

The words sink in quite quickly considering the time of the morning and Naomi's on her feet even faster. She pulls open the front door like she's expecting sodding Santa Claus and is met with a very cold looking girlfriend instead. She shakes her head in amused disbelief. Michelle had walked through the dark, in London, on Christmas morning all the way here. “Get inside, you stupid cow,” Naomi chides in mock disdain. The moment the door closes, she's pressed up against the wall and met with a wet, warm kiss of thanks. She pulls Michelle's jacket from her shoulders with a smile and hangs it on a hook. “Let's go make a brew.” Michelle drops her kit bag among the shoes in the hall and kicks off her UGGs, following behind Naomi, who busies herself instantly with filling the kettle. Michelle hovers in the doorway.

“I can't believe you made that whole walk in the night. You're actually mad, yeah?” She glances over at the brunette who's pulled her over-sized hoodie tight around herself. Her ridiculous penguin fleecy bottoms make Naomi smile. She actually came over in her pyjamas. How very uncharacteristic of pristine Michelle Richardson.

She shakes her head against Naomi's assertion. “No,” she sighs. “Not mad. Just lonely.” The blonde pins her hard with a stare. She knows that word. She knows the very important distinction between it and 'alone'. Lonely is so much worse. Naomi knew lonely all too well, and honestly hadn't felt very much of it since moving to London, and even less so since Michelle trampled down the stairs and into her life nearly 9 months ago. She knew being around other people wouldn't make you less lonely, just less alone. It was up to you to take care of the loneliness yourself. She twists the tap off and places the kettle in its stand and flicks the switch.

“Chelle...” she trails as she turns to look at her girlfriend again.

She's met with a reassuring smile. “It's fine, Nome.” What's she's not saying is more important. 'I'm here now. I'm with you. I'm better.' Naomi's known about this ability of hers in the past but to have it so blatantly shown to her, the power her own presence can have, is both incredibly scary and even more fulfilling. Michelle shrugs then. “Besides, I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, in person.” With a smooth sweep oh her arms, that bulky jumper is over her head and falls to the floor. Naomi just stands and stares, mouth half-open, maybe. She's completely unaware of her own body at the moment.

Her reaction doesn't make sense in a way. She's seen Michelle naked more times now than she can even fathom to count. Would like to believe she knows every inch of skin. Maybe it's the suddenness. Maybe it's the odd-timing, the strange day, the Christmas tree glowing in the room behind her. Maybe it's the juxtaposition of all these things plus how sexy she's obviously not really trying to be. Naomi's gaze rakes downwards, top to bottom. From Michelle's straight hair, tied messily into a loose bun, tendrils slipping out, her fringe casual, then down to the thin, white vest top that is obviously at least 2 sizes too small and rides up above her belly button. And then finally, those fucking pyjamas with their skiing cartoon penguins that hang low off her hips, and it's all very contradictory. And the worst or best part (Naomi can't decide which) is the bitch isn't even wearing a sodding bra. And, yeah, it's chilly in the kitchen this early in the winter morning.

“Jesus.” It's the only word that she seems capable of forming. It's far too much to process at this time of day. Michelle peers at her from half-lidded eyes and it's only making matters worse. But Naomi knows; knows Michelle is like this, knows what she's doing. She feeds on people's reactions to her; it makes her feel good to feel wanted. And really, who doesn't like to feel that way? It's times like these however that its a bit like a double-edged sword because Naomi doesn't think it's really necessary; she doubts herself and how much she's put into the relationship. Cascades of self-doubt fall upon her despite how much Michelle takes her breath away. Michelle should know, does know, doesn't she? She doesn't need to do this. Maybe it's just for reaffirmation. Naomi forgets about the kettle and the tea and whatever else and steps quickly to her girlfriend, who probably could wear dogshit and still be sexy.

She doesn't kiss her, not immediately. She leans closer to her ear instead. “How about for my gift, you put on your jumper when everyone else comes downstairs, yeah?” She can't stop her hands from sliding over exposed skin around her waist. Michelle is surprisingly warm for having been out in a December night for at least a half hour.

“Yeah, why's that?”

Naomi chuckles and sweeps her palms up over barely covered tits, tweaking a nipple through the thin fabric. She hears a sharp intake of breath in response. Point made. “People like Tony, they see this but they don't see the whole thing like I do. Too distracted.” Really, Naomi doesn't like sharing what's hers. She's an only child, stubborn, spoilt and needy deep down. And so is Chelle. Thoughts flicker to Emily, the only other serious relationship in her life and how there was always that struggle and she never felt she really had Emily to herself. Not ever, honestly. Michelle's different, and not just because she doesn't have an overbearing twin sister and perfect family. She doesn't like sharing any more than Naomi does and when she plays these games? Tricks perhaps, to keep Naomi there and aware. Fucking hell does it work. Funny thing is Naomi's also aware of the tricks herself, and it doesn't bother her. Greediness. Neediness. It all sounds so depressing and awful when formulated into words. It doesn't feel that way though.

“You don't have to do this you know,” Naomi says finally as she drags her lips along the soft, pliant and easily bruised skin of the other girl's neck, leaving her mark with a lovebite that makes Michelle's shoulders lurch for a moment. Naomi's hit with Effy's words from early last summer. You should tell her. Tell her. Naomi knows she doesn't tell her, not nearly enough cos it's just not who she is. Never will be. But it's Christmas and Michelle's presented herself like a gift just waiting to be unwrapped with her tongue. “I already love you. This. Everything. I already want you.” She feels two hands grip her cheeks and lips meet her own now. It's so fucking languid and fluid and just pulsates with force. She always forgets Michelle needs to hear the words sometimes.

“Really?” she asks when Naomi pulls away and the question is downright absurd. The blonde scoffs in disbelief.

“If I had a cock, trust me, I'd already be sodding ballsdeep inside you.” It's certainly not the most romantic thing she's ever said, but it's possibly one of the truest. In fact, she's pretty bloody lucky to even get away with saying shit like that to her girlfriend.

Michelle raises an eyebrow. “So why aren't you?”

Naomi smirks and sees it mirrored in the brunette's face as well. Without thinking, they've stumbled onto the sofa, lips crashing and Naomi tugging at the blue ribbon holding those goofy penguin bottoms up. There's one thing she's learnt about Michelle: she bases some sense of self-worth on how much she appeals to others, physically, sexually; she throws herself into things in this crude, abrupt way for attention, for love... but when she gives her body in this way, she is really giving you her soul to hold onto for a moment, maybe forever. It's the most fragile thing she owns. Tony, and any number of other insufferable boyfriends, hadn't even noticed this offering. It was carnal, passionate sure. But the trust not to break that soul, to take care of it, was never appreciated. Naomi knows what it's like to offer that to someone, romantically or platonicly, and have it broken, or have them steal it away like it was theirs to begin with anyway. She's careful now, both with her own and with others'. Especially Michelle's that had been so fractured and taken advantage of.

She knows she has Michelle's ultimate gift: trust. She'd been given that once before, and smashed it to pieces out of fear. It had been too much responsibility, too much belief in her. Too much meaning. And she's learnt from that. It's like gluing a crystal vase back together. It's possible to fix it somewhat but the cracks are there forever. It's never as strong again. This is a new vase, a new trust. She doesn't want to drop it.

And, in handing this over, Michelle had freed herself. It allowed her to receive love, understand it rather than just give it away wishfully and hopelessly on the whim of a charming boy. Far gone is what Tony had so crassly recounted, those tales of Michelle's inability to let go. Shutting her up is the harder part now. Sure, sometimes they still just fuck, plain and simple, but sometimes it's more. Naomi's not so fearful of meaning anymore. She's moving three fingers deep inside Michelle, in sure and knowing strokes whilst laying heavy kisses along the brunette's throat, her mouth. There's a point where Naomi has to seal their mouths together, and bites gently on Michelle's bottom lip. It's a small warning. The last thing Naomi wants to do is wake up the entire household. The front room doesn't have door. They don't have much leeway for noise. It's all a little for naught however because she knows her girlfriend is close already. She moves her thumb a little more insistently against the sensitive nub and suddenly Michelle is gasping almost silently; her legs clenching closer together. Even as Michelle's not quite finished cooling down, Naomi's ignoring her own want and already pulling up her girlfriend's trousers, just in case someone comes down. The absolute last thing she wants for Christmas is Tony Stonem to see them. Or her bloody mum. The brunette grins slyly as she ties up the ribbon.

“Don't get too comfortable,” she slurs and before Naomi has a real chance to interpret the remark, she finds herself flipped onto her back, right where Michelle had just been. Hazel eyes stare down at her in a predatory way. “Merry Christmas, Nome.”

If she had had the sense to object, or even the desire to, she's not sure she would have. Her own pj bottoms disappear somewhere, and one leg is over a shoulder. Michelle's tongue is already swirling purposefully through Naomi's folds, and Jesus Christ, is it the best Christmas morning ever. She spreads further and savours the feeling and tries her best not moan out loud. It's not as if this is an uncommon occurrence but just everything about the last few days has ended up perfectly and this is like the icing on top of more icing on top of a multi-layered cake. And the way Michelle's licking her out, she may as well be a wedding cake with double frosting. Her hips buck and grind and she clenches her mouth shut tightly, using the remaining vestiges of restraint she has. But she's not really sure what to make of it because she's coming in Michelle's mouth well before any real, substantial thoughts can pass through her completely mushy brain. She's literally gulping for breath and Michelle shimmies up her body, looking very happy with herself. Naomi takes a deep, long breath, grabs her trousers and pulls them up and falls back down exhaustedly onto the sofa, pressed close.

“Still want tea?” she breathes out.

Michelle shakes her head and curls around Naomi. “Nope, all warmed up now,” she mutters into the curve of the blonde's neck. Naomi sighs, pulls the blanket over them and fights the urge to fall asleep.

She doesn't succeed.

EPILOGUE PART II (ugh livejournal) >>

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [7/7]

doreah — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 19:14:57 GMT

echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

The wooden door slams shut. Michelle jumps and spins around to find the source of her interruption. She's grasping a clean top to her bra-clad torso. Naomi stands in her bedroom, surveying the sight with an odd detachment. She says nothing and waits for Michelle to relax, which she does not long after and continues sorting through her overnight bag for a more suitable vest, most likely. She pulls out something blue and sparkly and tosses it aside.

“Emily's nice,” she states, almost wistfully, whilst she ploughs through her mass of clothes.

Naomi takes a step forward. “Yeah. She is.”

“Really nice.” There's just a tinge of something else in the words, though Naomi knows Michelle is sincere enough.

“Michelle,” Naomi says carefully as she approaches. She takes the current choice of top from Michelle's hands and drops it to the floor. Michelle stares distractedly at the discarded clothing, gooseflesh rising along her arms. “I meant it, you know.” Michelle's lips form a small, shy smile, but her eyes seem to still hold some disbelief when she meets Naomi's insistent gaze.

“It's fine,” she says, trying her best to put on a brave face in light of her insecurity. It doesn't dissuade Naomi however, her own stubbornness gaining the upper-hand, and finally for the right reason. She reaches down and pulls up her own jumper, tossing it with carelessness towards Michelle's pile. The brunette is curious but not convinced. She allows Naomi to inch forward, run her fingers over the waistband of her jeans slowly, almost tortuously so before undoing them and sliding them over her hips. Michelle wriggles and steps out of them, her breath catching more often. It continues in a steady, slow pace, silently, until Naomi pushes Michelle back onto the bed, all their clothes shed on the floor.

“Everyone's outside waiting,” Michelle starts weakly.

Naomi chuckles, hovering over her, their skin almost grazing but not quite. “What for? Would you just let me prove...? I'm trying to be brave here.” She lowers herself until they're pressed together, skin to skin, combustible, every nerve slowly burning. Her lips find Michelle's with ease, moving languidly with the certainty of something true. Finding purpose. She can feel the heated trails like silent promises left behind in the wake of Michelle's fingertips along her spine, down across her waist, and back up again. They've been here many times before, but this time something is different and Naomi can't quite place it. Things are moving slowly, like they're underwater and not fighting against it.

Michelle tilts her head back as Naomi begins her descent along her defined jawline, over her earlobe, down again. Lips brushing and nipping along each inch of smooth skin offered to her. Her hands, commanded by something outside the scope of her brain, move in heavy, unhurried swirls over perfect breasts, tweaking nipples and further around, down. Michelle pushes up to meet Naomi. The renewed contact sends sparks straight through Naomi's body. The slow grinding rhythm of their hips together, against soft thighs, feels like dancing. The kind that happens in dark corners of clubs, in shadowed bedrooms, in love. The kind of hazy instinctual sway and twist that caused wars in Turkey and Shakespearean tragedies to erupt in Egypt, Greece and Rome; the kind that even the Bible couldn't ignore. Grasping and pulling, closer. What was steady breathing turns more ragged, hitching at touches and licks. Naomi finds an irresistible urge to bite down, a little harder as she moves her mouth along a collarbone. Michelle's gasp is unmistakable and her fingers clench around the younger girl's neck, momentarily stalling their sweep through blonde locks.

Every movement seems calculated and exact, but precision is the furthest thing from Naomi's mind. She moves only by instinct when she drags her flattened tongue lazily over a hard nipple. A moan boils up from within Michelle as manicured nails scrape lightly over Naomi's scalp. Naomi doesn't stop. Again, another sweep whilst her other hand massages her other breast without haste. Again. Michelle's hips smack up against her taut abdomen, an automatic, writhing response. The power drives Naomi a little bit mental, in a good way. She switches sides, inciting a whole new wave of responses. It's addicting in a completely new way than being with Michelle had been before. There's a lightness now, something akin to freedom. She grasps at the duvet cover as she pulls herself back up, towards Michelle's mouth. She nips and tugs on her bottom lip before sealing their lips together, immediately finding permission to let her tongue explore further. She feels two warm hands clutching at her ribcage as if to steady everything. Never fully disconnecting their lips, she slips a hand down, thumb sliding over hardened peaks and eliciting groans that vibrate into her own body.

When she finally breaks the kiss, Naomi hovers above, staring through unfocussed eyes at the girl beneath her. Michelle's green eyes, darkened perceptibly and bleary, peer back and Naomi smiles. It's fully honest this time. Her hand kneads harder, but not ungentle. Michelle sucks in a deep breath, her eyes squeezing shut again and almost growls then.

“Nome, I swear...” she trails off as Naomi leans down to run her tongue out behind her ear, and she stretches out. Her voice is strangled and breathy. Exactly how Naomi likes it. “I might just cum from this.”

The admission causes the blonde to pause momentarily. She hopes it's not too noticeable and kisses down further to compensate for her stalling. Naomi can't help but think about Tony and his merciless taunting over Michelle's supposed frigidity, how insecure and almost scared she had been when they had first fucked, in that sloppy, drunken almost-mistake. (It had been considered a mistake then, but no longer). She considers Michelle's own confession of it always being difficult, and now? Naomi isn't sure if she is just exaggerating her latest claim about how close she is already, but the smear of slick wetness on her leg from Michelle's movements indicates it just might be true. It feels good. It feels true. And Naomi knows that both of them had changed sometime in the last few days, if not hours. The trust has returned, easier than it should have maybe. Her mouth is already fluttering kisses on the inside of her girlfriend's thighs by the time she realises what she's doing. Michelle is wriggling almost impatiently but Naomi, ever stubborn, refuses to give in yet. She cups her with one hand, presses slightly, but nothing more.

A groan of frustration from the prone girl makes Naomi smile into her kisses. She nips lightly again at the tight thigh in front of her, grinning at the exasperation that is evident. She slowly curls a finger and gently delves into Michelle's folds, running a knuckle down her length. The resulting buck of hips make it obvious that she's a giant fucking tease. She does it again, with two fingers and continues to suck the inside of her thigh.

“You're going to--” A gasp. “Kill me,” Michelle finishes with barely veiled agitation. She attempts to grind her hips harder against Naomi's hand but is met with empty space... Until she feels Naomi's hot tongue against her. A most uncharacteristic whine escapes at the contact. Michelle'd never been particularly fond of or comfortable about this; again, some sort of unfortunate remnant of upbringing and Tony Stonem's teenage conditioning. So Naomi pauses, looks up over the plane of smooth skin and perfect fucking tits.

“You know, you're beautiful, Chelle,” she states, quieter than she had planned. Almost as if she was in awe having the words escape her lips. “Everywhere.” She watches curiously as Michelle's hands immediately go up to cover her face. She shakes her head.

“Don't, Naomi, please,” she mumbles, the request muffled by her hands. It doesn't matter however. Naomi can still hear how choked up the sound is. It doesn't make much sense. Michelle loved hearing how fit she is; she would always beam with pride and wrinkle her nose in pleasure with a cheeky grin. Naomi senses the movement before it happens and she's prepared. When Michelle moves to close her legs and roll over, a firm hand on her hip holds her on her back. Naomi's risen to a kneel for leverage. She wonders if it has anything to do with Sid's comments earlier.

“Not just on the outside either,” she says to the covered face of her girlfriend.

“Naomi.” Another muffled, choked sound, like a half-caught sob. Naomi rises more and quickly clambers up the bed and pulls Michelle's hands roughly from her face. She pins them beside her head, glowering at the other girl. She kisses hard, sucking the air right out of the brunette's lungs in the process. It's much harsher than everything up to this point. Michelle struggles out of the kiss, gasping for air.

“You're beautiful,” Naomi repeats, much more assuredly this time. Not quite menacing, but serious all the same. “And I love you.”

Michelle's eyes widen at the statement, said with such surety. She attempts to free her wrists but the feeble struggle is futile. “I love you,” she says, almost like a concession and Naomi's not sure she likes the tone. “But can you just –fuck...”

Naomi considers the option, but finds the demand rather rude considering. Michelle wants it to mean nothing? When has she ever wanted anything to mean nothing? She shakes her head and Michelle stares at her, like a scared bird. “No.” She releases Michelle's wrists but doesn't move from her position straddling her. Thankfully Michelle isn't in the mood for a power struggle today. She leans down, laying soft kisses in a path towards her earlobe. “I want us to do it proper, like make love, okay?”

As Michelle's arms snake up around her shoulders, she knows she's winning. She's pulled down, their bodies flush once again, the heat still radiating strongly.

“We haven't before?” Michelle asks, curious, slightly confused. “Why not?”

Naomi wants to scoff because to her, the answer is plainly obvious. She settles for kissing the older girl slowly before answering. “Cos I didn't love you. At least not properly. Not like I should have.” It's a painful thing to hear likely, so Naomi distracts them both with another searing kiss. She feels Michelle's hips gyrate upwards slightly, building a subtle rhythm. When she pulls back, Michelle is staring. She has moisture building around the corners of her eyes.

“Say it once more, please.”

Naomi pauses, not sure which words to recite. She stares down at waiting green eyes. It strikes her that Michelle is upset, not because she doesn't want to hear these things, but because she doesn't believe them. Thinks they're just platitudes. She's just so desperate to be loved properly and fully, and used to such disappointment that it's impossible to see when it's really there. Naomi has the overwhelming urge to pummel Tony, and maybe herself in the process. What a scrap that would be. She's struck too with the realisation that Michelle is nothing like Emily, with her calm and constant, if well-hidden, confidence. The comparison is useless now. And she feels relieved with the knowledge that they are such different girls.

“You're beautiful,” she breathes out, a tremble persistent in her voice now, pushing chestnut fringe back with her free hand. Michelle sniffles, lets out a long, wavering sigh, and breaks the gaze as a small, shy small breaks across her face. Naomi places a soft kiss on her cheek, wondering when she turned into such a sap. “Just be, Chelle.” She offers the older girl a smirk that would make Effy proud.

Green eyes blaze once again, darker as two strong hands grip the sides of Naomi's face and pull her into yet another long kiss. It's far more insistent, far more confident, like the Michelle she'd snogged on the Stonem's settee all those months ago. It makes the warmth spiral straight to her core in anticipation. If Emily had been a sleek panther in the sack, Michelle, when she truly wanted to, was a fucking lioness. The thought is thrilling, if a little irrelevant at the moment because Naomi's insistent on picking up where they'd left off. Not feral fucking. Not like at Motion last night. This is supposed to be different. It's going to be. Naomi wriggles from the grasp and travels once again, agonizingly slowly down Michelle's body until, without much preamble, she slides her tongue out and down through Michelle's folds, evoking a guttural sort of sound. Even slower then, she flattens her tongue does a sweep back up, twirling the tip softly over the other girl's clit. She's rewarded with a slight push into her mouth. It's all the encouragement she needs. She continues her task, knowing by now, exactly what to do, lapping, licking, sucking, teasing; trying to convey her previous words with a reaffirmation through touch. She speaks everything she's wanted to say through fingertips and soft palms, through grazing lips and a stroking tongue, through the warm puff of breath on hot skin. There are fingers in her hair, holding on tightly, pulling insistently. Despite that, she's acutely aware that somewhere above, Michelle is breathing so heavily she sounds like she's drowning almost. She deftly slides two fingers inside to elicit a very satisfied moan. Michelle's actually pretty easy to please and she's constantly amazed at how shit Tony must have been in bed. Her fingers curl forward, seeking that spot she knows is going to bring the stars crashing down from heaven. When Michelle's gasps loudly, she knows she's had success.

The brunette is no longer quiet. Her breaths are coming out in little, frenetic moans. Her whole body seems to be absolutely pulsating, grinding her hips towards her, and Naomi tries to match its inner rhythm, stroking, tapping and allowing her tongue to dance to the beat. Michelle is really fucking close but it's not close enough. Naomi shifts again, laying kisses back up towards her breasts, over the sheen of sweat that has emerged. The heaving effort of Michelle's breathing is unmistakable from this vantage point. She props herself up slightly, their bodies close and parallel, still moving inside Michelle with practised ease. It's like the swimming in the ocean as the tide begins to come in. There's the ebb and flow of the waves, slowly growing stronger and stronger. When she pushes and pulls, her body lithe and smooth in the action, Michelle's follows like she being swept up in the waves. It's not enough to feel it though. She wants to see her face.

Michelle on the other hand seems to be suddenly bashful, she turns from Naomi's gaze. Careful plying may work so Naomi sucks hard on Michelle's pulse point, earning a groan punctuated with a sharp gasp as she flicks a thumb over her clit deliberately, in time with her other movements.

She leans in close, stretching as best as she can, to get close to Michelle's ear. “Look at me, Chelle.” It may be a quiet demand, but it is still a demand.

Michelle turns but clenches her eyes shut. Maybe it's a game, Naomi thinks. So she twists and strokes harder, causing the older girl's eyes to snap open and immediately lock on to her own imploring blue ones, yet still glazed, relinquishing control to Naomi alone. The fists she had clenched around innocent bedsheets are suddenly free again to grab ahold of Naomi's body. Michelle's head tilts back as Naomi herself prepares. She knows what is going to happen but she's not sure if Michelle does. It's even better that way, she reckons.

“Naomi.” Her name escapes as a shaky plea and the blonde obliges finally.

“Just be.”

It takes only a few seconds before she feels the rigid tension of Michelle's body, head thrown back, the wave of clenching of muscles around her fingers and the hot liquid drenching her hand. There is a cry that breaks free from Michelle's normally fairly reserved mouth. It sounds like fucking ecstasy and Naomi's quite sure she never wants to forget it. She just can't stop staring though. Michelle, gorgeously splayed out on her bed, heaving and trembling, luminescent almost with the afternoon sun glinting off her slick skin. Naomi's not sure if she's ever felt as simultaneously proud, turned-on and in love in her entire life. She waits until the contractions subside somewhat, lingering in the pleasure of what just occurred, before pulling out and crawling up to lay beside her girlfriend.

“Christ,” is all Michelle says after a while, and giggles slightly. Maybe she's a little embarrassed now that she's coming down. She rolls over, out of the wet spot, and towards Naomi's warm body. “I got pins and needles in my hands, Nome. Everything just...” She doesn't finish her sentence, but she's simply glowing and trying valiantly to hold back a satisfied smile. “Fucking freezing now.” Naomi laughs and crawls off the bed, pulling up the duvet from where it had been tossed to the floor. She drapes it over them both and Michelle is instantly wrapped around her. She certainly doesn't feel chilly to the touch, but Naomi recognises the after-effect well.

They lie in silence for minutes on end, Michelle's breathing slowly evening out to the point that Naomi has to make sure she's still awake. She is, but just barely, it seems. She feels lips press against her neck. “Bloody hell, Nome.”

Naomi smirks, and chuckles. “I know.”

“I'm going to... I mean, I want to...” she trails off and Naomi nods, amused.

“Right, Chelle. Sure.”

She should have known Michelle by now. The flippant “Sure” was taken as a challenge and suddenly there is an inspired if slightly dazed and tired brunette glaring down at her. “I am,” she states with such authority and certainty that Naomi is, once again, a little aroused. It's more than a promise; it's like a sexual prophecy.

“Ok, Rambo. Just fucking relax,” Naomi says, but not without humour. She feels fingers flex around her hip and Michelle's body seems to ripple head to toe as she presses their bodies together. Naomi turns slightly and finds soft, persistent lips on her own immediately, probing and promising. Her body kickstarts back into gear. The moment is brief however because there's a rumble of a mobile vibrating against a hard surface. She wants to ignore it, and does so until there's a knock on her bedroom door. Michelle pulls back and burrows into the duvet, still grinning in post-orgasmic bliss as Naomi calls out for the visitor to enter.

Tony pokes his head around the door. “Good, you're decent.” Naomi stares at him impassively, trying not to focus on how indecent they actually are under the cover of the blankets. “You didn't answer your texts.”

“You didn't consider that a sign perhaps?” she asks.

He smirks at them both. “I knocked, didn't I? Baby steps, Moany.” He shrugs then. “Anyway, Effy wants to know if you're going to catch this memorial or just, you know, wait for the next one?”

Both girls look instantly to the digital bedside clock. It's already half 3. The service is in half an hour. Her blue eyes widen in surprise and she almost leaps out of bed before she realises the state she's in. She catches herself in the nick of time and Tony is just grinning, staring at her like a pervy tomcat. Michelle makes a snorting sound and rolls her eyes at his continued presence.

“Oh please continue,” he implores with restrained glee. “I can guarantee you don't have anything I haven't seen many, many times before.”

“Fuck's sake, Tone,” Michelle admonishes, pulling the duvet up around them both, obviously feeling a prick of either irritation or possessiveness. Jealousy? Protectiveness? Naomi's heart flutters a little. She grudgingly admits that she likes belonging to someone.

Naomi finds it all rather amusing for about 10 seconds. “Piss off, yeah?” she adds. “And tell your sister to keep her knickers on, I'll be ready.”

Tony chuckles at them both. “You must have chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star,” he mentions almost flippantly, gazing first at Michelle for a split second then focussing on Naomi. There's that look again. He's known all along how everything would go. Him and Effy both. She catches only the briefest flicker in his eye but she knows she saw it all the same. It's the same thing she saw months ago when he told her how messy beginnings were: the normally heavily-shrouded tenderness, the faith. Trust. Now it all makes a little more sense. Chaos begets opportunity, but that doesn't make it any less confusing at first. Luckily she had her captain and his first mate. And then there's a wink, this time distinctly Effy-like and pleasant, as he yanks the bedroom door closed behind him.

It feels a little familiar, being here with these people, standing around a grave. Emily is on one side of her and Effy the other, their hands intertwined. Effy's grip is so tight that her knuckles are white but Naomi says nothing. Eventually it will loosen; eventually the pressure will subside. She knows from experience. The last time she was in this position neither Cook nor Effy were here. This is the first time ever that Effy has stepped foot into this cemetery. (Cook, she's sure, is a frequent visitor however. The determined way he had led them without hesitation to this spot gave it away.) Mr. Mclair and Karen, who had arranged this, are off to the side. JJ is noticeably absent. No one has heard from him in over a year. Tony and Michelle have fucked off to Sid's for a few hours, feeling it was unnecessary for them to be present. Naomi takes a long, hard look at Effy and berates Tony in her mind. She's not exactly pleased with Michelle either for that matter. She just knows how much better she'd feel with her girlfriend here.

There are no long, regret-filled speeches. Karen says a few long sentences that sound suspiciously like muddled up quotes from a Disney film and a Cheryl Cole song. Mr. Mclair says nothing, he just stares blankly at the two headstones, two Mclairs side by side. Effy trembles the entire time, silently. Cook remains eerily still, like a statue, even when Katie runs a comforting hand over his shoulders. The pattering of the rain bounces off leaves and umbrellas, drowning the silence in nature's own white noise. Karen turns to leave then when she's done, barely acknowledging anyone else, leading her father away with a gentle pull. They're not dead, but they might as well be ghosts. Naomi glances around at everyone, all her friends, and thinks the same.

There's no life left here. They've all fallen apart along the way and no one has taken up the task of fitting them all back together again. It's only starting to come together maybe, the glue provided by two people who aren't even present. As if reading her mind, Effy shakes harder, crumbling even as the rain begins to clear and the sun peaks out.

This was a fucking bad idea.

Where the fuck is Tony? She's about to reach into her pocket for her mobile when Effy abruptly ceases her shivering, her grip loosening slightly. And Cook, at that moment, breaks his own stoicism to look over at Effy.

“You all right, cupcake?” he ventures and everyone's eyes fall heavily on Effy. She nods and it's not really all that convincing honestly but she does it twice more, each one becoming more sure than the last. Effy's hand falls away and Naomi stretches out her knuckles allowing the blood to flow back. She can't let Effy go though, and she grabs her arm, loops her own through the crook and holds tight. The brunette glances up, questioningly, just for a second and catches Naomi's own penetrating gaze. In it together, just like old times.

“She's fine,” Naomi eventually supplies, hoping it will be enough assurance for Cook. Katie raises an eyebrow at the scene before yawning. Loudly. Emily whispers fiercely at her sister, likely something about respect but no one's really that concerned. Katie protests with a groan and something about it being boring standing in the wet in a graveyard for the millionth time. A bit of an exaggeration, Naomi hopes. Emily elbows her roughly.

Effy sighs. “What now?” It's not clear who she's speaking to.

Whatever bickering Emily and Katie were doing ends quickly and everyone is quiet again. The brunette looks around at these people she knows for an answer but none seem to be forthcoming. The question needles Naomi's conscience and annoys her with its lack of a concrete resolution. Knowing what happens now feels somewhat like knowing why it all happened in the first place, and Naomi can't, still even after 2 years, make head nor tail of the whole purpose of this. All of it. Freddie's brutal murder, Cook's prison time, she and Emily's breakup, Effy's mental breakdown. It seems like too much, too many things to have happened and the numerous events have just clouded what may have been a simple answer at one point.

No one has a clue; even Cook lacks a cheeky response. He kicks at the sod with a toe of his worn out plimsoll. Katie finally sighs again, quite loudly. “Well, we're all here, yeah? So whatever. That's it.”

“That's it?” Effy echoes, almost indignantly if she had any intonation left in her voice.

“What else do you want, Eff?” Katie volleys back. “It's called closure. Now, we can all stand here miserable for the rest of our lives or we can get on with it.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her purse and slides one out, dangling it momentarily between her lips. Emily tosses her a lighter and watches her sister fiddle with lighting up.

Effy narrows her eyes briefly. “Get on with it?”

Katie looks up, a little surprised. “Earth to Effy! Did they over-do it with the electro shocks or something? You're like a retarded parrot.” Emily growls under her breath at her sister, something about it being a more difficult time for some people over others. The older twin seems to absorb the chastising but shrugs it off afterwards and blows a surprisingly perfect smoke ring. There's something about Katie's dismissive attitude that seems to tickle Effy's resolve and as soon as she catches Katie's challenging, brown-eyed gaze, a smile breaks out. And then a giggle. Katie echoes the sound and within a minute Effy is laughing, like full-on laughing for what seems like the first time in years. She continues even once Katie has stopped and Naomi tightens her grip on the brunette.

In the midst of it, Tony appears solo, on Effy's other side and she sobers immediately. The respite and catharsis of the last few moments evaporates and they're thrown back down to reality. The whirl of emotions and her own confusion at the reasons behind everything, start to weigh on Naomi. Tony pries Effy's fingers from around Naomi's arm and they say nothing to each other, just stare. He forces Effy to stand on her own beside Freddie's grave. She seems unsure and there's a twitch as she withholds an attempt to reach out for her brother, or Naomi. It passes in a wave and then her spine straightens, and she lets out a deep breath. Only then does Tony take her hand.

Effy glances at all of them and then down at the grass. “That's it.” The words are final.

Naomi turns, peering over her shoulder in case Michelle is tagging along behind Tony somewhere but she's met only with manicured green grass and headstones. All her friends, they're all shifting around her, whispering and talking, moving closer. There are conversations happening and Effy's eyes are hard again, determined almost as she speaks to Cook. Is that really it? Whatever epiphany Effy had just been privy to has escaped Naomi's grasp; Effy merely smirks at Naomi as if they both know the secret. Emily places a hand on her forearm in support and she squeezes the twin's hand in gratitude. There's a little disbelief in those brown eyes as well. None of them really understand it at all probably. Maybe that's for the best.

She moves towards Cook and wraps her arms around him, kisses his cheek softly. There is still despair on his face, in his stance, but there is something new in his eyes. Something that is suspiciously like hope. She kisses him again, chastely on the lips before slipping away, nodding at Effy who merely blinks in recognition, the very smallest hint of smile.

That is it, she reckons, as she walks through the gates of the cemetery. They'll never do this again, not this way. They don't need to. But she needs to sort her head out alone, just for a little while.

The sun is dipping lower to the west as it casts a golden hue over the tops of trees and the River Avon. A dog darts around her for a moment before a whistle calls it away. She sighs and gazes at the houses of Hotwells on the other side of the channel. It's peaceful, finally. Thoughts of Freddie slip away just a little as she sees a small boat mosey down-current. As if meant to specifically interrupt this new-found calm, she vaguely hears foot steps drawing nearer, crinkling through the first fallen leaves of autumn.

“Effy said I'd find you here.”

A familiar voice floats over Naomi's shoulder. She doesn't have to double-check who it belongs to. She says nothing in response and Michelle doesn't wait for an invitation that she knows will never actually come; she takes a seat beside Naomi. There's a comfort even in such a small action. Naomi's instantly, yet silently, apologetic about just running off after the sorry excuse for a memorial. Michelle kicks at the grass at her feet momentarily to summon up courage to say something more but it doesn't seem to work immediately. They both stare out over the Avon for a moment before she speaks again.

“I never told you, doubt Tony did either,” she says thoughtfully, looking at the lethargic, brown river slipping past Clifton. “My mate died during college too. Different reason, but...” Her voice has dropped to almost a whisper. “It changes everything.”

Naomi glances over, squinting a little against the late afternoon sun. She's merely content to listen to wherever this story is going.

“We were all falling apart anyway before that. For a long time. But that was kind of it, you know?” She pauses, collecting her long-forgotten memories and bringing them back to the surface. She looks down at her fingers, picking at a nail and Naomi watches the movement with unnecessary attention. When she catches sight of Naomi observing her with such intensity, the brunette crosses her arms and lifts her gaze back across the Avon. “He was just there, and then one day, he wasn't. And neither were we. Not as we were before. It took me a really long time afterwards to understand what it all meant.”

“But you do now?” Naomi's curious. She can't imagine ever understanding why. She knows the hows and whens and the what happened afters, but the why still sticks to her, pallid and almost poisonous. It still prickles at her skin when she allows herself to think about it long enough.

Michelle gives an almost imperceptible nod of affirmation before peering over at her girlfriend with concern. Naomi shrugs casually, but it doesn't the loosen the burden she feels settling on her shoulders.

“I just...” Naomi begins to explain but the words get lost again, fluttering out of her before they fully form. Instead, she takes a deep breath. She wants to tell Michelle how Freddie wasn't really a good friend of hers, she barely knew the guy in the end but he meant something complicated and important to Effy, to Cook, to Katie even perhaps. And regardless, the whole day has been brutal on them all and she still, even after all these years, can't quite grasp why everything is so meaningful, why it happened, why it had to happen. “I ...don't understand. I've spent the better part of the last 2 years picking up the pieces, following around in the wake of it all, of Effy's disaster. My own. And I still have no fucking clue.”

Michelle smiles then, and it throws Naomi for a moment. “Well, it never really makes sense and that's what you have to understand.” She sighs. “Fuck it,” she breathes out and doesn't sound like she truly means the words. They seem like more of a mantra.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Fuck it, Naomi. It all brought you here. To this moment. With me. Brought me to you.” She smirks a little and gazes off again towards downtown Bristol. “It's good just like this, yeah?”

The blonde is studying Michelle now as she speaks and stares across the river. The sun is glowing on her, much like it did earlier in the day as they lay twisted in the sheets, quivering and gasping, happy and forgiven. Michelle, the girl who always seems to find meaning in everything, is letting it go, for a little while at least, trusting that time will do its work. And somehow that makes it easier for Naomi to do the same. She smiles too. So, they sit in silence, both watching the occasional boat pass by, the ripples, the wake. A few gulls circling above. A lorry rumbling along the road far beyond. The wind rustling the trees, leaving spinning and falling signalling the end of summer is coming soon. Life continues on without a hitch, totally oblivious to any existential angst that mortal humans may obsess over. All anyone really has is the moment, and even that has no guarantees. Maybe that's what Michelle's already realised. A barge lets loose a horn in the distance and the other girl seems to take it as a cue. She stands, brushes her jeans clean of invisible specks and gazes at Naomi for a moment, cocking her head to the side.

“Ready?”

A hand extends towards her, asking, welcoming, encouraging. Their eyes meet then and Naomi feels a surge within herself, almost can feel the roar of blood or of realisation, she isn't sure which anymore. She nods, feeling the truth of her agreement in every muscle. Reaching out, she grabs ahold of Michelle's hand, so steady, unwavering. “Fuck it,” she breathes. She's ready. Their fingers loop together; she swears she can feel the echo of a complimentary heartbeat through their connected palms as they walk in comfortable silence back through the park. She's so ready.

And it is good, just like this.

EPILOGUE >>

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [6/7]

doreah — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 18:57:35 GMT

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

She's answered with yet another shrug and a sigh from Naomi. Useless. She feels useless all over again. Emily shifts a little in her seat.

“Do you really not love her, or are you just afraid to let yourself love her?” she asks softly, prodding Naomi a little bit more.

Naomi scoffs immediately, as if the assertion is preposterous. In her eyes, it kind of is. Love can't be held back by pure will alone.

There's a small chuckle from the redhead and Naomi realises she must have said that last bit out loud. Her face flushes but Emily either doesn't notice, or pretends not to see. “Naoms, if you're anything, it's inhumanly wilful. You do get that right?” She pauses and bites down on her bottom lip briefly as she stares out at the street. “Especially when you're scared.” The sadness is all too clear in the comment. “Sometimes I think maybe your name should be one of the synonyms for 'repression' in the dictionary.”

Naomi turns to stare at Emily, who is still blankly gazing across the street. “Shut up.”

Emily shrugs, unconvinced by Naomi's obviously persuasive argument. “Think about it. I've never met anyone as scared to feel happiness as much as you. Not everything good causes pain, you know.” She pauses and shrugs again. “Most of it does. But you're so conflicted even now, it's...” She trails off and part of Naomi wants to hear the rest of Emily's impromptu psychoanalysis. The other half of her would rather not be made aware of yet another shortcoming of her personality, especially from an ex-girlfriend. She considers her mother: her lasting inability to really let them be a family, the fear of it falling to pieces again and how their happiness always seemed purposely placed just out of reach. Usually thanks to perpetual distractions and feeble, often false, justifications. Emily turns to her then, and offers a small smile.

“You've got to let it go.”

The snort that erupts from Naomi is sudden and loud enough to cause Emily to jump a little in her seat. “You're letting your Psychology course get to your head.”

Emily glances down and fiddles with her Coke can tab, refusing to respond to the comment. “See, wilful. Stubborn as an ass.”

The accusation silences Naomi's protests and she chews her lip in thought, looking across the street. She wants to pick Emily's brain about what is supposed to happen next. Is she supposed to try to get Michelle back? Should she take it as a learning experience and move on with new wisdom under her belt? Is Emily hinting at something else? Fucking hell. They sit in companionable silence for a few more minutes, with Naomi's thoughts cascading through her consciousness relentlessly before Emily sighs.

“I know you, Naomi. Better than you do, probably.” Naomi turns to meet Emily's imploring gaze. Her heart flutters, but for an odd reason she can't place. It feels like anxiety, as if she's predicted what's about to happen. “I've seen your honesty and I've seen your lies. So tell me, do you really not love Michelle?”

Naomi turns away first and focuses intently on picking fuzz off her leggings. She flicks away the invisible pieces of lint in a steady beat, as if it's a terribly oft practised habit. She wants to say no, she thinks; admit that she really could love Michelle. But then she's constantly reminded that it's Emily that she'd be admitting it to. Instead, she waffles about the subject.

“Do you think you can love two people at the same time?” Her eyes fix pointedly on Emily, and she witnesses those familiar brown eyes widen almost imperceptibly. It only takes a second for Emily to regain her admirable composure.

She takes a swig of her Coke before answering. “Sure. But I don't think it's really all that common. You have to differentiate.” She looks hard at the blonde, as if trying to give her some very important piece of advice. “Between what is now, and what was.”

Naomi bows her head in acceptance but doesn't say a word. Emily reaches down and takes Naomi's cold hand. “You shouldn't just think you love something cos it can't hurt you anymore, and pretend you don't love something else cos it still can.” She threads their fingers together and sighs. “I'll always love you too,” she admits softly after a long pause. “In a way. You broke me, stripped me completely helpless though. But you're my first love, Naoms. You'll always be. That doesn't change no matter how many people I love from now on.”

“Forever?” Naomi ventures hesitantly, remembering what she had asked so many years ago at the airport. Emily nods minutely and smiles a little wider. “And that's okay?” That's the real question Naomi wants answered, if everything she's feeling is allowed. It could change everything. She sees a glimmer of hope twinkling in what used to be a dark, chaotic tangle of frustration and indecision.

Emily laughs and looks up at the sky, before stealing a glance at Naomi's anxious face. She knocks their shoulders together jovially. “Of course it is, you stupid cow. It's love. It's always okay.” The blonde grins in response and squeezes Emily's hand tighter, leaning against her. After a moment of silence though, her mood darkens again.

“Ems... What if, hypothetically speaking yeah, I saw your face when I was fucking Chelle that night at Motion? What the fuck is that?”

Emily chokes on the sip of Coke she'd taken in and coughs for a second, patting herself on the chest. She pins Naomi with an intense glare. “That... was probably a drunken panic attack. Christ, Naomi. I don't know. It obviously wasn't something you wanted to see or else everything wouldn't have gone to pot like it did, yeah?” She pauses. “You are such a twat. I thought it was just a college phase.”

“So it's not--?”

“No!” Emily interrupts. “Not everything has a great, deep meaning. Sometimes you're just fucked up and overwhelmed.” She smirks again, “And you seem quite... prone to that.”

Naomi leans back against the fence and considers Emily's arguments. They seem reasonable, possible even. More than possible, really. Most likely. She looks down, rejoins their hands and wonders if maybe things are just always going to be strange and backwards, like she's watching her own life through a mirror. She twists their palms together tighter as a warmth settles into her body. But she realises that Emily's right again because that love they had in college, she doesn't feel that anymore. Something else resides there, a sort of lingering comfort, an understanding. It replaces doubt and fear. Her heartbeat doesn't speed up or flutter when they touch and there are none of those pleasant butterflies flitting about in her stomach. She doesn't feel that heat pooling deep inside her. None of that anxiety. But even so, there's the magnetism, like she never wants to let Emily go. It's just nice. Right. It's just Naomi and Emily, how maybe they had always been meant to be after all.

“You'd better get an A in Psychology,” Naomi muses with a smile.

Emily's lips spread into a contented smile. “You'd better get your girlfriend back.”

“Yeah,” Naomi sighs, unsure about the potential for that. They sit there, each gazing just beyond. Content in silence and companionship, until a scuffling of feet causes them both to turn.

Sid Jenkins is shuffling past them and towards Gina's front door. Naomi quickly stands up, letting go of Emily's hand and reaches out to grab ahold of Sid's windbreaker.

“Sid, what the fuck?” Her tone is supposed to be hard and demanding, but she really just sounds scared. “Where's Michelle?”

The boy wrings his jacket from Naomi's grasp and looks between the two younger girls, shaking his head. “I always get stuck doing this.” He gazes imploringly at the blonde. “Can you please just let me get Michelle's things? I'm just the messenger, yeah?”

“It's my house,” Naomi states. This time it does come out like a threat. Sid's never been anything but a friend, but today is different because Naomi only views him as interference between what she has and what she wants.

He shifts his weight a few times, obviously uncomfortable with the confrontation. “C'mon,” he moans but the feeble request falls on uncaring ears. Naomi puts out an arm, barring him from going further into the garden. “This is naff,” he sulks.

Naomi's had enough of whiny boys and beating around the bush. Emily still inspires a peculiar sort of confidence in her. “Ring Michelle,” she demands. “Ring her and tell her to come get her own things.” Sid half-heartedly searches for his mobile in his cargo pockets. It's making Naomi immensely more impatient. “Now, Sid!”

He stutters something unintelligible as he finally retrieves his mobile. Naomi watches him intently as if she's expecting him to bolt at any second. He never gets the chance to speak to Michelle however because a distinctive ringtone echoes from somewhere nearby and Naomi looks up to see the older girl walking towards the house, a distinctly unpleasant look on her face. Naomi knows it's not going to be easy. She glances quickly at Emily who remains seated on the wall, nonchalantly sipping her Coke and watching the situation unfold. It's not her battle any longer.

When Michelle is about four feet away, Naomi's breath hitches in her chest. It catches for a moment and when she releases it, a tide of something else crashes down on her. There's a flash that only lasts a moment but leaves her breathless. Sid fades away from her vision, and Emily too, but somehow they both remain, like the way one feels the stars watching them from above. Naomi feels the ache first, like she's been hit but Michelle has stopped and remains standing well out of reach. It's all there at once: the heat, the butterflies, the beat of her heart taking on a life of its own within the confines of her fragile chest. In there, she's aware of a shuddering sort of feeling, as if her heart itself is trembling in excitement. She thinks that maybe her soul itself is vibrating. But it vanishes almost as quickly as it came, leaving a throbbing sort of electricity in its wake that spreads out to her fingertips and Naomi is finally sure.

“I love you.” It comes out louder than she expected and the real world comes cascading down around her, crashing against her senses. She always had been fond of dramatic, sudden displays of emotion. She's aware suddenly of Sid standing a little dumbfounded by her side, aware of the sound of Emily sucking up the last of her soft drink through the straw. Aware of Michelle's ragged breathing. “That's what you need to hear, right?”

Michelle sets her lips in a grim smile as she looks back and forth suspiciously between Naomi and the redhead behind her. “Don't just say things because you can.” Her eyes narrow at Naomi, in accusation or disbelief possibly. Fuck, it hurts. “Sid, go grab my bag.”

Naomi's arm flies out and latches onto his arm. “No, Sid.” As a result, he looks completely annoyed to be stuck in this fucking position again. Naomi meets Michelle's glare straight on, a challenge accepted. A darkness settles over the brunette's features, as if preparing for something much worse.

She shrugs in a very calculated way. “Fine. I'll get it myself.” She takes a step towards Naomi's human barrier when a small hand stops her. They all refocus on Emily, standing between the 3 friends, one hand blocking Michelle's progress.

She looks at both girls. “I'll get it.” Naomi is speechless at this apparent betrayal. Sid merely shrugs and slips out from the battleground he's previously been stood in the centre of. Emily moves inside the house without complaint from Naomi or Michelle. The moment the door closes behind her, Naomi's blue eyes flicker back to Michelle's face.

“Please, Chelle.”

There it is again. Her heart is literally trembling. Fluttering, trying to break free. Or maybe it's dancing. Laughing. It's distracting in its intensity. She takes a deep breath to no effect. The twisting pain in her stomach is no match for her heartbeats thudding away, demanding her full attention, reminding her not to forget what's important. The fear and anxiety cramp her, but the resounding thump-thump overwhelm it all.

“I'm sorry,” she tries again. “I was...” Stupid, confused, ignorant, pathetic, fucked up. She groans. “Shit.”

There's something that softens in Michelle's face and she cocks an eyebrow in disbelief.

“I needed...” She searches for the bloody words and isn't surprised to find that once again, she's helpless in their absence. Her heart is still going wild, and it's spreading this strange kind of excitement throughout her chest now. Like warm water dripping down, pooling in crevasses, draining. Naomi gives up trying to grab ahold of words. They obviously want nothing to do with her.

“You have no idea what I'm feeling,” she manages to whisper, feeling utterly defeated.

There's a second crash; this one far more palpable then the previous. It too only lasts a moment however. Lips pressed hard and then empty air. An ephemeral tease. Naomi thinks that maybe Michelle has pulled back but she realises then they she had. Her hands are still tangled in chestnut brown hair, but there's space between them. It seems to have ended far too soon and Naomi can't understand why since the feeling in her body has not receded whatsoever. It's thrumming away, stronger than ever.

“You don't think I do too?” Michelle asks finally, the first promising words she's said to the blonde since last night. Her voice wavers as she forces the question out. It's plainly obvious that the insinuation hurts her. “You're the only one, Nome?” Her lips turn upwards in a minuscule grimace. Naomi realises yet another one of her many mistakes today. But she doesn't beg, doesn't over-dramatize the moment. She's not 17 anymore. They're not children fumbling around the minefield. She doesn't even cry. There's a sort of strange effectiveness in the boldness of simple actions. They lack pretence and misinterpretation and make up for flair with tenacity. So she moves forward, placing a soft kiss on Michelle's lips, lingers much longer than needed, before returning again with slightly more vigour, as if to drive her point home.

It's not demanding, merely persistent. Stubborn, perhaps. That is, after all, something Naomi excels at. She feels the part of Michelle's lips who seems to finally be learning Naomi's own language, and an overwhelming relief surges through her veins, pumping it furiously outward. The kiss deepens of its own will almost and the feel of Michelle's hands on her body – resting one in the curve of her waist, the other gripping her bicep rather tightly – reverberates pleasantly to her toes. There's a kind of settling feeling, as if she's found her place and can finally rest.

Pulling back, she avoids eye contact for a moment, gathering her senses together before facing whatever may come. She's used to losing things just as she finds them. But when she finally does look up, Michelle isn't gazing at her like she expected. The other girl, still so full of uncertainty after everything, is feeling it too. So it rests with Naomi, the decision about the next step. She has to lead, even if she's not sure how or where it will take them. It would be so easy to say goodbye, in one sense. It may hurt but that seems less terrifying than continuing forward.

Habits. She closes her eyes for a moment again. “Chelle?” she asks, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Green eyes meet hers, pupils dilated yet focussed. She tries to hide a grimace as she struggles for the right words. Finally she releases the one that she knows for certain is the thing she's always wanted to say.

“Stay.”

Michelle looks mildly surprised, hopeful even. She tilts and dips her head slightly and presses her lips together in that unique way of hers when she's trying to withhold a smile, when she's happy. Her eyes crinkle a little at the sides. That was so much easier and more painless than Naomi had ever thought it could be. Seems silly now that it took this long. Michelle fingers the lapels of her jacket. “I need to change,” she says with a small shrug. “Got ketchup down my vest this morning. I was a little... distracted.” She pulls her coat open to reveal a smear of dried ketchup on her white, and well-fitting, top and chuckles. Naomi grins then. It's as good as a promise, perhaps. She meets Michelle's stare then and the older girl's own smile fully emerges.

“Go on then,” Naomi says, unable to will her smile away even if she had tried. Michelle brushes past her, purposely close Naomi reckons, because she has to repress a very telling shudder of anticipation. She's not even concerned that Emily hasn't returned and the two girls are likely to run into each other. Really, she doesn't have much time to dwell on it before the car Tony's hired comes to a screeching halt outside the house and Tony leaps out. In a matter of seconds, he's towering over Naomi and Sid. Effy slides carefully from the passenger side and approaches with much greater caution.

“Where is she?” Tony demands, as if he has any sort of claim to Michelle. Sid shrugs, obviously. And Naomi stands firm, blocking Tony's way.

“It's settled,” she assures him but his face morphs into a sneer anyway.

He pulls out his mobile and waves it at Naomi. “I get this fucking text from Sid here, telling me to get down here ASAP cos Chelle's wrecked up. So what's the deal, Moany?”

Naomi rolls her eyes at the question and the use of her nickname at such an inappropriate time. “Leave it, Tony. It's sorted, I told you.” She glares at him.

Sid pipes up beside her. “Yeah, it's over.”

Tony shakes his head at the two of them. “You retard, Sid. Why'd you do that?” Effy materializes at Tony's side and places a hand on his arm. It pulls him from whatever weird, angry place he was in. Naomi stares at Effy momentarily, trying to figure out why she is even here but Effy merely winks at her and tosses her hair over her shoulder. There's a flash of the old Effy briefly. Emily's steps echo across the garden path as she exits the house, though she comes to an abrupt stop halfway when she sees the small crowd gathered.

Tony studies her for a second. “Hey there, Red,” he greets in a condescending sort of way, but it's layered with something else. Pleasure almost? Emily raises an unaffected eyebrow and continues her walk towards them. She sidles up between Effy and Naomi, and gives Effy a tight smile. It's a strange sort of reunion. The brunette tilts her head to the side and just plasters on that vacant yet knowing sort of smile she had employed so often in college. Like she's already completely certain of all the events that had preceded her arrival, just from glancing at faces. Naomi smirks.

“You're such morons,” Tony finally says disdainfully, backing up slightly, shaking his head. The accusation hangs in the air and neither Sid nor Naomi seem willing to challenge it immediately. Emily just peers wide-eyed at the group of them, thrown head-first into this strange other reality where the past collides in disaster. Finally Sid's fists ball up at his sides.

“No, Tone, you're all such bloody morons!” he bursts out and everyone except Effy looks at least mildly surprised.

He points towards Naomi's house. “I've just spent all morning with her and she's spent the whole fucking time crying her sodding heart out to me. Cos, oh Sid, you're such a great friend,” he mimics angrily. “Bollocks. You've been here, what, a day?” He pins Tony with an accusatory glare, that despite his smaller stature is quite effective. “Got everything all fucked already.”

Tony shrugs, like it's all just water over his back. “I'm not the one who made her cry.” He looks at Naomi with that insufferable smirk of superiority. She rolls her eyes back at him.

“You don't get it? Neither of you.” Sid shakes his head with emphasis. “You know what she asked me? She said, 'Why is so hard for people to love me back? What's wrong with me?' Yeah. Cos she's so bursting with it and you twats just prance about like sodding untouchable wankers and stomp all over her.”

Naomi steps forward. “Sid–”

He holds up both his sleeve-covered hands in protest, waving them about. “It's not a fucking game to her. She just wants to feel really special for once. She doesn't want to be loved for what she looks like,” he spits, gesturing first to Tony. “Or what she represents,” he continues and points at Naomi. “She never has. Just loved for herself. Why is it that I can see that and you brilliant sodding geniuses are such soggy dildos?” He takes a deep breath. “So, no Tone, you two are the morons.”

Sid's eyes widen in shock at his own outburst and he stumbles back a step, wiping a hand over his face. Tony is silent for a moment. “But I don't love her anymore, Sid. She knows that. She doesn't love me either.” His tone is even and blatantly cocksure. He forces that insufferable smile again. Like he's blameless and invincible. Always.

Sid narrows his eyes and glares, but he says nothing. He doesn't need to remind Tony of all the damage he had already inflicted for years on end. He knows it. Sid knows it. Naomi knows it. Everyone knows it. He shakes his head, ignoring Tony and turns fully to Naomi. “She, like, loves you. If you don't–.”

“Shut up, Sid,” Effy's rarely heard voice cuts through Sid's advice. She offers Naomi a small smile. “Naomi knows.” She raises an eyebrow. “Doesn't she?” Naomi presses her lips together and stares for a moment, debating, wondering. Effy smirks wider. “Just be, Naomi.”

Finally the blonde turns on her heel and leaves the small crowd in her garden. She hears Tony coming onto Emily as she closes the front door behind her and she smiles at his audacity. He really is a moron.

PART 7 >></font></p>

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [5/7]

doreah — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 18:31:15 GMT

Rating: M
Warning: language, sexuality.

Full notes in Part 1.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

Motion is darker and hotter and more suffocating than she ever remembers it being. They're all sitting around a table, yelling a conversation above the thumping music and casually drinking. It's rather grown-up, she thinks. If maybe they'd been at a better club not surrounded by teenagers, that is. Michelle is bookending the lot of them, shouting something quite frankly boring in Katie's general direction. The two of them seem to have some odd sort of connection and it's a little unnerving. Naomi leans back, out of Michelle's line of wild gesticulation and finds Cook already relaxing there too. On his other side is Katie, and beside her, the unmistakable Emily Fitch. They've barely said more than a sentence to each other since the night began and it's precisely the kind of awkward, stifling situation she was hoping to avoid. Effy wasn't interested in joining them tonight, understandably, but Tony mentioned coming along later if he felt like it. Cook glances over at her, bringing his drink to his mouth and guzzling almost half of it down. He grins and Naomi just rolls her eyes, choosing to look over at Katie's animated response to whatever bollocks she and Michelle are talking. Emily's easy to see, as she is on the other end, sitting like the other head of the table, complimentary to Michelle. Or perhaps rivalling. She looks just as equally bored and tired. Before she has much time to think about it, Cook's shoved what's left of his drink smack into her face, obviously a sort of invitation to finish it. She takes it cautiously and raises an eyebrow at him. He laughs.

“Don't worry, Naomikins! Neck it. It's clean, man,” he affirms with a smirk and a sniff and she's not sure if that was supposed to make it seem more genuine. Regardless, the assurance fails, but she drinks anyway. Who really cares? Drugs or not, this night couldn't get any stranger. In a matter of seconds suddenly Cook is participating in the girls' conversation, leaning forward and simultaneously waving wildly towards the bar, which is rather useless considering the crowd blocking any view of the bartenders. Michelle pauses, and looks sideways at her, a questioning furrow of her brow breaking out across her face. Naomi shrugs and slides the empty glass onto the table. The older girl scoots closer, her left hand slipping under the tabletop to rest on Naomi's thigh, giving her a quick squeeze. She feels relieved that her girlfriend has finally noticed her discomfort, or boredom. Michelle's attention turns back to the conversation as she says something to Katie and laughs, never moving her hand. However, as soon as her chuckle dies out, she leans back and over. Her grasp is slightly tighter, and Naomi can feel the warm breath along the curve of her neck and ear.

“I'll get you a drink; what do you want?” she asks in a particularly sultry way considering the banality of the question. “My treat.” Her voice is gravelly and Naomi feels the sound vibrate towards her toes in a pleasant way. But she remembers Emily at the other side of the table and immediately feels hot and uncomfortable. She fidgets briefly, studiously avoiding looking in Emily's direction before turning to Michelle. “Rum?”

Michelle smiles, genuinely and without ulterior motives. “Done.” She slides out from the table and snakes her way through the crowd, disappearing from sight. Only then does Naomi chance a look at Emily, offering a small, shy smile. Emily returns the gesture, but stiffly. Katie starts up about something else and Naomi has to try her damnedest to even give the slightest shit what she's talking about. Somehow both Emily and Cook are suddenly chatting up a storm with her and Naomi feels like she's right fucking back in college, sitting quietly and ticking off all the possible ways she could blow up the venue in order to end this night already.

When Michelle returns, she has Tony with her and a grin plastered on her face. “Look who I found!”

No one of their year recognise Tony and they all wave hello politely, no one really knowing who this lanky boy is. He catches on pretty quickly and goes around introducing himself to her friends. For the first time all evening, Naomi finds herself on the verge of laughter at Katie's stunned face; her mouth hanging half-open and her stare fixated on the Stonem boy. He sits down purposely close to Emily, and that damn sly smile slips over his features as he talks to the Fitch twins. Stupid, clueless Tony, Naomi thinks, and smiles. She realises though that she's staring at Emily when Michelle interrupts her thoughts by sliding a cold rum and coke in front of her, but she doesn't sit down. Naomi looks up, gauging whatever the hell is going on in her girlfriend's head. She's sipping on her drink and watching Emily and Tony as well, but unlike Naomi, she seems a little dazed; confused even. Something snaps her out of it as a thundering bassline rocks the walls. A smile stretches over her face.

“Tune! I'm going to dance,” she tells the blonde and wanders off, drink in-hand towards the throbbing dancefloor. Emily giggles loudly at something Tony says and Naomi feels completely isolated from whatever is going on. First her girlfriend fucks off, then everything is turned upside down. Tony and Emily? She stands up, and punches Cook lightly. “Bar?” He shakes his head and she realises he's holding her drink, and it's half empty already.

Prick.

She smirks and scoffs good-naturedly. She weaves a path towards the bar, resting her elbows on it and waits to be served. An extraordinary 7 quid later, she has her drink. It's cooler over here, not so suffocating. She wanders further into the noise to the main room and from her vantage point, she picks out Michelle dancing away. Sipping her drink, she watches, suddenly rapt with the fluid movements of her girlfriend writhing to the overwhelming beats, the sub-bass infiltrating her senses completely. There are other people around her but Naomi isn't concerned about any strangers. She knows Michelle better than that. Her loose black top drapes over her, the lack of material allowing Naomi to rake her eyes up the smooth skin of Michelle's waist, her hot pink bra glowing in the UV lights. A small smile creeps across her lips unexpectedly and a flush of warmth begins to spread out from her abdomen as she watches the brunette's movements. It's hypnotizing and suddenly Naomi feels hot for an entirely different reason than before.

“She's really pretty.”

The voice makes Naomi jump and she looks over to see Emily beside her, staring in the same direction. “Yeah,” Naomi agrees and scans the crowd again to find her girlfriend. They stand in silence, allowing the music to penetrate their skin and rewire their heartbeats. Naomi takes a rather large gulp of her drink. She's not sure whether this moment is incredibly awkward or just incredibly strange. Probably both.

“Not really your type though, huh?” Emily asks eventually as the song seamlessly transitions into another.

For some reason, Naomi finds the question to be scornful and she's on the defensive before she can even recognise it. There's still so much unresolved tension between she and Emily. “The hell's that supposed to mean?” Pretty girls and Naomi don't go together? She's not sure if it's supposed to have been so snide, but Naomi feels as if it's berating her for something and she's not sure what. The confusion just makes her more irritated.

Emily shrugs, immune to Naomi's little outbursts by now, even after all these years. “Just saying is all. She's... You know what I mean, Naoms. Different than I would have thought you'd go for.”

“Oh, leave it,” Naomi snaps. “She's clever, and gorgeous, and... You don't even know her.”

“Naomi, Jesus. Relax. And, I know enough. Trust me.”

Naomi glares down at the twin, trying to figure out what that comment was supposed to mean. She wants to inform Emily that they have not been together for nearly 2 years, and as such, Emily has no say in who Naomi feels like dating. But the words never come out of course. She's forced into a familiar submissive silence. It's sort of comforting in a way. A disturbing, nostalgic kinda way. “Whatever.”

“Don't 'whatever' me. Even after years, I know you, Naomi. You haven't changed. And I know what all this,” she gestures towards Michelle, “is about so drop the act.” Emily isn't even remotely joking and it upsets Naomi.

Michelle is making her way off the dancefloor and spots Naomi and Emily. She breezes up to them and runs a hand down Naomi's arm. She's so close Naomi can feel the heat coming off her in waves, the slight sheen of sweat re-activating her perfume and it travels right up her nostrils and straight to her core. And all she can feel is insanely awkward since Emily is still beside her. Michelle's smirking suggestively, as if she's reading her mind easily. She swallows hard.

“Great track, yeah?” Michelle asks them both, as if the last few seconds of tension hadn't even happened. Emily nods, and purses her lips. The blonde knows she's likely just as uncomfortable, and a little part of her is excited by that. She still has the power to get under Emily's skin. She grins to herself, trying to ignore the near-constant tug of her body towards Michelle. If only to be polite to Emily, of course. Part of her feels like it's being torn in half. Michelle grabs Naomi's drink and tilts it back, running her tongue over her lips very intentionally and Naomi is simply rapt by the action. Emily shifts uncomfortably, now caught in the unfortunate position of knowing she should leave but not having a polite way to excuse herself at the moment. Naomi chuckles inside her mind, feeling strangely confident now that she seems to wield the power for once. Michelle stretches back and pushes the empty glass onto the bar, watching both girls intently. If Naomi didn't know better, she'd suspect Michelle had something entirely filthy going through her head at this exact second, and it isn't simply about Naomi. The blonde glances at Emily then back at Michelle, who meets her gaze steadily. Without a second thought, Naomi grasps her hand and turns to Emily abruptly.

“We're going to get some fresh air.” Her voice sounds hard and strained even to her own ears, but she doesn't have much time to consider why as Michelle tugs on her hand insistently and she's being pulled outside into the warm summer night. Naomi stumbles, suddenly feeling the liquor hitting her system full-force. The world is a little woozy and blurry now, but Michelle is there in front of her. That much she knows for certain. They hustle to a dark corner of an alcove around the side of the warehouse, away from the brightly lit patio, and Naomi wastes no time pouncing. She slams Michelle up against the cold stone wall, ignoring any protests that may have arisen. She doesn't suspect Michelle has any anyway. Her mouth moves greedily against the other girl's warm neck, feeling the heat and pulse under the thin skin. Naomi registers roving hands against her hot skin as Michelle's want is just as apparent as her own, nailing digging in and drawing their bodies flush together. It isn't the first time Naomi thanks God or whatever for Michelle's tendency to wear these sorts of tops. Her own eager hands slide easily over hips and curves, snaking up to press into soft breasts, before slipping one further down. Michelle pulls Naomi's mouth away with both hands, and kisses her firmly, and a little desperately instead.

It's odd, a little disconcerting almost, cos they had never behaved like this before. In the loo, sure. But never quite like this, outside, like wild animals. Naomi experienced it with Emily; that completely overwhelming desire, an uncontrollable urge to just get as filthy and close as possible regardless of location. It's sucking up all her energy and her senses are in overdrive as she feels Michelle's tongue slick in her mouth and their bodies undulating in perfect synchrony. Her knees feel weak and she tries to pass it off as the alcohol, but knows better. She pushes up against the older girl to compensate.

Never. They'd never done this before, not like this. It feels both fiercely familiar and equally bizarre.

It's ripping her in two.

She returns with furious determination to Michelle's neck, sucking and biting in exactly the right way to evoke a series of moans that she knows Michelle keeps well-hidden. All she feels is fingers raking through her short hair, nails dragging down her arms, around, everywhere. Naomi's fingers find their under the waistband of her girlfriend's jeans, easily finding what she was seeking. A simultaneous moan bubbles to the surface, and suddenly Naomi is struck with the image of Emily. And it's not just a fleeting picture; it sticks and floats in front of her eyes, blocking out reality with a ghostly, disturbing kind of nostalgia. So she squeezes her eyes shut, finds Michelle's lips with her own on instinct alone and draws the older girl's bottom lip between her teeth as her fingers rub, probably a little rougher than necessary, against Michelle's clit. It feels almost inhumanly satisfying but Emily's face refuses to stop swimming in front of her closed eyelids, every pant or moan Michelle makes is transformed into that huskier Fitch sound instead. Bile begins rising in Naomi's throat because she's not high, she's knows what's happening in reality. She's more than aware that it is actually Michelle she's fucking so ungracefully against a nightclub wall, but bloody Emily keeps pervading her senses, gripping on and refusing to let go. The feeling of being torn in half only gets stronger and stronger with every minuscule movement; every passing second feels like another sharp stabbing pain in her chest, tearing it right through the core.

Michelle clings to Naomi's top, almost frantically, as her hips buck up of their own free will, her head thrown back allowing Naomi ample access to the ultra-sensitive skin along her neck. She's close. Visions of Emily may be assaulting her senses, but she can read Michelle's responses like second nature. She braces a thigh between Michelle's legs, surprising herself at the passing realisation of her own remarkable wetness against her pants. Fucks sake. The knowledge only makes things a million times worse, because she's not even sure what exactly is turning her on to such a degree. Michelle or Emily? The fact she's unsure provides enough motivation for vomit to rise even higher. It should be Chelle. Please let it be Chelle, she pleads with herself but to no avail because nothing ceases, not the images nor the confusion.

She can't, can't can't. It's too, too fucking much. It's frenzied and hard, aggressive and desperate even but holy fuck does it sting with raw honesty, scraping roughly against her heart. Burning desire, but coupled with the agony of confusion. She can't reconcile the resounding feeling rushing through her body with the illusions floating in her vision. It's borderline insanity, she thinks. It fucking feels like it. The immensity of it all is terrifying, and its questionable origins are even more devastating. And it's all too fucking familiar.

She snaps before anything has the chance to spill out of her. She roughly pushes back, yanking her hand out of a very astonished Michelle's pants and steps back, putting cool riverside air between them. The image of Emily vanishes just as abruptly and she only sees her girlfriend, standing against the stone wall, still breathing heavily but so bewildered that it only works to break Naomi's heart further.

“I'm sorry,” Naomi blurts out in a voice that sounds both timid and desperate. Michelle fixes up her jeans and the glistening of unshed tears is unmistakable in her eyes. For what seems like a very long minute, she refuses to meet Naomi's gaze.

“Was it...,” she trails off, unsure if it's a question she should even be asking. “Did I do something?” Sometimes Naomi forgets how fragile Michelle is on the subject of sex. How, regardless of how talented she is, she's still stupidly self-conscious. No doubt a leftover gift from Tony. Fucking Tony. The blonde shakes her head defiantly and watches Michelle's composure return in bits and her imploring gaze now burning holes into Naomi. “What the fuck then?”

“I can't,” Naomi manages to stutter. She thought once the visions of Emily faded, she wouldn't feel so anxious and torn, but having to explain herself seems only to have increased the sensation ten-fold. She just wants to collapse into a heap, block out the world and forget all about the last 10 minutes. Michelle Richardson is not the kind of person to just let things slide however. She's never let Naomi get away with anything in the course of both their brief friendship and current relationship. The guilt rips at her chest with strong, ragged claws and she chokes out a breath.

“Chelle,” she pleads, “I can't. I don't...know. I just...” The words aren't even forming sentences any longer as her emotions are finally breaking through her valiant resolve. She can't talk about Emily, she's terrified of what that means. “It's me,” she finally chokes out, barely restraining a sob of regret. Michelle just stares at her for a moment before her face softens.

She shakes her head almost sadly. “Jesus, Nome. How much have you had to drink? You're a mess tonight.” Quite unexpectedly, Michelle reaches out, takes both her hands and pulls the younger girl close, wrapping her arms around heaving shoulders. Naomi isn't sure if it's honest ignorance, but she doesn't argue with Michelle's assertion about the cause of her uncharacteristic breakdown. Maybe the alcohol was a mitigating factor. No way to know for certain really. Yeah? The blonde grabs onto loose fabric and buries her face in Michelle's warmth, the older girl's pulse strong and sure against her cheek. The tears spring free eventually.

Naomi doesn't see Emily emerge from the club, wander around, spot the girls and stare curiously. Michelle does notice however, and holds Naomi tighter, whispers calming nonsense in her ear, but doesn't take her eyes off Emily. The redhead meets the hardened stare and takes a moment to process the scene. Michelle doesn't have to say a word, the look in her eyes is warning enough for Emily not to interfere. Emily hesitates, obviously considering her options, but eventually her shoulders sag in admission of defeat. She gives up and turns back towards the club, with a troubled, knowing look in her eyes.

“I love you,” Michelle whispers insistently like it's the easiest, most natural thing in the world, and a racking sob jars Naomi's body. It's not right. She can't say that; they've never said it before. It shouldn't be like this.

She pushes out of Michelle's embrace abruptly again. “I can't, Chelle,” she states, verging on the cusp of desperation, willing her to just understand.

The other girl scowls momentarily. “You can't? Can't what? What's that even mean?” For her part, Michelle is bordering on livid now. It's a bumpy roller-coaster ride with Naomi most days, but this, this is just ludicrous.

“Don't.” Naomi says it harshly; it's a strong warning. They both know it's not something that would be pleasant, but it may be necessary. Please don't make me say it, her eyes plead. But it's dark outside and Naomi's face is half-hidden from the barely perfunctory lighting so there's no way to know if Michelle sees the begging there. Don't make me do this.

“Don't?” Michelle scoffs derisively. “Right. It's fine. I get it. You think I'm stupid?” She shrugs, but that small movement alone is obviously full of resentment and anger. “Go on. Go see her then.” She waves towards the smoking patio out back, no doubt where Emily is loitering.

The strict demand almost knocks Naomi off her feet as she physically feels the impact of those words. Michelle knows; she's always known. “That's not it,” Naomi argues weakly. It's a half-truth at any rate. She doesn't want to go see Emily. She just can't unsee her at the moment. There's a very definite difference but the explanation seems far too complex for her to work out for herself, let alone drunkenly explain it to her furious girlfriend. “That's not what I want.”

An eyebrow is raised in disbelief. This encounter is illuminating all too well the legend of fierce bitch Michelle Richardson. Even Katie Fitch may have found a challenge here. She's almost inhumanely cold and hard, in attitude of course. Naomi's pretty certain she couldn't actually touch her right now if her life depended on it. There's just too large a wall there, the space between them increasing exponentially with every passing minute.

“What do you want then, Nome?”

I don't know! That seems like the most truthful thought she's had all night long. Because really, she's pretty fucking sure that she has what she wants, needs even, but then she always wants more. Or maybe it's that she has too much. Like when you're in the newsagent's staring at the extensive selection of different sweets and you want them all, and you can't have them all but there's just too much choice. It's debilitating. And irritating for anyone who's never had such a problem before. How ungrateful can a person be?

“You.” The word finally manages to make it past her lips, but it's so quiet and hesitant that it's almost a question.

“Do you love me then?”

Naomi is immediately struck with the brutality and unfairness of the question. As if that's really something you just bluntly ask another person. To her, there are two options. Lie and say yes, or say no and break her heart. She didn't really consider that normally there was a third option: saying yes and meaning it. “Please, Chelle.” Avoidance may be a fourth option. But Michelle stands firm, her eyes piercing even in the darkness, challenging and dangerous. She's not accepting distractions. “I can't...”

The barely audible and unfinished statement hangs heavily in the air between their bodies. The older girl appears to wait a little bit longer for Naomi to expound on the idea, but when nothing is forthcoming, she clenches her eyes shut for a moment, her mouth set in a hard, unhappy line. When she opens them again, nothing has changed. Eventually, with Naomi staring at her like a deer caught in headlights, she shakes her head, pain etching itself across her features so deeply that it's plainly visible in the shadows.

A slight sneer arises, but the disappointed kind rather than the spiteful kind. “Can't,” she repeats in apparent acceptance. The word rolls around, bouncing off the stone and back again. “Okay.” But Michelle sounds the furthest thing from okay, and she looks completely rattled. “I've done this before. I won't make the same mistake twice.”

Naomi has a suspicion that Michelle is speaking about Tony. She's not sure why, but the words are said in a longingly nostalgic kind of way that the older girl only adopts when speaking about her college years. And Naomi's well aware how that epic love story ended up.

Michelle sloppily points over her shoulder, waving around inaccurately. “I'm just gonna... go, yeah? I'm heading back to London tomorrow.”

The terror rises in Naomi's mind, screaming and shouting at her, deafening her inside as Michelle turns her back. She attempts to take some kind of action, to stop Michelle's determined movement away but she's frozen again. Just like fucking always. “Chelle,” she tries, sounding more manic that she would have liked. “Chelle!”

The brunette doesn't even pause, or turn back. She offers only a flippant wave goodbye over her shoulder as she heads towards the road. It almost looks as if she gave her the finger.

“Michelle!”

The effort is clearly futile now.

It takes until Michelle is completely out of sight before Naomi regains the function of her legs. She doesn't run however. She's never been much of a runner towards things, and she's not really accustomed to people running from her. She turns instead, feeling eyes on her. Emily's standing 20 feet away, just staring. Her mouth quirks into a sad smile, far too sad a smile for someone who is even remotely pleased with the situation. She walks closer to Naomi, cocking her head to the side, studying everything.

“You're fucked,” she states plainly.

Naomi isn't sure what exactly is fucked up this time. Emily could be referring to many, many ways in which Naomi feels fucked. She tilts her head back, gazing into the clear night sky and releases a huge sigh. The breath itself trembles with emotion. “Emily.” It comes out with unhappy resignation as she faces the redhead.

“Fucked,” Emily repeats more staunchly, her gaze turning to one of pity and remorse. “Completely.”

Naomi bows her head in reluctant acceptance of her fate. Emily's hand slips into her cold, sweaty one and she does her best to stop from flinching at the contact.

The taxi ride seems longer than normal and despite the occasional comforting pat of Emily's hand, Naomi continues to merely stare silently at the blur of passing streetlamps and the occasional teenager stumbling drunkenly towards someplace else. She feels like she needs to explain it all to Emily, as if she owes her that even though she's fully aware that it's not really a requirement. But of course she opts instead for silence and Emily doesn't push. For once, Naomi muses and almost chuckles at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Now that she really does want to talk, Emily doesn't pry incessantly. And there's no hope in hell that the blonde will volunteer any information. She's not sure if she's ever shared anything without --sometimes relentless-- coaxing.

The car pulls up in front of Gina's house and Naomi immediately launches herself out onto the pavement. She sways a little and braces against the roof as she waits for Emily. But Emily never follows her out. Ducking down, Naomi peers in and blinks. It's the only thing she can think to do because she'd pretty much assumed what was going to happen tonight.

Emily just stares back, her brown eyes seeming larger and softer than usual in the dimness. “Where's Michelle, Naoms?”

Then it all clicks. Her girlfriend, possibly but most likely ex-girlfriend, is probably inside that very house. In her bed. Maybe she's not though. Emily tilts her head and presses her lips into a sad line. “Go to bed, Naomi. Ring me in the morning, yeah?”

“But–,” the blonde starts but is interrupted by the flimsy wave from Emily.

Red hair floats around her shoulder as she shakes her head. “Tomorrow.”

She doesn't say anything more before reaching over and pulling the taxi door closed much to Naomi's surprise. She watches it speed off in the direction of Katie's place. When the tail lights eventually fade from sight, she sighs loudly. It has always been something she suspected, but now it was completely evident without question: Emily Fitch is a better person than she could ever be. Glancing up at the bedroom window of her mother's home, she feels anxiety creep under her skin. She blames the chilly night air for the trembling that begins in her limbs and slowly works its way along her spine.

The room is dark by the time she eventually manages to summon the courage to open her own bedroom door. She can hear breathing off to the side and she has no doubt who it is. It's still rather surprising that Michelle would be here, she thinks. She must know people still in Bristol that she would have rather spent the night with. Naomi shuffles across the floor so she doesn't trip over any cloaked hazards. Stripping down, she slides in next to the only warmth in the entire room. Her over-sensitive hearing picks up on the change in breathing from the other girl. Michelle's awake, at least partially so. But she doesn't say anything, doesn't even move as Naomi settles down into the pillows. God, it's so fucking familiar. She'd never wanted to be back to this dark, hurtful place, but like a rubber-band, time seems to be snapping back on itself. She doesn't see a haunting vision of Emily now. Just the spectre of her own continual failure.

The uncertainty and anxiousness keep Naomi awake most of the night, even once Michelle has fallen back into a deep sleep.

When she awakens the next morning, the sun is beaming through the window, covering everything with a pleasant warm glow and Naomi wonders if it's an omen. She catches herself crossing her fingers in a wish. She sits up and manages to be shocked again, that Michelle is still next to her. She may be turned away, but she's still here and that's something. Sliding back down under the duvet, she quietly watches the rise and fall of the older girl's bare skin. Steady. Constant. A concept Naomi has difficulty with yet Michelle seems to possess in abundance.

“Chelle?” she tries softly, hoping that the bright morning is indeed a good omen of the day to come.

The response takes a while to drift into the air, and it's almost too quiet. It's unsettling how distinctly un-Michelle-like it sounds. “Don't.”

And it's eerily familiar to their previous night's argument. A simple command. Maybe words are too much, too complicated and imprecise. Naomi reckons that is one of her biggest problems really. There just aren't enough words, and she doesn't have the ability to weave those ones she has the same way someone like Effy does, into intricate designs full of meaning and consequence. Naomi's visceral, tactile, clumsy. Useless with words when they actually do mean something but clever with them when they're meaningless. Not like Michelle who bathes in languages, wraps herself in human communication, dances words along her tongue even in awkward social situations. They're opposites in that way: Michelle needs to hear words, Naomi has difficulty forming them. But even then, Michelle occasionally fails too, especially when everything becomes complicated and Naomi thinks back to their first night, how Michelle had behaved, kissed her as a way to beg for acceptance, attention, love. Sometimes it's fine; these strings of verbs and nouns are fucking cumbersome. She reaches out tentatively and runs her fingers along the smooth dip of Michelle's waist. It's heavy enough to imply intent but light enough to be hesitant, as if she can pass the apologies pumping through her blood out through her fingertips. She allows this invisible regret a moment to seep in. Michelle does nothing, ignoring the attempt but to her credit, she doesn't flinch away either. Naomi lets out a laboured breath and flops onto her back again.

Hopeless. Emily was right. She's fucked. Can't want what she has, can't have what she wants. It strikes her rather abruptly that at this moment, she wants Michelle more than ever. Her chest is tight and heavy, her heartbeats seemingly calling out for an answer. The echo is never returned. She just pleads silently for things to revert back, time to reverse and reconcile. If there's some deity up there, perving on her private thoughts, maybe it'll help her out. Maybe she just always wants what she can't have, and that's just the way it will always be. She rolls over so they lie back to back, but she doesn't consider ways to rectify the situation. She just wallows in the lies that the sunshine told her.

Michelle is gone when she reawakens. Somehow she'd managed not only to fall back asleep, but to sleep so soundly that it allowed the other girl a perfect escape. She rolls over quickly, glancing at the floor. Her clothes are no longer strewn over the chair, everything is packed up nearly in the pink overnight bag. Naomi is astonished at how heavy she must have been sleeping for Michelle to not only sneak away, but pack all her things as well. The only good sign is that she's not actually on a train back to London yet. She's somewhere in Bristol.

Pulling on a jumper and jeans, she goes about her usual morning routine, almost convincing herself that if maybe she pretends things are okay, they are. Her brush catches in a tangle from the previous night's experience outside Motion. She winces but not from the tug of her hair. Unsurprisingly, Gina is nowhere to be found in the house when she sits down at the kitchen table for some breakfast. She pulls out her mobile finally and curses the shaking of her fingers already. She hovers over Michelle's number but resists. Instead she scrolls through to find Effy's.

It rings. Endlessly. Fucking Effy. She tries Tony and gets his aggravatingly cocky answerphone message. She hangs up. Next comes Sid. There's no answer there either. Fuck's sake. She begins texting him a message, asking if he's seen Michelle. It shouldn't be shocking when she receives no response to that either. She feels as if the entire world has got some memo not to communicate with Naomi Campbell because she's a giant sloppy useless cunt. It's down to the two people most embroiled in her personal drama. Truth be told, she's not really feeling up to speaking with Emily now that she's no longer off her face. It's pathetic really when she realises she just wants Michelle to come by and they can lie about in bed and watch a DVD with the volume down low. Something easy, comfortable and quite frankly with a minimum of talking so she can quell the throbbing of her hangover.

Chelle. She presses talk. Ringing. It's on the 5^th ring by the time she gets an answer.

“What?” No hullo, no pleasantries. In fact, Michelle doesn't seem at all pleased which shouldn't be as surprising as it is. But her voice cracks in a way that makes Naomi feel incredibly guilty. Either she had just been, or she was about to, cry. In all honesty, Naomi is a little taken aback.

She hesitates. “Chelle, please. Can you just–?”

“Can I what, Naomi? What can I do for you?” There is the nasty side of Michelle that thus far Naomi's been fairly lucky not to have directed at her specifically. She knew it existed, but that really it was for emergencies only, mostly Tony-related ones, so said Effy. Sort of.

Naomi has no response. She wants to plead perhaps, but restrains herself. She doesn't reckon it'll do much good any how. Not at this stage. She fucked it up and begging now is just too beneath them both.

“You just don't get it, do you?” Michelle asks sadly. She sighs and the younger girl can hear the waver in it. “I can't do any more. I've said it all. It's your turn.”

“Chelle, c'mon,” Naomi tries. It's a pretty ineffective tactic. “You know I–.”

Michelle interrupts again. It's sort of a good thing since Naomi hadn't really thought much beyond those words anyway. “I don't. Not anymore. I don't know anything.”

“Please don't do this.”

She can hear the deep intake of breath on the other end of the line. “What are we doing, Nome?” It's not very reassuring to realise they're probably equally confused and fumbling. The blind leading the blind.

The blonde doesn't have an answer. She's never really had a clue. She glances up, searching the spackled ceiling for an answer that doesn't exist. The silence says enough for Michelle and the line goes dead. There's a hesitation moving the mobile from her ear, as if in a second the line will reconnect and all will be forgiven. It doesn't happen however and eventually Naomi, defeated, ends her side of the call. She flips through her contacts and settles on the only person she both blames and feels most comfortable with in this situation.

As it rings through to Emily's mobile, she wipes a few tears angrily from her cheek and takes a deep breath. She won't cry. She won't. Not yet. She needs distraction. She needs to talk. She needs Emily.

They've been doing nothing really for the better part of an hour, she and Emily. Just wandering around the streets of Bristol, chatting like old friends which should feel rather disconcerting considering their still very palpable history. Nothing has been said about the events of the previous night and it's a nice intermission. Naomi knows that it will come to that in time, but for now, she feels like she's reconnecting with a part of her own past that had been such a strong influence, in perhaps the wrong ways. She feels like things are settling into place. Maybe there's a new future. Emily strolls beside her, munching on a Frosties cereal bar and sipping a Coke, and occasionally pausing to say something either terribly insightful and mature, or completely cheeky. This is nice. Like in college when they'd spend hours lolling about on her bedroom floor, talking nonsense and simply enjoy each other's company. Before it all went to shit. Naomi tosses her coffee cup into a nearby bin as they round the corner to her street.

“So Cook and your sister, yeah? What's that like?”

Emily chuckles and scrunches up her wrapper. “Mental. Never seen two people worse or better for each other. It's a gas really.”

Naomi considers the comments. “So they get on then?”

Emily stares at her curiously for a moment. “Of course. Really well. What's the point otherwise?” She pauses in thought. “Most of the time anyway. It can be rough sometimes. It is Katie, right.”

“Right,” Naomi agrees distractedly. She kicks at some pebbles along the pavement and watches them roll away. Emily takes the opportunity to finally press the subject that they have both been avoiding.

“That's just what happens, though. It's hard sometimes. Doesn't mean it's hopeless.”

Naomi eyes latch onto Emily's quickly, picking up on the change in direction of the conversation as they walk up to the front gate of her mother's house. “Doesn't it?” She sighs and looks to the sky, taking a seat on the front wall. Emily slides down beside her, watching the blonde sadly.

“Where's Michelle?”

The name appears to sting Naomi and she winces at the sound. She presses her lips together and shakes her head slowly. A shrug of her shoulders is her only response. Emily nods to herself and gazes into the distance.

“Maybe it's better, Naoms. She's not really, like, the right kind of person for you.”

The suggestion achieves its desired reaction and Naomi spins to glare at Emily, who is still looking elsewhere. “Don't say that. You don't know. You can't know that.” Her tone is incredibly defensive and indignant, yet the sadness she's been holding in all afternoon suddenly seems to choke her up by the end of her last sentence.

There's a hint of a smirk on Emily's lips that Naomi can see from her angle. It's a little infuriating honestly. She was testing. Naomi groans at the realisation. “Christ, Ems.” Emily sips her Coke again with a weakly suppressed, cheeky grin. Eventually she turns to the blonde.

“What happened last night?” She waits for a moment. “She left you.”

Naomi shrugs. “Yeah, that's about it.”

“But what did you do?” There's not really much point in arguing with the assumption, because, as usual, it was Naomi's fault. She should just wear a placard that says “Blame it on me”, sign a contract at the beginning of every new relationship that informs the other party that if things get fucked up, it's probably going to be her fault. It would save a lot of time most likely. She sighs, even longer than before.

“I couldn't do it,” she states.

Emily takes a moment to think about the response. “Oh.” She knows. It's just a habit, a pattern that Naomi follows and there's not really much sense in assuming otherwise. Think horses, not zebras when you hear hoof beats and all that.

The blonde gives a small nod, assuring Emily that whatever she's thinking is probably correct. It was a little peculiar in a way. Both Michelle and Naomi seemed to have their own inabilities. But whereas Michelle's seemed to be manifested more often in the physical side, Naomi's were emotional. Stilted, either way.

Emily finally breaks the silence. “Why not?”

PART 6 >></p>

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [4/7]

doreah — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 04:35:28 GMT

echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

It's not until late morning on the day that Naomi's meant to leave for Bristol that the doorbell rings. She's in her bedroom, packing the last of her things and can hear Tony opening the front door. His voice carries upwards unmistakably.

“Bloody hell, Nips. Why are you dressed like one of Berlusconi's personal call-girls?”

“Fuck off, Tony.” Oh, lovely. He's put Michelle in a wonderful mood already and it's not even noon. There's bustling from below and the sound of Michelle's heels clunking up the stairs. She appears in the doorway soon after, with an adorable, bashful smile that is completely juxtaposed to, what Naomi has to agree, is a rather provocative outfit for an afternoon train journey. She's not entirely sure if Michelle's got on a skirt or just a particularly large belt. The blazer produces a sort of high-class legitimacy to the ensemble that the diving cleavage betrays. It's all very 'naughty secretary' and honestly, the blonde feels torn between wanting to shag her senseless and throw a blanket over her and hide her away in the attic. She must be staring because Michelle laughs briefly, tosses her straightened hair and then crosses the room, laying a soft kiss on Naomi's cheek. It burns.

“All right?” she asks cheekily. Naomi tries again to form a sentence, even a greeting of some kind in return. Instead, she nods. “Like it?”

The blonde runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah, erm...” She trails off, unable to say much more. She busies herself with cramming the last of her socks into her overnight bag.

“Something the matter?” As if the older girl can pretend to be so oblivious.

Naomi snorts softly. “You're kidding me, yeah?” Finally she works through a full sentence. “You do know where we're going.”

Michelle shrugs nonchalantly, and cocks her hip in a model's pose, apparently unconcerned with any complaints. “To Bristol, show that city what they've been missing.” Off Naomi's look she amends her comment with more modesty. “To meet your mum.”

Naomi's eyes widen and glare, an eyebrow perking slightly, trying to trigger some sort of understanding in the brunette who appears to be purposely playing coy. “Do you want to fuck my mum, Chelle? Cos... look at you. You'd turn a gay man straight.”

There's a definite smirk that spreads across the older girl's face. “Do you want to shag me, Naomi?”

Michelle's met with a signature eye-roll from her girlfriend. It's followed with a shake of her head and Naomi focusses on zipping her bag closed. She feels the girl move closer, brush against her and drag her finger along her forearm suggestively. It's taking a great deal of willpower not to snap, in either a good or bad way. She pats her luggage in a bid to distract herself, shake herself out of this daze. It doesn't really work cos Michelle isn't dissuaded. “Do you?”

Naomi groans and looks up at the ceiling. There's no real point in fighting it. She turns quickly, grabs Michelle by the arms and pushes her almost roughly onto her back on the mattress. “Why are you even asking me?” she hisses, trying to control something she's not sure is anger or desire. There's a resulting sort of surprise in the green eyes staring back at her, as if Michelle hadn't considered the idea that Naomi was honestly affected. That in turn makes Naomi second-guess this whole game. The moment doesn't last too long because the denial becomes tiring, too stressful. She presses their lips together, immediately gaining access to her girlfriend's tongue. She settles her weight heavily on her, almost roughly sliding her hand up underneath the nearly absent skirt into similarly flimsy knickers. Michelle's gasp is louder than expected as she sucks in Naomi's breath too. She can feel soft, manicured fingertips trailing deftly under her own top.

It doesn't last long however because Anthea's voice calls up, interrupting them. “Naomi, come along!” She's meant to give the girls a lift to Paddington. Naomi crawls off and notices how Michelle dodges her gaze. She's methodically adjusting her blazer and tugging down her skirt, running her fingers through her hair.

“You just want to be wanted,” Naomi says plainly. She'd recognise that need anywhere. It's strangely familiar. Maybe it hits a little too close to home. Michelle glances up at her momentarily, her eyes glistening in a slightly sad way but seemingly moderately surprised at being caught out in her own game. Finally, she shrugs.

“Sort of,” she affirms in a half-whisper. Blowing out a deep breath, her mask falls back into place. “Stop dawdling, Nome. Let's go then.” Her voice is forcibly airy again and she smirks. Naomi has the eerie feeling that she may have met her match as she picks up her bag and follows Michelle strutting out of the bedroom.

They've been sitting on the train for a while, in silence for the most part. It's heavy and a little awkward now and Naomi realises that maybe she should have just kept her mouth shut back in her bedroom. Sometimes you think things that shouldn't be said out loud. She recalls how strange and embarrassed she had been when Emily called her out on something similar. How exposed she had felt, how vulnerable that her needs and weaknesses had been that visible to another person when she had tried so hard to conceal them. It hasn't helped that more than every second male has oogled her girlfriend and, being the coward she is, she hasn't even moved to even do something as simple as take her hand. Somehow that seems to have made things worse.

The train is coming up into Reading when Michelle finally speaks. “When I first met you, you reminded me of Tony.” Her voice sounds thoughtful, a little sad. Naomi glances at her questioningly with a silent urge to continue. Michelle shrugs. “Aloof. Unconcerned with other people. Clever. Guarded.” She pauses as if deep in thought. “Besides, you get on well with Effy, and him, so you have to be a certain type of person. Like them.” It's all said a little wistfully, and a little disdainfully. Naomi's not sure where her girlfriend is going with this. There's something foreboding in its direction and she fidgets uncomfortably without thinking.

“But you're not, are you? You care.”

Naomi wants to argue that Effy cares. Effy cares too much a lot of the time. And Tony does too, even if he never shows it directly. She considers her conversation with him about Michelle. He does care. Instead, she stays schtum cos it doesn't seem like the real point. This isn't about the Stonems. It's Michelle's turn to flip Naomi's perception of reality on its head. “You're different than him.”

Somehow, this assertion seems almost insulting, like despite all evidence to the contrary, being Tony Stonem is a highly desirable thing for a partner to be. As a result, Naomi takes exception to it. “How do you know?” They've only been together for a few months, and only known each other for a few weeks more on top of that. She's not sure that she's that transparent. She hopes she's not. Michelle raises an eyebrow and chuckles a little. Naomi reframes her question, “When did you...?” It's an admission she'd rather not make but there's little point in arguing.

Michelle gives her a half-smile. “That night. After the pub.” She shakes her head for a moment. “You fooled me for a while after, had me thinking I imagined it. But you touch differently. Not like you just assume things are just yours to own. More like you can't trust yourself to ever have them given to you.” Michelle gazes intently at her for a moment before flipping her hair and turning to stare out of the window.

Naomi considers this insight. It may be true. May not. She's not sure she wants to think too long on it. She gives a small shake of her head, trying to push away any truth but the moment Michelle turns back to her, their eyes meet again, and she knows it's pointless. Instead of pushing the issue, the brunette leans in and gives Naomi a long, soft kiss. Naomi's struck with the feeling that Michelle often does know more than she lets on. After the kiss ends, her blue eyes dart around, self-consciously if only because of her visible tenderness, the heavy artillery of her ego's defences scattered and abandoned momentarily in light of her girlfriend's unabashed affection. There's a bloke sitting nearby who's caught the action. There's a dirty leer on his pudgy face and the blonde grimaces. That's exactly what she hadn't wanted and immediately she rallies the troops for an offensive. Michelle's picked up on it too and her eyes darken noticeably in some kind of defiance, in warning, and Naomi's taken aback by the threat present. The possessiveness. It would be a lie to claim that she wasn't rather flattered, enthralled even. Michelle is not accustomed to having things taken from her and Naomi can sense the rigidity setting in as Michelle prepares. The manky bloke doesn't seem put off much and only glances away briefly before staring at them again, eyeing Michelle's bare legs in filthy appreciation. In response, Naomi is back to wishing she could just throw a blanket over her girlfriend's body like some backwards 50's husband. It's not pleasant. Michelle is hers and not perv fodder. She flips him off brusquely with a very pronounced scowl on her face and finally he turns back to his paper.

What Michelle had said may be true; she hadn't just assumed ownership of anything that first night. She hadn't been trying to either. However, she sure feels the exact opposite now. There's nothing more she desires than to take possession. She reckons it's okay in moderation, surely. Her attention turns back to the topic they'd been discussing as the subject wiggles uncomfortably in her mind still. “Chelle, how did you... It was just–.”

“A drunk shag,” she finishes, her voice hard with the reminder of how little it supposedly meant to Naomi. “Yeah, I got that the first time. Doesn't change anything.”

This is the first time since a week after that event they've talked point blank about it, or their actual relationship really. It's fucking creepy that Naomi always has these moments of clarity (perhaps, more fittingly, of weakness) on trains. She pushes the idea to the back of her mind. Michelle shrugs again.

“You may have been drunk, but you touched me like you cared about me.” Michelle's voice is soft and sincere, urgent even, painfully so and it's a little disconcerting. A little too familiar in a sense.

Naomi gazes over at the older girl who has once again taken to staring thoughtfully out of the train window, obviously avoiding whatever cold justification she seems to believe is forthcoming. It must be something in the air on these First Great Western trains that breaks down her common sense and her defences. As a result Naomi can't help but tell the truth. “You make it sound like I'm like that with everyone.” She isn't. Those slags she'd fucked in club toilets or randoms that ended up in her bed at the end of a particularly fucked up night? No. She hadn't cared about them, and hadn't let them think she had. Something peculiar had slipped with Michelle that she's never quite been able to grasp onto again since. “I'm not.” It's just you.

“I know.” The words come out quiet and pensive and Naomi's fully convinced that Michelle understands the implication. So she just links their fingers together and smiles, saying nothing more.

They stand on the pavement outside the train station under a surprisingly bright sun. Naomi recalls the last time she was standing in this exact spot, just done clambering out of a taxi after doing a runner from the airport. She hasn't been back to Bristol since, and it doesn't appear to have changed at all. Same vendors, same line of taxis, same sky, same smell. When she'd first moved to London, she'd made plans to return to visit her mum but things kept interfering with that and eventually the idea just evaporated. Now, standing amongst all the memories, she's sort of confused about which direction to take. Michelle seems much more comfortable with being back in town and that's no surprise quite honestly, since she had returned a few times to visit her own mum and friends. They bicker for a moment about where to go next as Naomi suggests Michelle's, and Michelle flatly refuses, citing Ham Green as “bloody miles” and complaining about the fare. The younger girl suspects there may be a little more to it but doesn't push the issue. They wander over to a waiting cab and climb in a little clumsily, tossing their luggage in as well. Finally the driver speaks up, gruffly.

“All right, ladies?”

The voice sparks something in Naomi. Something familiar. She quickly glances at the rear-view mirror to see if she can make out a face to match the voice. Shifting impatiently around she tries for a better angle. The mirror isn't giving a decent hint and his mop of brown hair and flat cap don't help matters. But the voice, it's making her anxious for some reason she can't place. The driver, noticing her fidgeting and lack of response looks over his shoulder.

“Well, fuck me,” he says with a grin. “Naomikins!”

“Cook!” She grins then, widely half to cover the shock at seeing him and half because she's almost inhumanly ecstatic.

“How you doin', babe?”

She smirks. “I'm not a babe.” Her familiar response prompts a large guffaw of laughter from the boy. She continues, “How are you? What're you... you're back? And working?” She has so many questions that need immediate answering. It feels like ages... It has been ages, her brain recalls. Years since that party at Freddie's shed. She hadn't even known he'd been released from prison. Her whole life seems so out of touch suddenly. It's with a pang of hurt that she realises he didn't even drop her a line at any point in the last 2 years. Then again, it's not like she'd left anything for anyone and her mum had moved to a much smaller flat almost immediately upon her departure to London.

“Aye,” he nods, “Couldn't keep me chained forever, yeah? A wild buck's gotta run free.”

She figures that's the best explanation she's about to get at this time. She'll save the heavy shit for later. But she has so many questions, so much lost time to catch up on. Cook doesn't appear to be particularly concerned with reminiscing though judging by the way his eyes have finally settled on her companion, and are now sleazily working their way up her body with no shame. Half of her thinks Michelle deserves this attention; it's not like she's not asking for it. Something about the way she shifts closer though makes Naomi wary of letting Cook continue much longer. “So princess, who's this then?” He awkwardly reaches back to extend his hand. “I'm James. Cook. I'm Cook.”

There's an instant of recognition at his name and Naomi knows she's seen it on the news, and they've probably briefly discussed him at some point. Cook either doesn't notice or is used to it by now. Michelle takes it politely. “Michelle.” He grins at both of them, cocking his head as he looks at the girls, sitting side-by-side.

“Your bird then, eh?” he asks Naomi outright. He must know about her and Emily being split then. How could he not? He's probably run into Emily, or Katie, or JJ. Somebody at any rate. He nods his approval and Michelle rolls her eyes. “Well done. Proper stunner.”

“Thanks?” Naomi manages to squeak out sheepishly, unsure why she's so interested in his approval anyway. At least it's nice to know he doesn't hate her. He must not have heard about everything. And still being the same old Cook, he's still staring. “Cook! Oi, you're driving us someplace, right?”

He turns back around with a careless laugh. “Where to, princess?”

“Wallingford road.”

“That where your lovely mum is now?” Naomi makes a grunt in affirmation as he starts the car. “I went by your guys' old flat when I got sprung.” It's the first time he's sounded halfway calm since their conversation began. “Asked Kates about you, you know. She didn't know. You're better than me and Eff at that running thing.”

Naomi bites her lip as he speaks and tries not to look at Michelle, whose eyes she can feel boring holes into her skin. She'd mentioned bits and pieces about Bristol, and Tony had told her a great deal about Effy's part in all of it. But the Emily stuff, well, that had never come up as such. She hopes Cook doesn't let anything slip before she has a chance first. Fucking secrets, or whatever it is. Just an omission, really. Isn't it? Sort of like when Michelle vaguely mentioned the “bad things” she did in uni and never elaborated, even though at the time her voice had been dark, disgusted and regretful. Naomi's never pushed it, and in return Michelle has never pushed back about Bristol. In order to change the subject, she picks up on something else. “Katie?”

“You're well out of it, aren't you? Yeah, me and Kates. You know how it goes, Blondie. Top mate, mega shag.”

The news is outright shocking and Naomi tries valiantly to withhold her expression of pure disbelief. She can't possibly comment on that without something wrong inadvertently escaping. She's sure. It's not that she's not pleased, just surprised and likely whatever stupid words she'd form would be misconstrued in some horrible way. She settles for a quiet “Wow.” and stares out the window. Despite the speed at which they're zipping down Wells, everything is hitting her full-force with its familiarity. It doesn't matter if it's blurring in reality, it's crystal clear in her mind. Sensing her need for silence like he always has, he lets the conversation lapse and fade for the remainder of the drive.

Only when they turn onto Wallingford does Naomi speak up with the exact address. He shuts the taxi down and steps out, helping Michelle with her bag and taking a long look at her ass as well. Naomi smacks him and he silently mimes an A-OK gesture. Again to her surprise, he's the one that initiates a strong hug, pulling her close. “Missed you, Naomikins. Well bad.”

“Yeah, me too,” she agrees and grabs out her mobile and they exchange numbers like teenagers making a first date.

“Ring me if you need a lift. No charge.” She nods and smiles, genuinely. It feels eerily like old times. Those strange, heavy teenage years when no one really knew what to say and even less what to do. “Oi, foxy lady,” he whistles and calls over to Michelle who is standing a fair bit away just to stay out of their seemingly private moment, “You take good care of this one, yeah?”

Michelle smirks in amusement, and crosses herself. “Cross my heart.”

It's at that moment that Gina comes rushing out of the house and down the path to meet them. Cook dodges away quickly into his car and is off before she recognises him. The older woman has taken her daughter in a crushing embrace quite suddenly and Naomi is concerned about the pure intensity of the hug. She squeezes back and Gina loosens her hold with a sad grin on her face. “Oh love, I've missed you.”

“Missed you too, Mum,” Naomi mutters out and Gina's smile brightens noticeably and she turns to the other girl in the garden.

“And you're Michelle,” she says, “Naomi's told me so much about you.” Michelle shoots Naomi a curious look and the blonde shrugs it off. Gina takes Michelle's hand, gives it a squeeze and gives the girl a very prolonged look from toe to head, taking in her rather provocative outfit, never one to keep schtum about anything. “Jesus, Michelle. We're not nearly fancy enough for this.” The way she says fancy makes it clear she means something completely different. A blush rises to the brunette's cheeks.

“I was actually wondering if there was a place to change my outfit,” she manages to ask without too much admission of guilt. Naomi knew the outfit would provoke this reaction from her mum. She was a daft, oblivious cow most of the time, but occasionally she could pick up on things around her and, truthfully, it'd take a blind man not to notice to Michelle's choice of attire. Naomi smirks as she follows behind the other two women and into her mum's new flat. When Michelle is upstairs in what is supposedly Naomi's new room, though really it's the guestroom, Gina cocks an eyebrow at her daughter.

“She's certainly a sight for sore eyes, isn't she?”

Naomi shakes her head. “Mum, she's just...” There's nothing Naomi really wants to admit about these personal issues so she sighs. “She wants to make a good impression, is all.” That's the least conspicuous way to phrase it, she reckons. Her mum could always be relied on to change a topic of conversation on a whim and luckily she instead seems more interested in other gossip.

“Where's Effy?” Since moving to London, Naomi had often talked about Effy, who prior to the move, had only met Gina once. Part of the older woman's hesitation about Naomi's drastic life U-turn had been due to not being sure who this Effy Stonem even was. “She not kipping here then?”

Naomi explains that Effy and Tony are coming in a day or two, and staying with Sid, not at the Campbell flat. Gina seems a little disappointed in the news but takes it cheerily enough. Michelle joins them soon after, looking much more comfortable in jeans and yellow jacket. Much more Bristol than London High Street. Gina smiles at the new girl and ushers them both into the kitchen for tea. Somehow it all goes much more smoothly than Naomi had anticipated. There's a little something niggling at her, but for the most part, it all seems fine.

By early evening, Cook's rang twice and insisted that they meet up at Uncle Keith's. The first time Naomi refuses, citing quality time with her mum as a viable alternative. The second attempt Cook makes, Gina's in the room and overhears the conversation and of course insists that Naomi go see her mates. So it's decided. The fact remains, Naomi is partially terrified of seeing who else Cook decides to invite. She supposes there aren't many of their old group remaining in town, but the potential is there for an awkward night of drinking with Cook, Katie and JJ. Not her ideal crowd. Last she saw Katie was at the airport and she distinctly remembers fearing for her life with the amount of hatred that Katie had been directing at her. She's not sure even years apart could have diluted that cesspool. And Naomi could care less about seeing JJ. She hopes it's just Cook. Michelle senses her anxiousness but doesn't say much. Naomi can tell that her girlfriend knows however by the way she touches her softly, and more than usual. She fucking needs to tell Michelle about Emily, especially if Katie is going to be there but the words tangle in her throat each time she starts. Instead, she mentions that Katie was the sister of her ex-best mate from college. It's an almost truth, she reckons. And she's relieved that her mother is nowhere within hearing range of her abominable lie.

Later that night, she and Michelle are rounding the corner and Naomi glances into the pub though the window, scoping out who will possibly be there. She only sees Cook and Katie and isn't sure whether to be grateful or not cos she's still just as nervous about the upcoming encounter. Katie holds grudges like nobody else, with the possible exception of Emily. Naomi pauses at the window, staring. Seeing Katie is like being kicked in the gut and Naomi notes how similar she still is, her smile, her eyes. Suddenly Naomi wants to run. She loves Cook, but she's not certain if this is going to be worth it. Michelle, still pretending to be completely oblivious, grabs her hand and yanks her towards the entrance. She plasters on a reassuring smile but Naomi can't feel anything from it. She's numb. Terrified and numb. It's Michelle who leads them over to the table and Katie's eyes narrow almost immediately, first seeing some random skank coming up to her man, and then worse when she recognises the blonde tagging along with her. Surely Cook told her, didn't he? A smile breaks across his face and he stands up, saying his hellos and pulling Michelle into a familiar hug first and then Naomi, who he graces with kiss on her cheek as well.

“Hi Katie,” Naomi says hesitantly and sits down across from Cook carefully. Michelle pulls up a chair and takes a seat across from Katie.

The somewhat-redhead glares. Just glares. Her brown eyes are unmistakably angry and Naomi shifts uncomfortably. This is exactly what she had feared. Cook is glancing back and forth between the two girls but it's Michelle that interrupts and offers her hand to Katie.

“I'm Michelle,” she says with ease, a very practised sort of charm dripping from her tone. Michelle's always been an expert at these kind of awkward social gatherings and for that Naomi is more than grateful. She can only imagine what it would have been like if it had been just her, Cook and Katie. The twin looks this stranger over with a judgemental scowl, but accepting what she sees, her own polite smile spreads over her lips.

“Katie,” she echoes and shakes Michelle's hand. Katie's looking back and forth to Naomi and then Michelle, piecing together all the clues. Understanding flickers for a moment and an eyebrow arches. She pins Naomi with a look. The blonde pretends not to notice and the other girl surprisingly doesn't push it. Naomi's rather relieved that Katie has let the issue slide, at least for the time being. Cook takes the opportunity to call over to the barmaid, Liv (who looks maybe 18 at a push and has a streak of blue in her jet black hair), and orders them a round of tequila shots and 4 pints of lager. Naomi smiles at the memory and glances at Katie who seems to have felt the same twinge of nostalgia. Them sitting in Keith's, awkwardly acknowledging each other's existence but not quite friends, Katie disliking Naomi, Cook ordering tequila and beer. Except this time there's no cake, vomit or magic tricks to distract anyone. No Effy, no Freddie either. It stings a little with a feeling of lost time, lost innocence. As the young girl delivers their drinks the feeling begins to subside, and they relax slightly.

The night becomes progressively better the longer they stay. After a few rounds, Katie's asking a million questions about Effy, sometimes throwing in a curious inquiry about Michelle and Naomi's relationship. She and Michelle are getting on quite well considering, and Cook is just basking in the conversation and company. Naomi reckons there might just be hope for the lot of them after all.

It's much to Naomi's surprise when it's Cook that calls it a night first. He smacks his pint glass down on the table and belches. Then he announces that he has work early in the morning and beauty rest is mandatory. Katie has no complaints to this and they agree that it was nice to catch up. It's only when Katie mentions to her boyfriend that Emily's coming to pick them up that Naomi stiffens. Katie glances at her briefly but ignores the reaction. The remaining time passes in a stiff conversation on Naomi's end. Thankfully Michelle is unaffected and carries it for the both of them until Katie's mobile vibrates against the table top.

“Right. We're off,” she says, “It was nice meeting you Michelle.” Naomi's a little surprised at how genuine the twin sounds. She pushes a sigh of relief past her lips but it's short lived. “See you, Naomi.” She nods curtly and quickly exits the pub, trailed by Cook after he gives them his usual goodbye hug and kiss.

Through the partially-fogged glass window, Naomi spots the red hair of the other twin that she had lost so many years ago. Her breath catches and she feels light-headed suddenly. This is the first time she's seen Emily since leaving her. She vaguely hears the noise of the pub around her: the clanging of glassware, chattering voices, the billiard balls smacking each other, Michelle rustling around and getting their jackets. It's sort of in another dimension though, far away cos all she can see is Emily talking to Katie through the window. The second Emily turns to peer in, Naomi's airways constrict and she's pretty sure her heart flops to the bottom of her stomach cavity. Her eyes meet Emily's for only a split second it seems, but its enough to force the blonde to consider a premature heart attack as a very real possibility for her fate. It's over quickly however in reality. The twins and Cook disappear and Michelle calmly hands over her jacket as if the world hasn't just crashed down all over them. She regards Naomi curiously but doesn't ask anything, especially questions she doesn't want the answer to. The blonde stalks out of the pub and into the late summer night, flagging a taxi soon after, standing in the same place Emily just had been moments before. It's ridiculous how overwhelmed she feels at the moment and nothing seems to be calming her buzzing nerves. When they crawl into the backseat, Michelle leans over and places a chaste kiss on Naomi's cheek. Within seconds, Naomi's pushed her back against the ugly blue pleather seats and slams their lips together, clawing at loose clothing to draw them closer. Michelle makes some sort of weak, muffled protest but gives up under Naomi's intensity.

She can't think about Emily anymore and this sets off her heart-rate to an equally frantic pace, but it's better. More acceptable now.

Their respective minor hangovers the next morning are easily cured with a big English breakfast at the diner on Filwood and it's there that Naomi rings Cook again, insisting to Michelle that they've done one mum, now it's time Naomi gets to see Michelle's home. She is a little curious --more than a little curious-- mainly because Michelle seems to retain such an aversion to the idea. She huffs and puffs and generally becomes of the petulant sort when the issue is broached. But now, with Cook on-duty and more than willing to give them a free lift anywhere (within reason), the older girl's well-worn excuses are obviously too thin. They're going to Ham Green. And that's the end of it. True to form, Michelle is less than impressed when Cook actually does pull up in front of the café with a grin on his face and she bitches redundantly about Naomi's audacity. It falls on purposefully deaf ears. Naomi's never been out there before, and though she knows generally what the area is like, it's still something she wants to see.

Grudgingly, Michelle gives directions to Hart Close and sulks in silence until they pull up outside a gorgeous looking property. Cook makes a whistley sort of sound in appreciation but insists that he has to get back to the city and actual paying punters as much as he would enjoy hanging around the codger posh-o's, as he puts it. As he speeds off, Michelle lets out an irritated sigh at seeing her mother's SUV parked in the drive. She marches up to the front door, and turns quickly to Naomi.

“Don't bring up Abbots Leigh, all right? She'll bait you into it. Just don't or we'll never hear the end of it.” It's quite possibly the oddest piece of advice she's ever received. Don't mention Abbots Leigh. Done. For god knows what reason but she's not about to push the subject at the moment, lest be caught mid-discussion by Michelle's mum and then have a ridiculously annoyed girlfriend to deal with for hours on end on top of endless babble about property or some shit. The doorbell chimes inside but no one comes to answer. Michelle tries again, and again, finally resorting to pulling out her keys and letting them into the house. She calls out and receives no answer, eventually fishing out her mobile and sending a quick text. Meanwhile, Naomi is wandering around the ground floor, taking in the immaculate state of the place, and the high-class design. Value on aesthetics apparently runs in the family. Michelle joins her in the conservatory.

“She's in Edinburgh, the stupid cow. I told her I was visiting this weekend.” Her voice is angry, exasperated, but there's a hint of sadness there too.

Naomi glances around still. “This is lovely, Chelle.”

Michelle shrugs and shakes her head dismissively. “I guess. Her business must be doing well,” she says with a hint of resentment and walks out the room, leaving Naomi to jog a little to catch up to her as she ascends the stairs. Michelle's bedroom is pretty unmistakable, with photos adorning (in perfect arrangement) a single corkboard, and various frames and such scattered throughout, all featuring her girlfriend with various other people: Sid and Tony among them. A photoframe with the word “BFFS” on it contains a photo of people Naomi doesn't recognise: a skinny blonde and a shorter black girl. Michelle seems really happy with them, and young. They're standing outside Roundview which brings about a sharp stab of memory. Naomi has to turn away. A rather large pink teddy bear sits proudly in the centre of her bed, the initials T & M on either paw. Seeing Naomi staring at the stuffed animal, and recognising the names, Michelle quickly sweeps it off her bed and throws it in a corner. She flops down on the mattress. “I don't know why we even came here.”

It's Naomi's turn to shrug. She's not entirely sure herself but this is the sort of thing that people do in relationships, yeah? Meeting families, learning about lifestyles and histories. “Just curious, is all.” This whole room seems to be stuck in time, with evidence of college everywhere; very little in terms of whatever she got up to in university.

The brunette groans and falls back onto the pillows. “Well, great, Naomi. We're miles from anywhere and there's no point in even being here. I'm sure I could've got my mum to email some photos if it's that intriguing to you.”

“Whatever, Chelle,” Naomi sighs, not particularly keen on initiating an all out row over the issue. She looks over her shoulder at the sullen girl. “Besides, there's plenty to do, yeah?” She smirks, her blue eyes gleaming.

It turns out she's right; there's quite a lot to do in house alone, especially one with a cabinet full of expensive liquor, a hot tub out back and one of those fancy dual showers; the type that have two jets so it's doubly enjoyable without one person always shivering. Michelle passes it off as one of her mother's many, many sexual experiments. Michelle's mum having sex of any kind is not exactly the type of image Naomi wants in her brain at the moment, but it fades quickly enough when she hops into the frankly magnificent shower and to be greeted with a lithe, naked, dripping wet girlfriend.

She fucks Michelle there of course. But it's strange, different somehow. Every inch of her skin seems to be incredibly sensitized to every pulse, every twitch of the other girl's body. Her ears, despite the torrents of water, are finely attuned to only one sound and her lips can't seem to stop kissing, nipping, running along every surface she can. And she could swear that at one point, Michelle is about to cry as she clings onto Naomi's neck, desperately fighting to keep her balance as her knees weaken. The whole incident is odd however, mostly because it's so slow and deliberate. Maybe it's because they're taking their time, or possibly because even something as simple as a shower wasn't a luxury usually afforded to anyone who lives in a houseful of other people, especially people like Tony Stonem. But the sex is so careful, not gentle but not rushed this time. Naomi can't explain it really cos it's unfamiliar, frighteningly unexpected. Her memory snaps back to summers ago, in Bristol, home alone with nothing but time and red hair and love in her hands. Her heart sputters a little and long-lost words tickle incessantly at her throat as she looks at Michelle, kisses her hard as she comes down. Along with the taste of gin and very faint lip-gloss, she swallows the urge to say something, especially that one pervasive thing that she's not ready to feel. The idea of this unbidden wave of something distinctly resembling love toys dangerously with her sanity at the moment. She pushes it aside, gulps it down with determination. She bites a little too hard on Michelle's bottom lip in the process.

The moment they step out of the shower and pull ridiculously fluffy towels around their bodies, Naomi feels uneasy. She sees Emily flash before her eyes and quickly turns to face Michelle instead, to find her ground. It's only when they make it back to her bedroom and Naomi finds herself on her back with Michelle's mouth leaving a slippery trail down her torso, inching lower past her belly button, that it begins to fade away again. She looks away, squeezes her eyes shut against the garish pink teddy bear in her peripheral vision with Tony's name on it. Shortly after it's over, Michelle picks up her mobile and dials Sid's number as they lounge under her duvet. She's avoiding something as well. That's clear enough.

He's coming to give them a lift back to the city. Naomi says nothing. Bites her own lip this time, too hard.

As Michelle locks the door behind them, after walking through the empty, lonely house, she mutters, “I don't like it here.” Sid honks impatiently at them. Naomi continues to try to push away memories of Emily and the feeling that she should have said something to Michelle earlier. She should have said something. Anything.

By the time they're back downtown, the air seems lighter and the three of them are chatting like nothing is amiss. Michelle had been more than pleased when she had first found out that Naomi and Sid knew each other, and it made everything that much less awkward now. And Naomi's sort of glad Sid is around, if she's honest, even if half the time they're out he alternates between looking bored and horny in their company. He asks a lot of inappropriate questions which manage to lighten the mood considerably with their foolishness. It's during their meal at an old haunt of Sid and Michelle's that Naomi receives a text from Effy informing her that she and Tony are on the train. Freddie's memorial is tomorrow. Reality smacks her hard again with its hard, unyielding weight. Michelle glances over, intertwines their fingers atop the table, and continues her conversation with Sid. Naomi squeezes her girlfriend's hand and tries to focus again. Her thoughts keep coming back around to Emily, and everything she hasn't said.

Her problems don't lessen when she gets a call from Cook insisting that she and Michelle join them at Motion tonight for some sort of reunion party. He dances around the subject of Emily's presence which is a dead give-away that she will be there. Michelle, oblivious to the issue of Emily's presence, of course thinks it's a brilliant plan but her enthusiasm is tainted with some strange aura of desperation for distraction.

PART 5 >>

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [3/7]

doreah — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 04:16:50 GMT

echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

When Michelle rings the next day, Naomi struggles around the subject of Anthea. And she certainly doesn't take Effy's advice. In the end, she decides it's just easier not to mention the previous night's events at all. She hesitates when Michelle asks to come over to “watch a DVD” which usually has nothing to do with DVDs at all. She stalls so long that the other girl just gives up and says that she'll pop by another time. That 'other time' turns out to be 4 days later, and they've barely spoken in between. It's not that Naomi doesn't want to, but when things weigh heavily on her, she stays quiet, preferring to dwell in the churning silence instead of facing exactly what they are. It shouldn't even really be that big of a deal except, well, it is. Anthea's giving her chilly looks every so often and Tony isn't much better. Effy's about the only person who is feigning indifference with magnificent and obviously practised ease. Escape seems unlikely, and forgiveness even less so. For what crime though? It's hard to forgive some fault that doesn't exist in the first place. So Naomi waits, patiently, as always. But the Stonems never push harder. They're content to float around the issues, drafting by, sending shivers down her spine. Tony with his ice cold gaze, glazed over, shiny but cracking in the heat. Especially Tony seems content to witness, with much attention, how it plays out and again Naomi's left feeling helpless in a game of keep-away.

Eventually, by the time there is a knock on the front door days later, he's melted slightly. Smiles occasionally again. Makes snide remarks, which at one time may have been solely in jest but now feel burdened with veiled admonishment, and flashes of something else perhaps. Something like experienced concern. But it's almost as normal as it could be. Of course, it's Tony that stands to answer the caller on their stoop. Naomi can hear the words but isn't listening for specifics. She's trying to hear tone, what isn't being said. As Michelle enters, everything is off-balance again. She feels wobbly on her feet, like a newborn deer and Tony is staring. Just staring at them both. Naomi reaches out, grasping a little too tightly for Michelle's hand. Glancing back at Tony is a mistake, she knows, but does it anyway. His almost impassive stare rakes along skin and she tugs Michelle brusquely up the stairs, still trying to ignore Tony's cold, intimidating gaze.

The moment they're safe behind her bedroom door, Michelle demands an explanation. For the episode just now; for the last 4 days. And Naomi gives in, relieved somehow at finally being pressured to speak. When it's over, Michelle sighs and it's a long, lonely sound. She shakes her head and without any further preamble, swiftly lifts her top over her head. She's down to her knickers and bra, a turquoise matching set, before the blonde even opens her mouth to ask what's happening. Naomi crosses her arms across her chest, a matching scowl on her face.

“Naomi,” Michelle attempts in a flirtatious tone but it makes no appreciable mark on the blonde. The older girl's face falls and she looks solemnly at her girlfriend (That is what they are, right? Maybe). “It's not my fault,” she states, as if Naomi's silence is actually latent blame her for their current situation.

“I don't like... this,” Naomi says, breaking her sullen demeanour to relay a new kind of exasperation. She points towards her door, indicating the rest of the household.

Michelle, in her typical fashion, shrugs her shoulders and gazes up enticingly. “I know what can make you feel better.” It's always about sex with her. Naomi had fallen into this pattern before in her life and it wasn't a particularly wise solution. She wonders briefly if Michelle is actually good at anything besides sex. She never seems to attempt much more. Past experience makes Naomi wary of diving in again. As if reading her resistance in her body, Michelle smiles. “We can talk later about it, yeah?” She pats beside her. “Just come here.” Eventually the appeal weakens the blonde's resolve and she shuffles towards her bed, trying to quell the smile peeking around her lips.

After that, it takes little time for Naomi to find herself under the duvet as well. Skin to skin contact teases her nerves, her body prickling with anticipation already as the accompanying warmth begins to flow from one body to the other. Back and forth, ebbing and surging. Fingers probing and pushing, pulling back, twisting. The blonde lets out a groan, a little louder than planned, as she feels Michelle deep inside. She pulls the other girl closer, grabbing at her smooth skin and arching her back in need. She can feel lips on her neck, her collarbone, her tits. The girl really is quite a fast learner. It wasn't as if her blatant constant ooze of sexuality was without merit, that's for certain.

The signs are all flying at her now: the hot flush of need, writhing, penetrating even her bones as she arches closer, pushes harder; the fact that air is no longer sufficient and she needs more of it, faster and shallowly gulping it in. it's building and tickling, tingling all around. It's times like these Naomi wonders about Michelle, how she seems to know every move to make at precisely the right time, and usually, like at the moment, those thoughts evaporate quickly in a puff because it's already begun. She thinks she tastes blood in her mouth as she cums, gripping at the sheets or skin or whatever she can when the waves smack her into the mattress. Likely she's bitten down too hard on her lip in a desperate bid to stay quiet. When she opens her eyes, Michelle's gazing at her, darting between her lips and her eyes.

Michelle kisses her so fucking gently on her bottom lip. “You've got an ouch,” she whispers and Naomi runs her tongue out, tasting iron and some synthetic berry lipgloss. She smiles meekly and sighs loudly. “Not thinking about the Tony shit now are you?” Michelle asks, grinning. Naomi turns her head and looks sideways at the older girl.

“Not exactly, no.”

“Hmm, how about how amazing your girlfriend is? Sound familiar?” She scrunches her nose and giggles.

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Not quite that.” She misses the momentarily slip of Michelle's smile before she pulls it back up again. She's still not fully aware that these moments of Michelle's may seem innocuous and playful but her motivations are more complex. They come off flippant but that begging for reassurance echoes some deeper need. These are not things Naomi notices usually, and certainly not at times like these when her brain is barely functioning at a 6-year-old's level, let alone anything more astute. Her body is running instinct not intelligence and so she follows where it takes her. Her limbs shift and twist, pinning the brunette beneath her, licking a wet trail from behind her ear, down a well-defined jawline and dipping further south as nimble fingers reciprocate what has just been given to her.

An anxious, excited kind of sound escapes Michelle's lips moments before Naomi's bedroom door swings open and fucking Tony Stonem just saunters right in. There's a rather loud squeal from the older girl and Naomi scrambles to cover them both. The boy smirks in a distinctly displeased way and leans against her desk.

“Tony, what the fuck?” Naomi yells, clutching at her blanket tightly. “What the actual fuck? You fucking wanker.” She's positively seething at this intrusion. He's never been this bad before. Michelle is watching him with something akin to fear, maybe, suspicion even. Uncertainty. And Naomi suddenly feels incredibly out of the loop about something going on between Michelle and Tony. These are their games, the games they played before. Power, control, manipulation. Tony calmly crosses one foot over the other, his hands loosely tucked in his trouser pockets. He's the picture of assurance, especially in contrast to the girls in the room with him.

“I don't believe you, Tony,” Michelle growls.

“Why not?” he asks with a cocky shrug as if it's the most foreseeable thing in the world. “Well, I just came in to get...” He trails off as he rakes his gaze over Naomi's cluttered workspace. “Ah, this,” he finishes and holds up a hi-lighter marker. The cold gaze from both girls doesn't falter with his flimsy excuse. He pushes off from the desk and walks towards the door before turning back to them.

“By the way, Moany,” he says, conspiratorially and waves the marker around like a magic wand in their direction, “Don't let it get to you. It's not your fault.”

She sneers. “What?”

There's an empty chuckle from the tall boy. “Michelle's a bit of a cold fish in the sack, trust me. I tried everything. Didn't I, Nips?” It's absolutely ruthless. Michelle recoils into the cover of the duvet a little, as if trying to shield herself from Tony's words behind Naomi. He shrugs in that insufferable way again. “I'm not the only one who thinks so either.” There's something in the way that he's piercing her with his eyes that implies Michelle knows exactly what he's referring to.

Naomi draws in a deep breath; it stutters with rage. It's bad enough having him barge into her bedroom, and worse to start discussing his sexual history with her girlfriend, and then a completely other thing to be insulting her on top it all. Her jaw is clenched painfully.

“Just fair warning, yeah? Don't beat yourself up about it.” He lingers for a moment as he glances back at Naomi. “I didn't.” Then he holds up the hi-lighter. “Thanks for this.” And he leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click. Naomi stares at Michelle for a moment, trying to decipher the whirlwind of thoughts obviously swirling in her mind at this second. No hint is given with any accuracy so she does what she can to ease the tension: presses a tense Michelle back into the pillows and picks up where they had left off. Tony's a sod. He's not always right; it's not actually and statistically possible. Right? She intends to prove that to Michelle once again as she kisses a trail south.

The mouth-watering aroma of Sunday roast wafts directly up Naomi's nostrils as she makes her way down the stairs with Michelle in tow. Effy is arranging the utensils on the kitchen table in her weirdly methodical and precise way, and Tony is already at his seat, absorbed in a copy of On the Genealogy of Morality. It's with some semblance of relief that Naomi notices the two extra place-settings. Michelle, quick to rectify her place in Anthea's good books, offers her assistance. Or maybe she's looking for a distraction from Tony. Naomi however isn't as concerned (she is paying rent after all) and walks by Tony, smacking his pretentious book out of his hands. It lands with a clash and a clang on his plate and rattles the cutlery beside it. Everyone looks at he and Naomi, even Effy, with a curious, wide-eyed expression. Naomi says nothing and settles into her own seat and Tony for his part keeps equally quiet, smirks, calmly picking up his book and flipping back to the page he was on.

“And, as I said before, even in great punishment there is so much that is festive!” Tony suddenly reads aloud from his book, in a peculiar monotone. It startles Michelle to the point that she drops the large spoon in her hand and it smacks loudly against the floor. Effy glances in her direction briefly before focussing on Tony and they share a look that Naomi can't understand, of course. It's the same impenetrable exchange that only the siblings seem to understand; in fact it is more like their most effective form of communication. Tony says no more and resorts to reading quietly again, oblivious to the bustle of preparing supper around him.

The meal passes without further incident and Anthea, graciously if subtly grudgingly, engages the girls in conversation as if the stifling tension between them and her son was non-existent. Effy's picking at her plate when Anthea stands and says she needs to nip round to the shop for milk. It seems rather abrupt but the children don't complain. The older woman does point to Effy's supper with a stern look, silently ordering her to finish eating. The young girl narrows her eyes and watches her mother leave the room. Tony pops his final piece of beetroot into his mouth before turning to Naomi and Michelle. He doesn't even need to say a word and Naomi's already preparing herself for some rude comment. She rubs a hand over her face. And the boy doesn't disappoint.

“So, Nips.” God, his voice is so slimy and obnoxious when he wants it to be. “Didn't hear much fuss from upstairs.” He looks to Naomi with mock pity. “Sorry about that. I did warn you.” Even Effy now has paused, her bit of potato dangling forgotten on her fork.

Michelle shakes her head. “Just shut up, Tony.” She sounds positively fatigued. Naomi's at a loss. She feels the burning, prickly sensation that she's supposed to say or do something, as if this is all a play but she hasn't got a script.

“You shouldn't be worried though. Frigidity's not uncommon.” Every word that escapes from his mouth is said with such a lack of emotion that Naomi's not sure if it's really him or a robot. It's making her skin crawl. And it's making Michelle's cheeks flush a shade of deep pink that Naomi's never seen before. Her eyes begin to water and the blonde catches the slight pooling of tears at their edges. Tony doesn't stop though. He makes an exaggerated shivering sound and rubs his arms as if there's a cold breeze. Then he makes a fish face directly at Michelle.

She's up and out of the room before he can get another word in, humiliation obviously pouring from her body.

“Christ, you are such a fucking cunt!” Naomi snaps as she watches her girlfriend flee into the sitting room, and then there's the slam of the front door not long after. “Don't you ever start shit like that again.”

“Or what?” he asks, finally emotion peeking through, even if it is just incredulity. Of course Naomi doesn't have a specific threat in mind, at least not a realistic one that would genuinely spark fear in the Stonem boy. (Very little does.)

Naomi just growls in frustration. “It must kill you to know there's something I can do that you couldn't.”

She's met with an empty laugh in response. “There's nothing I can't do,” he states plainly and off Naomi's totally disbelieving look, he adds, “When I want to.” Effy simply raises an eyebrow at the exchange but Naomi's not quite so calm. It reeks of selfishness and manipulation, all at Michelle's expense.

“You think you know, Tony, but you haven't a fucking clue,” she finally seethes, hissing through nearly clenched teeth. “Selfish fucking twat.”

Silence descends over the supper table after Naomi's remark and Tony merely pulls his fucking book out and pretends the blonde no longer exists. Fucking typical. Finally, Naomi gazes over to Effy who has just now put her bite of food into her mouth. She looks almost as taken aback at the entire scene as Naomi is. She nods her head in the direction of the front door. Repeatedly. Until Naomi picks up on the message and she sighs grudgingly gratefully at finally having some help. She rises from her seat and huffs out of the room. As Naomi goes, and unbeknownst to her, Tony looks up from his novel and directly at his sister. He smirks and winks at her, blue eyes meeting identical blue. She rewards him with a smug, knowing smile of her own.

Naomi finds Michelle leaning against the outer wall of the flat, standing in the fucking garden amongst the flowers. Anthea may actually strangle her if she catches her there. Naomi supposes Michelle likely feels like she has a death wish at this moment anyway. Not to mention her eyes are puffy and red, tears stains streak her cheeks and instantly Naomi feels a wave of guilt at not stopping Tony from running his mouth sooner. Michelle covers her face with her hands quickly when she sees Naomi. The blonde never had been particularly skilful or endowed with the gift of making tearful people feel better. Usually she spouts of some ridiculously truthful fact about the situation that is neither here nor there in terms of positivity. And as a result there's normally a momentary lapse of tears, but once the confusion passes, it all starts up again. She fucking tries though. Tip-toeing into the flower garden, making sure not to trample the plants further, Naomi stands in front of her girlfriend calmly. She reaches out to grab hold of the other girl's biceps. It is supposed to be comforting.

“It's just Tony, yeah?” And there it is: Naomi Campbell's great talent at stating the obvious and not really making anything better at all.

Michelle drops her hands away from her flushed face and just stares, aghast, at Naomi's comment. “And that's an excuse now, is it?” She's livid at the insinuation and Naomi's pretty bloody certain that had they not actually been shagging, she would have one perfectly manicured hand slap across her face.

The blonde lowers her face and shakes her head. “No, that's not...” She looks up again to see all the hurt etched right there on Michelle's face. Her voice softens enormously in the presence of actual anguish. “Chelle.”

“What did I do?” she asks tearfully. “He was being so good.”

Naomi has no answer for her, and a small shrug is all she can offer. “Years, Naomi. Years,” Michelle says severely, her voice choking out the last word, a little hiccup punctuating her sentence. “That sort of thing was just normal for us and it took years for me to realise that it isn't normal. And then it took years to forget it. And I just kept it with me and kept fucking up, all through uni...” Her face crumples a little and she sniffles trying to hold back tears again. “It's fucking...fucking...” There's not really any need to finish the sentence anyway. The blonde worries her bottom lip and looks sympathetically at the mess of a girl in her midst. She steps forward and slowly, as if cornering a wild animal, takes Michelle in a careful embrace. Immediately, she feels strong arms tighten around her and she knows she's not the one who needs cheering up, but this feels really good. She's necessary. Wanted. Needed.

And as more than just a friend with a shoulder to cry on. Naomi tilts away slightly, before snagging Michelle's lips with her own in a strikingly soft yet insistent kiss. She wants to say that Tony could recite a list of 1,000 ways Michelle was shit, with Oscar-calibre clout and it wouldn't change a fucking thing about the way she feels. Words are clunky though and Naomi is a girl of action. Sort of, when she wants to be. As it goes, Michelle isn't one to argue with this method and must understand the meaning well enough because when they break apart, there's a hint of smile on the older girl's face and tears are almost dry.

“We both know he's talking bollocks anyway,” Naomi states with a shrug and wink. Michelle lets out a soft laugh and ducks her head. They're both well aware how often Michelle shoots off like a sodding firecracker on Guy Fawkes Night. She raises her pinky and flexes it for emphasis. Michelle finally lets out a real laugh and her breath stutters as the hiccups from crying begin to fade. She pushes Naomi back, out of the very dangerous garden and out onto the stone walk.

She grabs her hand. “I don't want to go back in there with him.” After a deep, cleansing breath, she grins seductively, looking to reaffirm her self-worth. “My aunt's not in. Let's go back to mine.”

Naomi doesn't return home for three days. When she does eventually come into the sitting room, wearing a pair of Michelle's Juicy tracksuit bottoms and a slightly uncharacteristic cami, Tony eyes her up and down with a shit-eating grin. She instantly flips him off, much to Anthea's dismay who seems shocked that Naomi has actually returned.

“Welcome back, Ishmael,” Tony calls out as she walks by him with determination, but without actual purpose. As she starts up the stairs, she's surprised to hear him following behind her and she assumes that it's just to mock her further. But he stays strangely silent until they enter her bedroom. She spins on him suddenly.

“Is there something I can help you with, tosser?” Not actually concerned with his answer, she digs around in her dresser drawer for a change of clothes. A jumper, hopefully.

Tony closes the door softly and remains in the room, watching her carefully. “You wearing Chelle's knickers too?” He sounds completely amused by the notion.

Naomi groans and slips into a cardigan, pulling it tightly across her chest, and finally facing him. “For Christ's sake, Tony.”

He leers at her. “You are, aren't you?” Then he lets out a laugh that is so loud it rattles around the room a little too powerfully for Naomi's taste. “Brilliant.” He ignores her glare and plops himself down on her bed, running a hand over her sociology textbook absently. It's obvious he has no intentions on leaving until he gets whatever it is he's come for. Likely it'll be a drawn out process to even begin to figure out what that is so Naomi slinks down next to him on the mattress and sits, waiting patiently for him to give her some bloody hint. Finally he breaks the silence, piercing her with those familiar blue Stonem eyes. “I had to, you know.”

Naomi huffs in irritation and disbelief, thinking only of how upset Michelle had been. Nothing like that ever has to be done, especially to someone like Michelle. She rolls her eyes for good measure.

“You were taking it all for granted,” he states, and she's surprised to hear a degree of protectiveness, if not menace in his words. “Wouldst thou have that which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, and live a coward in thine own esteem, letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would'”.

“English, Tony.” He shrugs, leaving the meaning up to her and smirking in that all-knowing way of his. She continues to glare at him. “You shouldn't have said those things. You're not bloody God or something. You don't need to force anything.”

“Where's the fun in that? In order and readiness? If you wait to do things until you're ready, you'll never get anything done. It's a fact.”

This is bullshit. Tony lecturing her on... whatever he's lecturing her on seems backwards. She supposes it's something about taking chances, trying to justify himself as this noble, altruistic doer of good deeds when really he's just covering for being such a sodding prick. She and Michelle had been perfectly fine existing in whatever supposed limbo they'd been in until he began to meddle in it all. His interference had hardly helped matters, had it? Doesn't seem to matter anyway cos for three days she'd done nothing but lounge about naked in Michelle's bed or eat take-away in front of her aunt's exceptionally gigantic television. It had only been a brief respite from this fuckery, but it had worked to both calm and reassure them both. She shifts uncomfortably.

“You really hurt her.” She hopes her words trigger some sort of recognition in that deluded mind of his.

He winks at her. What the hell? Then he taps his nose. Maybe it was supposed to be some exercise to belay Michelle's fragility, her weakness. How easily she can be hurt. Maybe. But Tony doesn't make his plan any clearer than that. Maybe it had just been random, an excuse to make a girl cry, to exact unnecessary and particularly nasty revenge for her choices. It's all a fucking mess anyway and just like Effy, he'll never make his motives clear to her. There's a softness however when she looks deeper in his eyes. Something that says, 'Don't hurt her too. She needs someone to love her properly.' Almost as if it's an admission that there is something he can't do, even if he wanted to. He can't love her the way she needs and he's placing that trust in in Naomi now. It's disconcerting to see that humility in Tony, and to witness firsthand his faith in other people. But of course, he'd never say it out loud so he lets his eyes do the talking. The moment passes by quickly however, and she's met with another Stonem shrug.

“She'll forgive me.” And with that, he's back to his over-confident self.

She begins chewing on a worn down fingernail, lost in thought and he picks up on it, obviously. “Beginnings are always messy, Naomi.” He doesn't elaborate, or placate her with some bollocks about how endings are perfect though. Just again, simple facts of nature. Perhaps even yet another justification for his own behaviour. She's not sure but that doesn't bother her this time. She nods in acceptance and he pulls himself off her bed and hovers near the doorway.

“Thanks, Ahab,” she says. She's pretty sure she means it. She regards him with a strange affection, even despite everything, as he pulls her door closed on his way out.

The dust settles rapidly following her exchange with the man of the house. The tension of the previous week has greatly subsided and in its wake is a kind of contentment that it appears everyone is grateful for. Even Effy seems less stiff around her brother and Naomi. Anthea is still a bit on the prickly side but gradually that is dissipating as well. The last Naomi really hears of Anthea's disapproval comes in the form of a question regarding when Michelle plans on moving back to Bristol, as if this was the arrangement all along. Truth is, and as Naomi recites, Michelle's sort of enjoying her job at the council and her aunt is not put out at all by her niece's company. It's open-ended for the time being. Whatever reservations the older woman had been hanging onto seem to slip away with the knowledge that Tony's ex-girlfriend isn't going anywhere any time soon. It's with some relief that eventually Michelle and Tony reconcile after his deplorable actions, and they're back to being mates. Of course, he had been right. Of course she would forgive him. Naomi doesn't think it's a bad thing this time. It makes everyone's lives easier.

Nearly 6 months into seeing Michelle, at the very tail end of August, Naomi receives a cold shock of reality. Effy enters her room late one night and crawls into Naomi's bed without asking permission. The space occupied usually by another brunette is filled again. Effy says nothing for a very long time and Naomi squints in the darkness at her tangible shadow. Effy reaches out and brushes a lock of blonde hair back from Naomi's darkened face.

“You're pretty when you sleep,” she whispers and it sets Naomi's nerves on edge. She reckons this is starting off like some sort of porno-horror film. Any moment she expects Effy to unsheathe a giant razor or something from the blankets, cackling like a maniac.

“Eff?” Maybe it's her meds. Is she even taking them anymore? Naomi's not certain and she doesn't recall the younger girl recently following the same routines as she had been for the previous few years. “You all right?”

Effy laughs, a breathy sort of half-hearted sound escapes in its place. She squirms closer to Naomi so their faces are inches apart. In this light, the blonde can clearly make out the glint in those ice blue eyes. Unsettling. Mostly cos she's uncertain of Effy's intentions. Stonems are not exactly known for their respect of personal space. “Peachy.” She drops her hand from Naomi's face and wriggles into the tangle of sheets. “Let's go on a trip.” Her voice is low and even, drawn out. Dangerous and otherworldly.

“Sorry?” This is feeling a little too surreal at the moment. Effy creeping into her room, in the middle of the night with that strange look in her eyes and asking about a trip. Naomi honestly expects her to pull out some pills, or maybe a tab but the other girl makes no move to do so.

Effy sighs. “Back to where it all began.”

Naomi pauses, trying to work around the riddle. “You've lost me, Eff. Where what began?”

The brunette's smirk stretches across her lips. “It. All of it.”

It's honestly too late for this kind of cryptic speak and Naomi groans in mild irritation. Circles upon circles, with this girl. When Naomi doesn't ask again, Effy continues. “I need to go back. We do.”

There's something resembling understanding forming in Naomi's sleepy brain. The time of year, Effy's reluctance to speak it clearly. Bristol. Freddie's memorial. Oh, for fuck's sake. “Jesus, do you have to ask me this in the middle of the night?”

Effy stares impassively at her as if that's a completely insignificant detail. “I already told Tony.” As if that's some sort of reason for the late hour. “And I'm not asking.” Of course she isn't. Learnt it well from her brother.

There's no use arguing. It's already decided obviously. “Fine,” she agrees although they're both well aware how useless and empty that word truly is. Naomi's a little wrapped up in whether Michelle will come with her too. She doesn't want to go alone, face her mother. Well, Effy and Tony will be there but something is tugging at her. A sort of necessity to put things to rest and maybe that's the same as what Effy is feeling. This time of year always plays games with her sanity. Effy manages to force an even larger, yet potentially more menacing smile. She leans over and plants a kiss on Naomi's cheek, close to her ear. She hovers and gooseflesh rises on Naomi's arms.

“You only think it's perfect, Naomi.” As she pulls back and slips over of Naomi's bed, she pins the older girl with a solemn stare that makes Naomi squirm. “It isn't. Yet.” Then, in the heavy shadow of late night, there's a spark in Effy's eyes. She winks. It's some sort of promise. Naomi hopes to God that it isn't the same kind of gift Tony normally guarantees.

PART 4 >>

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [2/7]

doreah — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 20:17:38 GMT

echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

Around the breakfast table, Michelle prods at her bowl of Corn Flakes with an obvious lack of interest. Naomi sits across and tries to swallow what seems like the driest, most disgusting toast in the world. It's almost like a subconscious attempt to scrape the taste of Michelle off her tongue. (It's not exactly working however.) Tony's still passed out upstairs, with his head in a bucket presumably. But the silent spectre of Effy is drinking coffee and hungrily devouring her crumpet whilst trying not to stare too long at either of the girls. They're all startled out of the heavy blanket of silence by Anthea arriving in the kitchen and clanging mugs about. “All right, girls?” she asks, cheerily. Effy smirks as her gaze bounces back and forth between her friends.

“Yeah, thanks,” Michelle mutters, staring intently at her cereal bowl, still only nibbling. Naomi finds herself staring at Michelle as well.

Anthea pours herself a mug of tea, and leans against the countertop. It's the last thing Naomi wants: a trivial morning-after conversation with clueless Anthea. “Tony's a bit ill, isn't he?” she asks with a chuckle and takes a sip of her drink. “Serves him right. Not so young anymore. But it sounded like you lot had fun. Nice change to get out and about.”

She may as well be having the conversation with the kitchen sink for all the participation of the younger girls. However, it doesn't bother Anthea. “You found a place to pass out all right, Michelle? I meant to leave out some bedding. Not really used to having guests that aren't staying with Tony these days.”

Effy winces but Michelle seems to ignore the latter part of the comment, as she's doing with most things right now. “Yeah,” Michelle agrees and looks directly at Naomi who stares back, a flash of warning –or maybe fear– courses through her body momentarily. “I convinced Naomi to share.” The words come out incredibly controlled. No hint of anything else, unless of course Anthea had been paying attention to their faces. Which she wasn't, of course. She had been more interested in adding more sugar into her tea. Effy, however, well, nothing slips past Effy anymore.

Anthea's pushing two slices of brown bread into the toaster. “Oh good on you! She's a bit of a stingy one,” the older woman laughs, oblivious to the silent conversation happening around the table. “Aren't you, Naomi?”

“I guess,” she admits and finally breaks eye contact. It doesn't feel right. It hadn't meant anything. It was just a drunk shag. She doesn't understand why Michelle's taking it so bloody personally. And she certainly can't fathom why they need to be bitter enemies about it. It happened, it's over, whatever. There's no point in admitting that she realises that it obviously meant something different to Michelle. Anthea laughs lightly and floats off into the sitting room to turn on some cooking show that she'll never have any use for. There's the briefest of moments where she wishes her mum was there instead of Anthea. She would have done something, cleared the air even. Instead Naomi has Effy, who seems far more amused watching the spectacle than interested in pushing to a resolution. Groaning in irritation, Naomi pushes back her chair with a loud scrape that rattles her already tender brain and flounces out of the kitchen.

When she reaches her bedroom and closes the door, she realises it still smells like Michelle everywhere and her stomach does a somersault. And not in a bad way. Shit.

It doesn't come as surprise when Michelle stops coming round to the Stonems.

There's no doubt she's still in Tony's life because he mentions her at the supper table every so often, talks about where they hang out that day or whatever other boring-arse rubbish they get up to. All in all, it sounds rather bland, especially for Tony. The only time she perks up during any of these conversations is when he remarks on her staying with her aunt for an extra month or so. Anthea of course questions him intensely about the status of their relationship and Tony has to adamantly protest when she alludes to it being more than friendship. Regardless of his words, the whole situation would imply otherwise and it grates on Naomi for some reason. As she and Effy are clearing the dishes in dutiful silence, the younger girl sidles up close beside her.

“Told you to be careful,” she whispers and then moves away before Naomi has a chance to really respond. As a result, she merely shakes her head.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Naomi says with resistance. It falls flat when she meets Effy's knowing blue eyes penetrating her own. “Christ, Eff.”

“You're welcome,” the brunette smirks.

And then she's gone, left the room without another word.

The next day, as if Effy's waved her magic wand, Naomi comes home from the library to see Tony and Michelle sitting together on the sofa. The lazy gits never did anything fun. Just sit around watching DVDs and nattering with each other like birds. It's well boring, and even more perplexing.

“You'll like this one, Moany.” Tony states, and points to the DVD case on the table. “Real deep stuff, isn't it, Nips?” He slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in.

“Piss off, Tony,” she grumbles and pushes against his chest and Naomi is all too aware that Michelle won't meet her gaze. Giving up, she takes a peek at the box. The film seems to be something about sharks or something and she feels an invisible tug to take a seat with them, if only to appease her curiousity.

“Chelle here has already cried twice,” he announces with a derisive laugh and ruffles her hair. It truthfully seems quite brotherly and Naomi grimaces as she watches them both. Still, there's a dirty, heavy sort of feeling pooling in her chest, hot and tight and not very comfortable at all. It so strikingly similar to times with Emily, with JJ, with all of that. It's a disgusting sort of jealously, just illogical and oozing through her bloodstream. The feeling makes her either want to punch something, or throw up. She takes a deep breath and tries to focus on something besides the dizziness swirling in her brain. It's fucking disorienting, this sudden influx of emotions that she knows very well she shouldn't be having. Not for someone so meaningless in her life. She shakes off the urge to join them rather easily now.

She finally shrugs. “Whatever.” Nice one, Naomi. Brilliant. She turns her back on the supposed non-couple and wanders to her bedroom.

They're both twats anyway.

Unfortunately, her escape is only momentary. Michelle doesn't leave after the film ends and when Naomi wanders downstairs, following the aroma of supper, she's met with all the Stonems and the older girl lounging around the kitchen. Effy's sitting disinterested and silent at the table, patiently waiting for her plate that Anthea is serving out at the moment. Both Michelle and Tony are leaning against the cupboards, chatting to Anthea as she works. Naomi catches Effy's stare and is met with a dispassionate eyeroll from her friend. It's good to know that she's not alone in her irritation. She sidles up to Anthea, plucking a supper plate from the shelf and starts serving herself, trying to ignore the chatter and block Tony and his girlfriend from her peripheral vision. It almost works. That is, until she grabs some cutlery and is on her way out of the room with her food, back to the sanctuary of her bedroom.

“Ah, ah,” Anthea calls out. “Naomi, sit down.”

It's times like these that Naomi strongly wants to remind Anthea that despite how it may appear, she's not actually one of her children and should be given the freedom that comes with paying rent. But instead of making a scene, her shoulders sag and she concedes defeat, taking a seat at the end of a table, perpendicular to Effy. She's pretty certain that all the Stonems are against her, forcing her to relate to Michelle when it's obvious she wants nothing to do with her. Anthea slides Effy's plate over to her and the brunette gazes at it impassively, picking up her fork with mechanical precision, almost robotic. Her eyes belay a very strong awareness however. Naomi picks at her broccoli and tries not to glance up. Every time she does, her gaze automatically falls on Michelle. Out of everything in the room, her interest seems to be immediately and automatically drawn there.

As the older brunette is standing beside Anthea serving herself some veg, Naomi's eyes rake over shape of toned legs, the dip of her waist, travelling down to slender fingers and Naomi's momentarily captivated. Her skin grows warm at the memory of those hands on her body, those legs naked and wrapped around her own. Her cheeks flush of their own accord and it's only when there's a quiet chortle from somewhere on her left that she briskly snaps out of it. Her head snaps around to stare at Effy in annoyance and all she sees is a stupid knowing smirk on her face.

“Shut up,” she whispers fiercely and Effy merely grins to herself and takes a sip of water, shaking her head. Embarrassed at being caught out, the blonde spears some lettuce a little too aggressively and the fork scrapes loudly against the plate, screeching. It makes everyone turn and focus on Naomi. She shrugs indifferently and tries to ignore all the eyes on her, making her face flush again. Effy thinks she's so fucking clever. She's not. She's just a pain in the ass. Naomi chews on her salad with a very definite frown, cutting her eyes at her friend every so often.

Still, she can't stop the memories, the almost real, tactual feeling of that stupid, drunken night. Tony takes a seat to her right and Michelle on his right, as if he's a referee of some sort. Anthea heads the table at the other end and now they're discussing some useless topic. Probably poxy gardening or Big Brother or frivolous budgetary spending by the borough. Naomi can't be bothered listening; she's too focussed on not looking up, not glancing in Michelle's direction. The whole exercise is irritating, and exhausting. Grabbing for her glass of water is a mistake. Inevitably she can see Michelle and she tries not to notice that the brunette is staring at her this time. Like, full on staring. When Naomi meets her eyes, the older girl holds her gaze for a moment, and she seems sad really. But the moment passes quickly and dissipates into thin air as if it had been purely imagined. Still, she feels it. It lingers around them and throughout the meal it happens more than once. Three times she's caught actually. Three. Each time just binds her more snugly in the persistent, tingling feeling, like a noose slowly being tightened.

Naomi clears her plate rather hurriedly and almost races from the room, back to the quiet safety of her solitary bedroom. The rest of her evening is a write-off. Her coursework ends up looking like a monkey shat on her notebook; completely useless. The resentment boils in the pit of her stomach, yet she can't stop thinking about the way Michelle had been looking at her. She tries to push the thoughts aside unsuccessfully. Eventually she gives up with a huff, roughly pushes her textbooks away and promises to work harder tomorrow. She flicks on her laptop, pops in a DVD and tries not think about the plague of uncertainties and possibilities bombarding her mixed-up mind.

“More broadly, this is apparently an antihedonistic morality, directing us to aspirations deemed higher than the gratification of primal impulses and, to that end, mandating the control of sexual appetites or pleasures. In this sense it is an ethic of self-restraint (distinguished from, as we may put it, an ethos of personal liberation and self-expression).

Hence our traditional ethic of decency, when pressed for its implications, can be seen as reflecting or representing two fundamental desiderata: self-control and a kind of civility.”

Naomi groans to herself and snaps her text closed. Stupid fucking arseholes. She normally finds this sort of reading fascinating, hence her reason for taking this summer course but at the moment she has other things on her mind that won't leave her be.

Like bloody Michelle Richardson: someone who, for all intents and purposes, is completely irrelevant to her life yet causes wave after wave of unwanted emotions and caustic memories to surface. Confusion tops the list. But there's that irritating voice in her head that echoes Effy and tells her to be careful. It's the same voice that often reminds her that she'll probably never be able to love anyone again. She's sort of convinced that either she's incapable of it, or alternately, she just incapable of loving anyone except Emily, even after all these years. It's terrifying and depressing and too much too consider most days, and since Michelle's pranced into her life, there are constant reminders about her old life, feelings that are both familiar and foreign. And now she can't get the sodding bitch out of her mind. She hasn't actually been back since the evening Naomi found her and Tony all cuddled up on the sofa watching that documentary, which Naomi has to grudgingly admit was excellent, if completely depressing. She pulls the earbuds from her ears cos this music certainly isn't helping matters. It's too thinky and grainy and staticky. Too much like her mind.

The library is too quiet, this study room even more so. Every so often there's a shuffle of papers, a click of a biro, a throat clearing self-consciously. It's bullshit. Pretentious, wanky bullshit full of spazzes and geeks. She peers down at her notes, trying to gauge if they even make any sense. It doesn't appear that they do. A short, tentative tap on the window draws her attention. Other students appear to be too wrapped in their own studies to notice much. Looking for any distraction however, she turns to the noise. What she sees causes her heart to pump furiously and she's a little dumbfounded.

A certain curly-haired brunette with terribly green eyes is standing on the other side of the glass. Just waiting. It takes a moment for Naomi's muscles to respond and she slowly begins packing her things into her satchel, almost like on auto-pilot. She can't seem to focus on anything at all and the menial task provides some semblance of regularity, of self-control. Even if that concept is the furthest thing from her grasp right now. She manages to miraculously make it to the door, work the latch without embarrassing herself and slip out quietly. Michelle spins around at the sound of the door closing.

She looks nervous and immediately Naomi fears something has happened to the Stonems. So, in addition to her rapidly beating heart, she begins to tremble just a little. Please, not Effy. They would have rang, wouldn't they? Anthea would have. Unless it was all of them... But then how would Michelle know? Jesus fucking Christ. She's about to explode if Michelle doesn't give some hint as to what the hell is going on. Or why she's showing off most of her damn hot pink bra in that top. It's unfair. She's stunning. Still. And it pisses Naomi right off.

“We need to talk,” is all she says and it's positively infuriating how collected she sounds. No hint.

“About?”

“Us.”

Naomi immediately relaxes and let's out a disbelieving scoff, her eyebrow quirking in incredulity. “There isn't an 'us', Michelle,” she sighs and begins to walk away. She's pretty sure they've both made that equally clear these past few weeks but Michelle obviously doesn't like giving up so easily. Her hand reaches out and grabs ahold of Naomi's shirt near the waist and pulls her back. Naomi insolently tugs it from her grasp but stops in her tracks. “What part of one-off don't you get?” She's feeling annoyed by the sudden bombardment of meaning everywhere. Why does everything always have to become such a fucking issue, rife with consequence and importance? She knew there was a reason she preferred those quick shags in club toilets as opposed to... whatever this is. And how the hell did Michelle know where she was revising anyway? See. Too many fucking complications and questions.

“Fine, okay, it was nothing.” There's a fierceness in her tone that causes Naomi to pause momentarily and consider the possibility that the lie is true. “But it's obviously upsetting you.”

Ridiculous. Absolute insanity. “Where do you get off–,” Naomi starts but is interrupted by Michelle's presence incredibly close. She half-expects there to be a fist cocked and threatening her. Nothing like that happens. The brunette merely stands, hands by her sides, twirling the fabric of her blue vest top in her fingers.

“Why did you start it in the pub that night?”

Naomi finds it comforting somehow to realise that she genuinely doesn't understand the question. It's not that she's just pretending, or avoiding it, or over-thinking it. The question simply doesn't make sense. “What?”

Michelle gestures to her feet with a wave. “The feet thing. Footsie. Why bother then?”

“I don't know what...” she trails off with a dawning understanding. Fucking Effy Stonem. She recalls the squirming of her best mate; the curious, cheeky, come-hither looks from Michelle. It's coming together. The whole time seems now like it was some messed up social experiment brought on by the girl she thought was her friend. “That wasn't– Nips, look–.” The second the nickname escapes from her mouth, she knows it's the worst move possible. Michelle's spine stiffens with anger.

“Don't ever call me that. I hate that name.”

“Tony can–.”

“You're not Tony!” She pauses and something akin to anguish washes over her features. It appears as if the name actually physically hurts her. “I can't control him. He doesn't, I mean, can you just respect-- Christ. Please, just don't?” The last question comes out almost desperately and there's an odd wave of guilt through Naomi's body. There's something deeper that she's not privy to about Michelle and Tony's relationship. It's dark, that's all she senses. She doesn't want to hurt this girl. Not now. She nods in acceptance. The misunderstanding, or more correctly, the deception about the flirty games in the pub seems trivial now. She'll let Michelle think it was her. It's fine. She maybe would have done it herself if she'd had the sense and bollocks any way.

“Look, I fancy you, okay Naomi,” Michelle implores hastily. She lifts her gaze to the ceiling and sighs, almost laughing in disbelief. “And it makes no bloody sense to me. You got me off.” She says the last sentence with some sort of reverence, as if it's a difficult task. Then she meets Naomi's stare. “I think you fancy me too.” Almost a wink. Smarmy at best. It's so sudden, all of this. Naomi feels instantly flustered and wobbly. This girl has a way of disarming her with blunt honesty, in much the same way Emily had done with integrity and pure sincerity. She tries to recover her bravado, but feels like it's truly an inadequate weapon against Michelle. She's insistent in a way Naomi had forgotten, in way she hadn't seen since Emily.

The blonde lets out a short laugh. “You're wrong.” She doesn't have much chance of continuing her train of thought because Michelle's lips are on hers, and they're so fucking soft and... good. She can't help but kiss back. Intoxicating perhaps is a better descriptor, cos Naomi can't exactly formulate proper thoughts; she just wants more. It's Michelle who pulls back first.

“Am I?”

Oh.

Naomi looks down with a smile on her face. She can at least admit when she's been bested, especially if it comes in the form of some fit as fuck girl snogging her. There are niggling doubts though. Echoes of an unhappy, unsuccessful past. The running, the lying, the pain, the year of resentment and bitterness, the way, even despite best intentions, it had fallen spectacularly apart. It's all about Emily suddenly. It worms inside whatever pleasant feelings she'd momentarily experienced. It needs to stop before it gets out of hand.

Naomi takes a deep breath and focuses intently on the girl in front of her. “I'm not into experiments. I'm not here for you to play with and then toss aside.”

Michelle is taken aback by the insinuation apparently. “You really think that? Quite honestly, Naomi, if I wanted a bit of fluff, I wouldn't have chosen you. You're hardly low maintenance. I only met you a few weeks ago and I know that already.” Her gaze is hard and serious, but she's obviously exasperated. “For some completely barmy reason that I can't even begin to understand, I fancy you, okay? Can't things ever be simple?”

Naomi's blue eyes widen in shock at the familiar statement. It always seems so much easier when other people say it. The truth spews forth without reservation. “I'm a shit, shit in relationships.” It terrifies Naomi to admit but it may work to dissuade the other girl and that's worth the fear.

Unexpectedly, Michelle breaks into a gentle, coaxing smile. “Whatever. I was with Tony for years, yeah?” It's probably supposed to be reassuring. It isn't. “You can't be any worse.”

Worse? Naomi's struck with the image of Emily's crumpled, heart-broken face when she left her at the airport that final time. How little Michelle knows. The older girl slides her hands into her back pockets and kind of bounces ahead, moving backwards with a grin. “So you going to take me back to yours now?”

Naomi's throat is dry, but her heart is beating faster.

It's taken weeks but her charade has finally fallen apart. It hadn't been the vodka. It had been Michelle all along.

If Tony notices anything, he doesn't say. Not even after Michelle spends the night one particularly rainy evening midweek, in Naomi's bedroom with the stereo on and door shut tightly until breakfast. Effy however keeps staring in that obnoxious way of hers and Naomi feels like she's still part of a science experiment, like they all exist in a Petri dish that Effy occasionally pokes and prods when she feels like having some fun. Considering she's the youngest out of all of them, it's all rather backwards. But, to be honest, she's getting laid by a beautiful girl so it can't be that bad. She should maybe thank Effy if anything. Tony doesn't even try to make any snide remarks when Michelle squeezes in between he and Naomi on the sofa one evening, obviously closer to the blonde. He quirks an eyebrow. That's all. Despite evidence to the contrary, Naomi can't help feeling that Tony's planning something. It makes her skin crawl occasionally and forces her to break whatever innocuous contact she has with Michelle at any given time when he looks at them in that way. Or when he goes out of his way to touch Michelle in front of Naomi in an overly-familiar way. He knows; he must. Because that sly look on his face makes her uncomfortable and why else would it? She has to trust her instincts sometime.

The fact is, Tony Stonem is as good at keeping secrets as his sister.

It's not that is a secret, though. At least not on purpose. She's not going out of her way to delude the Stonems (okay, perhaps Anthea, if she's being fair). It's just that, well, it's not anything definable. It just is, her and Michelle. They're just taking things as they go, and for a girl like Michelle, she doesn't even have to tell Naomi about it cos Naomi's been there once before: uncertain of what everything means, to herself, to other people, if it means anything at all. They choose not to discuss the intricacies of their relationship, the criteria, the consequence. Shoving it into some rigid box at this point feels like pushing things too quickly. It may be more than a rather compatible friends-with-benefits scenario, but what exactly that is escapes them both at the moment. So, the issue lays dormant, yet lingers in the air around them in moments of silence.

Only after Tony and Effy walk through the front door after going to Effy's psychiatry appointment to find Michelle straddling the blonde on the sofa does it become difficult. Michelle scrambles quickly off and wipes her mouth with her hand, glancing apologetically at the siblings, as if she has something to be ashamed about. Stupid girl. It was just snogging. There's something unsettling about Michelle's reaction though and Naomi can't quite figure it out. So she merely stares, half-expectantly, half-annoyed at the brother and sister duo in the front hall.

Tony puts on his best sociopathic smile. “Well, that's quite a new development, isn't it, Starbuck?” His tone is eerily flat as he addresses his sister without taking his eyes off the couple on the sofa before pointedly looking to Michelle herself. “Guess your tongue is good for more than just rolling those R's en français, oui?” The flush of the older girl's cheeks is unmistakable, which is a little amusing in a sense considering she had never actually gone down on Naomi at all. But now it's obvious she'd thought about it despite her tendency to be a bit a bit of a pillow queen on occasion. It wasn't like Naomi was complaining. Things take time. They hadn't really done much of that at all, to be frank. It hadn't really bothered either of them until Tony, in his subtle undermining way, had brought attention to it. Naomi fidgets uncomfortably now and she can feel Michelle tense beside her under Tony's unpleasant stare. It's frustrating because everything had been just fucking fine until now.

He turns and hangs his jacket on the hook, each movement deliberate and seemingly calculated. Effy slips by, with a carrier bag of new prescription tablets rattling around as she moves into the kitchen to sort them out into each day of the week. All she offers is a small, almost sad smile in Naomi's direction as she goes. Without any kind of invitation, Tony makes his way to the sofa and sinks down right next to Michelle, with a sly grin at both of them.

They're all just sitting, staring at the television screen, watching in silence. Michelle shifts slightly closer to the blonde who notices immediately. Her nerves are on edge at the moment, mostly because she has no idea what Tony's intentions are. He doesn't make them wait long as he slinks his arm over the back of the sofa, dragging a finger over Michelle's shoulder, twirling a lock of her hair around it. A smarmy, closed mouth grin spreads over his face as he notes the gooseflesh rising along her skin. Naomi however is almost incredulous at this intrusion. It's bullshit. Who does he think he is? When she finally meets his eyes, they're dark and almost foreboding, threatening perhaps. It's some sort of challenge and Michelle is merely a pawn in Tony's ego exercise. Seems par for the course.

He pushes further, trailing two fingers across her collarbone, practically begging for a reaction from either of them, though the challenge appears to rest on Naomi. This tosser has no respect for boundaries or common sense. This is not normal behaviour. Naomi feels however that taking his warped bait will only make him even happier. She's stubborn, angry at being put into this position. Michelle is getting increasingly uncomfortable and is twisting, flinching away from Tony's progression, but never all-out resisting. It's the oddest thing. She never actually says no to him. Probably because no one ever says no to Tony Stonem.

Continuing his teasing, her runs his fingers back down from her collarbone, glaring at Naomi the entire time. He's testing. So Naomi breaks his gaze to focus more on Michelle, who is possibly about to cry. Her face looks pained and uncomfortable. Only when Tony purposely grazes the side of her breast does she react more tangibly. She stands quickly and is about to jump away when a hand snaps out to grab her. When she looks down, she's obviously surprised to find it's not a masculine hand holding her wrist. Unfalteringly, Naomi meets her eyes. The blonde shifts over, putting herself between Tony and Michelle to put an end to this fucking ridiculous game. She pulls Michelle down again and she can feel the relief course through the body beside her, relaxing far more than she was before. When Naomi glances at Tony, she sees an odd sort of frustration, almost liked she's cock-blocked him from getting off with his ex-girlfriend. She feels rather pleased with herself for taking this step, and even more so when Michelle's hand finds hers and links their fingers together, holding her hand gently on her lap. Naomi squeezes reassuringly and is even further surprised when she feels the older girl's head rest on her shoulder. The moment Tony tries his same sneaky trick on Naomi, she swats him away and follows it up with a rough push against his chest. She's never been someone with a lot of patience.

Then he laughs. It's that Stonem laugh that says, 'I got you. You thought you knew, but you didn't. I'm still in control.' Naomi does nothing but roll her eyes. He sighs with a chuckle. “Just you wait, Moany.”

She supposes it's a warning of some sort but the meaning isn't totally clear. As per usual.

They're all sitting around the supper table, minus Michelle, when Tony drops the bomb. He winks at Naomi right before he does it and she feels the hairs on the back of her neck raise uneasily.

“So, Moany's got a new girlfriend. Isn't that neat, mum?” He asks it so fucking innocently, laced with some sort of bemusement.

Anthea looks up from her plate and takes a bite of potato off her fork, chewing thoughtfully. “Oh that's lovely.” Naomi swallows hard even though she hasn't take a bite. She's not oblivious to the fact Anthea wasn't particularly approving of the occasional times that Naomi had dragged some wasted stranger home from the clubs. Apparently it's a bad influence on Effy, which seems ludicrous really cos Effy isn't 12 years old anymore, and even at 12 she probably had seen much worse. Not to mention Tony's own exploits. How that is any healthier just because he's a boy is baffling. “A real one, yeah? Not one of your...” The older woman doesn't have to finish her sentence. The meaning is crystal clear and having expected it, Naomi manages not to react.

“Yeah, a girlfriend,” Tony supplies like the good boy he is. He sips his milk with a sneer.

“So when are you going to invite her over?” Anthea inquires curiously. “It's a big step for you, isn't it? This girlfriend business.”

Naomi's blue eyes dart quickly through all the people around the table: Tony with that shit-eating grin on his stupid face; Effy carefully spearing a single pea with her fork; Anthea staring at her with some sort of motherly approval. Could she really not have realised? Perhaps Effy was right; her mum is clueless the majority of the time. Makes for easy delusions. Tony sees Naomi about to respond when he butts in.

“She's already been 'round,” he states.

Anthea shrugs and plucks a bit of steak from her plate. “Must not have been whilst I've been in,” she says to Tony.

His eyes narrow slightly. “You definitely have been, mum.”

The comment is working its way around Anthea's head obviously. She's trying to work out when this stranger would have been seen. Clueless, indeed. She chews on her lip briefly as if contemplating some difficult maths problem. “I don't recall...”

“Oh, you'll love this.” The bloody tosspot pauses for fucking dramatic effect or some shit. “It's Chelle.”

Silence descends on the table and it looks as if Anthea's about to just drop her utensils in shock. She stares at Naomi and then back at Tony. “Your Michelle?” Naomi cringes at the sentiment.

Tony glares coldly at Naomi. “Yes, mum. My Michelle.” Anthea follows his gaze and Naomi feels her cheeks redden with the unwanted attention.

The older woman shrugs and shakes her head a little. “Well, she always has been a bit of a slapper, that one,” she states in a soft voice, as if she's angry. Just fucking great. Not only is Anthea pissed off about her seeing Tony's girlfriend –ex-girlfriend– she's also miffed about the girl herself. Lovely. Nothing like starting an uphill climb already at a disadvantage. Any vestige of pleasure Anthea had earlier has miraculously evaporated and been replaced with a sullen disapproval. She stabs another piece of potato roughly. End of conversation. Naomi pushes back from the table, leaving a half-eaten plate of delicious food untouched and marches to her room, avoiding Anthea's unhappy gaze or Tony's for that matter. Bunch of dicks.

Only a few minutes later does she hear a knock on her door and she knows immediately who it is. It's the only person that would both bother to visit her, and respect her privacy. “Come in,” she calls tiredly. Effy slips around the door like quicksilver and closes it softly behind herself, gliding over to the end of Naomi's bed. She scratches her cheek absently as she takes a seat on the edge.

“Your brother is such a prick,” Naomi grumbles as a way of greeting.

Effy snorts, as if it's old news. And it is of course.

“And now your mum hates me or something.”

The brunette shrugs loosely. “It's better,” she says. “No more secrets.”

Somewhat aghast, Naomi goes on the defensive. “I wasn't – I just don't see how it's really any of your mum's business.”

Effy raises an eyebrow. “Or Tony's?”

Naomi swings her legs off the bed and stalks over to her chair, further from Effy, arms crossing over her chest in defiance. “Whatever, Eff. You both knew. Besides,” she pauses, trying to gather her erratic thoughts. “It's weird. It's nothing specific. Christ. She's not even... It's complicated when you have to start questioning yourself. She's – she was...” All this talking around sexuality is pissing Naomi herself off cos it was bad enough going through it once, now she's a catalyst for the same. But even so, she feels like she may actually be talking about herself in third person, and it has nothing to do with an sexual identity crisis.

For a while, all Effy does in response is smile. That big, closed-lipped smirk. She fucking knows, of course. Naomi's not concerned about any internal struggles Michelle may or may not be having; she's preoccupied with her own complexes. It's clearly etched on her face. “You should tell her.”

Naomi is about four seconds away from slapping the younger girl across the face. Her and her cryptic fucking advice. Tell her what? That she's still hung up on what a shitty girlfriend she was the last time around? How she's still pretty damn sure that she won't be much better now? Or maybe that the whole thing is just one massive headfuck. All of those apply, and more probably. Far more that she herself has repressed enough never to have to think about. “That's stupid,” she says, ice lacing her voice. Isn't it?

Almost if asking the exact same question, Effy quirks an eyebrow and tilts her head. “You fancy her.” The whole sentence is stressed in a way that implies far more seriousness and meaning than the words alone would allow. Like, it's not just a crush. And Naomi knows full well that it isn't. Because crushes are for children, not almost-grown-ups.

“Yeah, so?” She's being almost petulant now. Honestly, she just wants Effy to come out with it already.

“Tell her.” Effy's response is the only reward she can receive and it's barely even understandable let alone helpful. “It'll be okay. Change is good.” The younger girl stands slowly, brushes her fringe back like she hasn't a care in the world and just winks. Her and her bloody brother. The only difference is that when Effy does it, it doesn't usually warn of an impending disaster. Usually the opposite. As she is leaving, she stops beside Naomi and places a reassuring hand on her shoulder but says nothing. Within seconds, she's disappeared from the room.

PART 3 >>

FIC: echoes (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you) [1/7]

doreah — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 19:38:15 GMT

ECHOES (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you)

Author: Eskimo Jo
Pairing(s): Naomi/Michelle, Naomi/Emily, Cook/Katie, Tony/Michelle; appearances by other Gen1/2.
Rating: M
Warning: language, sexuality.
Fanmix: one and two; also score.
Summary: Set after Disintegration. Naomi's trying to make a new life in London with the Stonems but when a girl from Tony's past enters her world, old demons are drawn to the surface. A trip home to Bristol for Freddie's memorial further complicates the present situation as she is confronted with her past face to face. Post-S4, Naomi-centric.

Notes: Loads after the cut.
Thank You: directly to April Pearson for being my inspiring, wonderful, sexy dream wife/muse. Reality, schamality. If dreams were safe, they wouldn't really be dreams. They'd just be plans. ('Ed'). Also mega thanks to amazing Shan for giving me the boost I so desperately needed to summon the courage to post this. I mean, everyone's encouragement has been so lovely. I hope I don't disappoint anyone. :) x
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

DOWNLOAD PDF: normal format || book format - I recommend the PDF over the web-version. Tho there are likely typos and such in it (I'm not perfect).
I absolutely despise having to post this in so many pieces (I don't write in LJ-character-count-friendly chapters), but I assume it'll be about 7 "chapters" long, so as to not flood everyone's f-list, I'll do it day by day. The whole thing is finished, but spamming people isn't cool. (April Fool's! Apparently. Ugh. I'm sorry.)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Epilogue I || Epilogue II & Notes

Introductory Notes: As stated above, this is a sequel to Disintegration and I know I promised happier times for Emily and Naomi. This is how I do it. Don't hate me, Naomily shippers. This had to be done to appease my wild cracky fantasies. (Though perhaps more truthfully, it really only resulted in adding fuel to what had been embers and is now a forest fire.) There is Naomi/Emily in this, but it's primarily a Naomi story, and thus a Naomi/Michelle one too. I hope by the end, everyone is content tho. I know I am, heh, but that doesn't really count for much, does it?

Really, if you can't be bothered to read the first story, long story short: All you need to know is that Emily and Naomi tried to fix their relationship after S4, and that ultimately failed & broke both their hearts which resulted in Naomi ending it just as they were about to leave to Goa and running away to London to be with Effy. Oh, and Sid and Naomi are sort of mates. It makes sense if you read it, but heh, I think that's enough general background to this fic.

And yes, it's illustrated in the web-version. I made the tumblr graphics, so why not use em? ;)

A fair word of warning: To really get this story, you cannot hate Michelle. Can. Not. You will not enjoy this at all, and it'll make no sense. Really, you have to understand Michelle's character as she appeared on the programme as more than just a stuck-up, whiny, needy 'bitch'. That isn't all there is to Michelle. I'm not saying everyone should go around reading deconstructions of her character in order to understand this (It would help, ngl.) But the more important question to ask is why Michelle behaved in the ways she did. If you understand what's happening deep beneath Michelle's constructed persona, you'll have no problem with this. The reason I'm warning you of this is because this story is very much from Naomi's point of view. We only see Michelle as Naomi does, so many of her insecurities, issues and motivations may not be clear and in order to accept and grasp why certain things are happening or why she does what she does, it helps not to have a negative, preconceived bias against Michelle. I know, I know, a good writer wouldn't worry about this cos the characters will be dealt with in the story and everything would make sense. But there's a reason I write fanfic and am not a real writer. ;) I guess the good news is that if you've even clicked this link, you probably don't hate Michelle so maybe I'm just preaching to the choir. Who knows. But please, in short, just read it with an open mind for Michelle. She's not as one-dimensional as she appears. If you're not sold on my interpretation, or would like to know more about it, check out this mix which is pretty much her in a basic nutshell to me.

If you like it, please let me know cos I'm very, erm, terrified? Yeah, pretty much terrified of posting it. I worked quite hard on this and I'm a little bit proud so no nasty shit, k? (Like some of the crap that I get on tumblr, ugh.) If you hate it, fair enough, no worries but don't just flame me. But I'll never be upset about constructive criticism.

Title adapted from a song I don't really like, Francesqa - A Little Closer.

Finally, feel free to ignore the massively pretentious endnotes. LOL. It's sort of a bibliography as well since I've provided links to all the texts that I borrowed from. I have issues and have written far too many essays lately. It's a by-product of that and my own inflated sense of cleverness, lol. I'm sure most of you don't need them anyway.

ECHOES (sing me a love song & i'll sing it right back to you)
Eskimo Jo

Both must give something, happiness, as precisely what is not exchangeable, not open to complaint, but such giving is inseparable from taking. All is over if what one finds for the other no longer reaches him. There is no love that is not an echo.
~ Theodor Adorno

The first time Naomi becomes aware of Michelle Richardson's actual existence, it's mid-afternoon on a lazy Saturday and some girl is talking rather loudly in Tony's bedroom. His flimsy wooden door doesn't work exceptionally well as a sound barrier and the female voice sounds alternately irritated and excited. Ever since breaking up with his last flavour of the month, Paige --a particularly insufferable twat of a girl-- he's had random ladies over almost every night. She normally doesn't really pay much mind if Anthea and Effy don't, but the tone of this conversation has a much more distinctive air of familiarity to it and that makes Naomi more curious than usual. She doesn't realise she's stood outside the bedroom until Effy floats by, pauses beside the blonde for a moment and rolls her eyes.

“Michelle,” she states and carries on towards the staircase, down to the sitting room. Naomi turns away and follows her friend, but keeps an ear on the conversation as long as she can. Effy slumps down on the settee and flicks through the television channels, turning up the volume when she settles on Channel4.

It's been this way for almost 2 years now. Maybe just over one and a half, really. After abandoning Emily at the airport in Bristol, Naomi had made her way straight to London and found Anthea Stonem to be far more accommodating than she had expected. With relief, she had explained about leaving Bristol behind with its memories, nosy neighbours, unscrupulous press and general gossip and how this hospital was specialized for their needs. Naomi found herself easily talking with the older woman. Within a week, she was offered a room in their new flat if she would pay room & board, and help take care of an ailing Effy whenever she was released from hospital. It was an offer Naomi couldn't refuse, especially since it was quite conveniently close to Goldsmiths where she was going to start her Honours BA in Politics and Sociology in a matter of weeks. It had turned out to be the perfect amount of time to settle into London life and her almost-adopted family. Needless to say, Gina hadn't been too fond of the situation at first but came around about two weeks into October, met Anthea and somewhat grudgingly accepted the detour that her daughter's life had taken.

A week before Effy had come home from hospital, Tony Stonem had bustled his way through the front door, dropped several heavy suitcases in the corridor and announced to Naomi that he was moving back in for his sister. The younger girl had just stared at him with a mixture of confusion and suspicion until real introductions had taken place. During the winter break of her first term, Tony and Anthea led a cautious and frail looking Effy through the doors of her new home. She had been shocked to see Naomi sprawled out on the sofa with lecture notes spread around her like massive confetti, as if she hadn't believed Naomi during her numerous visits to the institution. Naomi still remembers the smile that Effy gave her that day, and it made her certain that her choice had been the correct one.

They had spent hours together from that point onwards, most of it was Naomi speaking, drawling on about some fascinating subject or alternately, they'd sit in silence together. Tony especially had been instrumental in Effy's first stages of supposed recovery and she and him had shared the task of easing Effy through the darkest stages of her journey. It had been during that time that Naomi had wiped away more tears than she ever knew a human could produce. It broke her heart when Effy would cry like that. A hopeless, empty wail. But her heart would mend quickly as she went about comforting her friend, with a soft, grounding touch, a hug, a cup of tea. It was a skill she hadn't even realised she possessed. Even the Iron Queen Naomi Campbell, with her heart of stone, had something left to give, emerging to assist Anthea, Tony and Effy herself.

Now, in the last stages of the spring term of her second year, Naomi's comfortable. Finally. She looks over at Effy who is chewing a nail absently as she smiles at the TV, lost in its make-believe worlds. She's better now; not like the Effy she had met in college, not even close to be honest. But she's better. Doesn't speak much still. Anthea had explained one morning about Effy prior to Roundview, all these pieces of lost history that Naomi hadn't a clue about before. But she's almost Effy again and she spends her days doing a class at City and whatever else keeps her mind occupied. She's sober as well, which is an odd thing to see.

Anthea strolls into the room and glances at the television screen, turning away in disinterest. “Who's Tony with then?” she asks the girls. “She's quite loud.” Naomi looks to Effy who smirks for some reason but says nothing.

“Michelle,” Naomi says, but it comes out closer to a question. Anthea considers the name for a moment, before her face grows darker. There's something, some history there but the blonde daren't ask right now. She feels as if it's a sore subject. Tony apparently doesn't feel the same as a loud laugh of his bounces all the way over the sound of the TV.

“Oh. Well, that's a surprise,” she mutters and glances up at the ceiling. “Blast from the past, isn't it, sweetheart?”

The young brunette shrugs non-committally at her mother's remark. Anthea shakes her head. “I just don't understand that boy,” she sighs and wanders back into the kitchen to prepare some form of tea. As she does, there's the equivalent to a stampede as both Tony and Michelle come down the flight of stairs at a confusingly startling pace, her following him closely. Tony snatches the telly remote from his sister and flashes through channels until landing on something else that interests him more and plops himself in an armchair. The glare he receives is studiously ignored.

“Sit down, Nips. Tea'll be soon,” Tony suggests in that way of his that implies that there is actually no other option. Naomi looks mildly disgusted at the term of supposed endearment Tony seems to have for whoever this bird is. Michelle, who is actually quite a strikingly attractive brunette, even if she seems a tad up herself, slinks down next to Naomi on the sofa with an oddly sad and submissive look on her face. The blonde shifts over and away instinctively, closer towards the chair Effy is in. She feels the air is heavy with something, laced with some sort of tension that can only come from shared history. Effy appears to be ignoring Michelle and her focus is strictly on the images onscreen. Naomi knows better however. Effy's listening even if she's not watching. She's always aware of everything.

When it becomes clear that Tony is not going to be a gentleman, Michelle shifts and turns to Naomi, extending her hand. “I'm Michelle. I don't think we've met,” she says rather pleasantly, and with a recognisable Bristolian twang.

Naomi takes the offered greeting. “Naomi.” Her smile is tight but she still finds herself holding the older girl's hand slightly longer than necessary. She's a little taken aback by the green in Michelle's eyes.

“She's our lodger, and Effy's mate,” Tony supplies. “Moany.” Naomi pins him with an unhappy glare. She's always hated Tony's name for her. Michelle folds her arms and leans back in the cushions with a small smile on her face as her attention darts between the two people. Tony shrugs off Naomi's displeasure. “Cos, you see, Naomi backwards is I moan, yeah? And she certainly does, thus, she's Moan-i.” He grins to himself in an irritatingly self-satisfied way, as if his name for her is about the most brilliant idea in human history. Instead of laughing politely as most people do at Tony's lame putdowns, Michelle gives Naomi a blatant once-over, head to toe. There's something almost like pity there.

“You've got one of his horrible nicknames too, then?” she asks in a sort of concerned and friendly way, much to Naomi's surprise. She's part way through nodding in agreement when Tony sits up quickly.

“Yeah, Nips here, good one that too,” he starts and gestures to Michelle as if he's about to let Naomi in on some amazing secret.

“Tony!”

This routine seems practised, too common. Tony ignores her protests. “Her tits, yeah. One is bigger than the other. And not in like pretend way but like legitimately so. Plus, she's got funny nipples, so she's Nips. It's a funny name.” He looks so fucking pleased with himself that Naomi is actually utterly confused, mostly at what is so amazing and clever about that stupid nickname. Plus, the subject of Michelle's seemingly (from her vantage point anyway) perfect tits is throwing her off her game. Having to not so subtlety consider a stranger's breasts feels a little forward. But when it's brought up, she has to look and as she does, Michelle's arms fold up and together. Naomi doesn't think it's really necessary to be self-conscious cos her tits don't look odd in her opinion. And not in that tight, red vest especially. Naomi's cheeks flush pink though when she catches Michelle watching her and turns away quickly. It's not quick enough however to ignore the grin on Tony's face as he studies them.

“Watch out though,” Tony continues, talking to Michelle this time. “She's a bit on the wild side. If you catch my drift.” He taps the side of his nose and nods towards the younger girl.

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Well, I don't... and I don't care to, probably.”

“Oh come on, she's a solitary gash grinder lost in the wild garden of Lesbos,” he states, and adds with mock disdain, “I thought you went to York.” Her face darkens for a split second at the mention of university but it passes quickly. “Pick up on the subtleties, Chelle. Lettuce licker, bean-flicker. A whole veg and vag salad really.”

Michelle, to her credit, looks aghast at the revelation. “Tony, what the fuck? That's not just something you blurt out to strangers about someone else.” She doesn't seem affected in any other way though. No subtle shift away and for that Naomi is thankful, especially since not a minute ago she'd been caught staring at her tits. In all honesty, Naomi is impressed with this girl's attitude towards him. She's not the usual type of girl he brings home these days.

“Oh don't worry. Loud and proud, right, Moany?” He has the audacity to wink at her after outing her to stranger. It's not that she's concerned or ashamed; she just doesn't see why it needs to be a subject of conversation. She can't understand why Tony bothered bringing it up. Naomi glowers at him but says nothing, focussing again on the telly.

Michelle crosses one bare leg over the other, as Naomi catches out of the corner of her eye. “Whatever. Doesn't bother me. The gay thing,” Michelle says airily. “I did date this boy once who really liked sucking our mate's cock whilst I was sleeping, in the same room.” Naomi's eyes widen at this new information and she turns to gauge the truth of the story from the older boy's facial expression. He's finally a little thrown off. Michelle leans in a little closer to her but doesn't take her eyes off Tony. “I wasn't really asleep,” she whispers loudly it like it's a hilarious secret and then sends Tony her own smug smile, one eyebrow cocked. “And he wasn't very good at it either.”

Naomi likes this girl. Definitely. She's fiery, even if she is a little stuck-up. It's a nice change from all the dozy mares that usually parade around the flat in their tacky Hello Kitty knickers like they're still in uni halls.

Tony regains his poise fairly quickly after Michelle's assault on his ego however. “Yes, well, Sid tells me you've become quite the cunning linguist at uni,” he says snidely to her, tossing another wink in Naomi's direction.

Again, a sharp bark from Michelle: “Tony! I'm not.”

He shrugs and laughs. “What? It was your programme, yeah? Linguistics and some other poncey liberal Arts bollocks. You have a gift for tongues.” It's slimy almost, the way he says it. Studying languages shouldn't be sleazy.

She shakes her head in disbelief but doesn't challenge him again. Naomi wonders, innocently of course, about the situation. She's curious, just as anyone else would be, she reasons. “So are you two...”

Both Michelle and Tony stare at her with similarly bemused expressions. Michelle shakes her head first.

“Christ no,” she says plainly. She glances over at Tony, with a new and wistful sort of expression. “Just wasn't meant to last.” He merely stares back at her. She shudders a little to shake herself out of something, some sort of memory. “Wanker.”

Effy finally makes herself known by snorting, almost under her breath. Naomi can't decide if it's in agreement or if there's some tension between the two girls as well. Michelle gazes at the young brunette momentarily with an unreadable expression. She looks over at Naomi instead. “We're mates now, you know?”

But Naomi doesn't know. She truthfully thinks the idea is more than a little bizarre. She remembers Emily and can't imagine being just friends with her, now or ever. Of course, she doesn't tell Michelle or Tony this. She'll let them live in their little bubble of unlikely companionship. When Anthea calls them all in for tea, Naomi makes sure to take a seat close to Michelle. She's not sure why. She ignores Effy's curious stare.

Michelle doesn't come round for another week after that evening. Naomi's almost forgotten about her completely, assumed it was merely a short catching-up sort of visit and now Michelle's back wherever she came from. The only odd thing is that Tony hasn't brought anyone home since. There have been none of his playthings: those dull if incredibly sexy girls who are so easy to manipulate and toy with. The two events could be related or merely a coincidence. If Naomi was to hazard a guess, she'd suspect Tony has rediscovered, in Michelle, a challenge enough to hold his attention longer than normal.

The afternoon is warm, above seasonal really, for this time of year and Naomi is in the front garden, lazily pulling on her cigarette and watching the occasional car pass by. It's a quiet day. She hears Michelle before she sees her as heels echo against the pavement a few houses down. As Michelle comes into the garden, Naomi glances up, blowing out a long cloud of smoke. Unperturbed, Michelle approaches her but instead of heading directly for the front door, she pauses beside Naomi, who nods in an awkward Hello since she's not sure why the other girl has stopped.

“Naomi, yeah?” she asks.

Naomi nods again, flicks her cigarette ash to the side, and takes another drag. “Yeah.”

Michelle looks around the area for a moment and comes back to the younger girl's face. “You shouldn't do that.”

The blonde's eyebrows raise in surprise from the impromptu chiding. It doesn't seem like her place to be reprimanding Naomi for anything. They barely know each other, and this isn't Michelle's garden. And who the fuck cares if she smokes anyway? “Sorry?” Her tone is well annoyed.

Gesturing to the half-open window, Michelle continues, “None of them smoke anymore. You're a lodger. You should respect that. For Effy's sake, you know?”

What the fuck? Naomi is completely taken aback at the situation. The audacity of some people. Maybe this bitch and Tony were perfect for each other. “I don't see you paying to stay here, so get stuffed,” Naomi mutters with a sneer and takes an even longer drag than before. No, she doesn't like this girl anymore. It's settled. She doesn't know a thing about them at all, yet decides it's appropriate to lecture her on respect out of bloody nowhere.

Michelle doesn't seem to be terribly bothered by the retort. “Just making a suggestion. It's bad for you.”

Naomi's eyes narrow. “Clearly,” she says flippantly and turns her body away from Michelle slightly, putting the fag to her lips again. Bitch. Michelle merely stares for a moment longer before making her way inside the flat. The door closes with a louder than usual slam. Naomi briefly considers the previous exchange and looks at the open window. Before inhaling again, she tosses the cigarette on the stone and squashes it with her toe. She doesn't go back indoors immediately however. She's not going to let Michelle think she's won. Cos she hasn't.

As she crosses the lounge, she sees Michelle and Tony sat on the sofa watching some stupid sounding programme. Effy is hovering between the kitchen and where they are. Naomi purposely huffs, rolls her eyes and ignores the two older people as she pushes past Effy a little rougher than she had intended. The brunette makes no complaint. She turns and watches Naomi carefully as she angrily scavenges around the cupboards for biscuits, tossing everything she doesn't want around the shelves. Effy takes a bite off a piece of licorice, and chews thoughtfully, unsure if Naomi recognises the presence studying her. Finally she speaks.

“Be careful.”

Naomi whirls around, a packet of Jaffa Cakes in her hand and a scowl on her face. “Pardon?” Her tone is snippy and Effy merely looks at her impassively in response. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Effy shrugs, forces an incredibly fake smile –more like a grimace actually– and nods her head towards the direction of the sitting room where Tony's voice cuts through the rattle of the gun fight on-screen. She blinks slowly and waits for Naomi's understanding. It doesn't happen immediately, and Naomi's uncertain if she really does get the point, if she ever truly understood Effy's reasoning at any point during their friendship. She rolls her eyes again at Effy and pushes past her with an insolent, “Whatever, Eff.”

Naomi's heavy footfalls fade as she stomps up the stairs and Effy jumps only slightly when there's a loud crack of a bedroom door slamming shut. She sighs at Naomi's apparent stupidity and joins her brother in the front room.

“We're going out.”

Tony Stonem never seemed to need to ask anything ever. He just told people things, and on the rare occasion that he would ask a question, it always came out like he already knew the answer anyway. It was both irritating and somewhat admirable, in a sense. However, in this instance, it is the former. Naomi rolls over from where she'd been reading her Politics textbook and faces Tony standing in the doorway of her bedroom. In order to stall a little bit, she starts swiping cake crumbs off her duvet. She's still seething a little bit about her earlier run-in with Michelle, and seeing Tony's face just reminds her of it. There's not even a solid reason she can quite grasp about why the previous encounter caused her to become so angry. Normally she brushes off people when they're dicks like that. But not this time. It's wriggled uncomfortably under her skin, and that knowledge alone multiplies her irritation. She slaps her book closed heavily, and sighs in exasperation, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Have fun.” She knows perfectly well that he'd meant that she was to come with.

He takes a step into her room, because to him privacy and personal space appear to be things only afforded to him when he wants, and other people have no right to them. She'd become accustomed to this sort of behaviour in the past year but it still managed to raise her heckles on occasion. He leans against her bureau suavely, crossing his arms and peering at her like some sort of school study project. “Nice one, Moany. You're coming too. No excuses.” He pauses for some sort of ridiculous dramatic effect (just like his sister used to). “Me, you, Nips, Eff and the local.”

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Sounds tempting but I pass. I've loads of coursework.”

It doesn't take long for the older boy to cross the room, snatch up her textbook and flip it into a corner. Grabbing her arm rather brutishly, he yanks her up from her bed and out into the corridor. “See, now you're out of your room. First step. Why not join us?”

There it is: that question that isn't really a question because he knows she can't say no now. Excuses are useless against a Stonem.

“Tosser.”

He gives her a toothy, Cheshire grin.

6 pints and 3 shots later, Naomi's feeling fuzzy. Effy's sipping her water, obviously completely bored whilst Michelle and Tony are chuckling about something only they care about and pounding back vodka shots. It's like the worst reunion ever. All they need is some sort of pervy old uncle to show up and the picture would be complete. Effy seems to be fidgeting more than usual, and Naomi's not sure if it's because they're at the pub with all its rank alcohol stench, or if it's the less than ideal company. She does truly admire Effy's resolve in situations like these, especially since she's so rarely allowed to come to the pub without Anthea chaperoning like an overprotective hawk, no doubt over-compensating for years of neglect. Tony's spouting off some rubbish about something irrelevant when Naomi sees Michelle turn quickly to glance at her, almost questioningly. Naomi has no bloody idea why so she sips her nearly empty lager and merely raises an eyebrow in response. Fuck off, you posh slag, she wants to say but ends up drinking more instead. Effy's squirming a little again but seems to straighten herself up just as Michelle looks over towards her. Tony is uncharacteristically oblivious during all this. The blonde looks over at Effy who is just smiling to herself and gazing off at the wall.

These fucking people. It's like living in a bloody German art film sometimes. She thinks she knows what's happening but everything is off-balance and shadowy; it's grainy and random shit just seems to occur for no reason at all. Just fucking great.

It doesn't become any easier to understand for the rest of night. By the time they leave the local, Michelle is one headfucking sideways gaze away from making Naomi explode with confusion and she's pretty fucking certain Tony is actually positively shit-faced. He stumbles in a way that an otherwise sober Tony Stonem would abhor. Effy's being used as a human walking stick, and Naomi giggles to herself a little with that idea; Effy's spindly body holding the weight of her brother. Naomi doesn't even realise how second nature it really is for them. It's a good thing that the younger girl doesn't seem to mind in the least. She's walking with a bemused sort of look on her face, occasionally stopping to yank her mashed brother along. Michelle, quite sauced herself, trips up a few times which only provokes an eyeroll from Naomi.

They all stumble into the flat creating as much noise as possible. The basement tenants will probably complain in the morning, but for now it's too hilarious to really be concerned with. They're laughing and bumping into things –well, Tony is– and whatever tension seemed to be hanging over the lot of them earlier has dissipated. Effy wrestles with her brother as he attempts to clumsily climb the stairs. They're making quite a racket, but it seems to be working. Naomi grins, leaves them to it and heads into the kitchen for a glass of water. She can hear the thumping above as Tony clambers into bed. When she walks through the lounge, Michelle is standing there, swaying possibly but Naomi can't really tell if that's her perception or reality. She attempts to ignore the other girl because tension or not, she's not very fond of her really. Not anymore. Not even when she's this drunk.

Not when she looks so deliciously shaggable.

Fuck.

Fucking vodka.

Naomi averts her eyes and walks quickly, splashing some of her hard-earned water over the rim of her glass in the process. She's stopped in her tracks however by a voice.

“Naomi?”

The blonde stops and turns with a drunken sort of flourish, but there's no friendliness present. “That's me.”

“Think I could grab a pillow and blanket from you? For the sofa here.”

Right. The older girl had no place to kip. Oh well, the sofa would do her fine but Naomi's a little perturbed that taking care of Tony's guest has become her responsibility. She sighs, as if the offer is putting her out a great deal. “Come on, then,” she groans, and waits for Michelle to follow her up the stairs.

She throws open her bedroom door dramatically for no particular reason other than it seems like the thing to do. Welcome to my humble abode! she thinks and drunkenly chuckles to herself as Michelle steps in hesitantly after her. She takes a large gulp of water before placing it extra-carefully down on her nightstand. When she turns around, Michelle is still standing there, looking a little lost actually. Her vest top is hanging off her shoulder, as is her bra strap, Naomi notices. It's such a little thing, but for someone as impeccably put together as she appeared to be, it was kind of... enticing. Naomi shakes her head a little to clear away the foggy thoughts that are straying even further into dangerous territory. It's useless, she reckons cos suddenly she's thinking about “Nips” and Tony's assertion about one breast being bigger than the other. She stares for likely what is far more than polite.

She expects Michelle to cross her arms self-consciously again, like the last time. But when Naomi finally does meet her eyes, they're darker hazel than she remembers, almost green and a little curious, if slightly glazed from drink. More than a little curious actually. Michelle is watching her like a fucking hawk.

Shit, shit, fucking bollocky fuck shit. You don't like the stuck-up mingebag, remember?

She clears her throat quickly. “Need some pyjamas?” she inquires in the calmest, coolest voice she can muster under the circumstances. Just a little sozzled. Michelle merely nods in affirmation. Naomi gathers a blanket, pillow and and old pair of joggers, bundles them together and hands them over. She reaches out to put a hand on the door, to close it after Michelle leaves but it never happens. Instead she closes the door while Michelle is still standing in her room. Fuck, she wants her. She can't really explain exactly why she is making such a monumentally stupid decision; maybe it's the alcohol, or the fact she really just wants to get laid, or it's just unalterable mental dysfunction. Mad cow, maybe? Whatever it is, she doesn't have time to dwell because as soon as she comes close enough, Michelle has planted her lips on Naomi's. Yeah, she's just pulled her best mate's brother's girlfriend, or whatever the fuck Michelle is these days. Well done, Naomikins, you filthy twit.

It's strangely hesitant for a drunken snog. It barely lasts 5 seconds, not that anyone is counting of course. Naomi licks her lips without thinking as the liquor swirls in her bloodstream, fuzzying her senses and insisting that all her ideas are good ideas. She'll later find out that's not the case, but for now it seems as good a justification as any. She leans back in, but is met with the same hesitation once more, like Michelle is testing her, or herself. Either one. It's too much effort to develop theories about motivations so Naomi drops the pillow and blankets, grabs the older girl around the back of the head and pulls her in, stronger this time.

She'd forgotten what it's like to kiss a girl who isn't just some completely random stranger. She's almost a stranger, but a different kind. It's not the same when the other person isn't solely focussed on getting off, as quickly as possible as was the case in most club encounters, not that even those were a common occurrence. And Michelle is a surprisingly good kisser. She hadn't really expected that. If all follows this plan, it could be a very good night indeed. Slowly the kisses build, become more sure. Confident. And Naomi can feel soft hands on her waist, pulling a little bit desperately. A tongue jutting past her lips sends a warm sensation down her spine.

Tugging as she stumbles backwards to where she knows her bed is, there's another moment of hesitation, but this time not from the brunette. Almost like a reminder of something. It passes quickly and Naomi finds herself now easing Michelle back on her mattress as if it were a completely common occurrence for her to just shag strange girls in her bed. (It's not common, not at all. She doesn't like bringing them home. Not to wake up with them there, or having Effy boring holes into her the next morning over breakfast.) Michelle's breath is coming faster, shallower, their kisses a little more insistent. Demanding. Maybe Tony was right about what Sid said. Maybe Michelle is more than okay with the 'gay thing', as she had put it. Then Michelle looks at her, almost as if she's begging Naomi to like her. Pleading silently. But that could just be tricks of the liquor.

It seems like there's some blur in time because Naomi doesn't realise until after the fact that they're both down to their scuds and doing some serious, full-on snogging. It's become rather intense without her knowledge. And Michelle is quite the willing participant. Talented and enthusiastic: the best combination. Naomi senses slender fingers sliding through her hair as she sucks on a tender spot on Michelle's neck; she can feel the heave of her breathing under her own body. Michelle gasps as Naomi slips a hand up under her bra. In a second, she feels tentative fingers slip into her damp knickers and brush over her clit in response. She swears she hears Michelle whisper “Not my first time,” in between breathy moans and sighs, but it could just be her inebriated (and wishful) imagination. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, her eyes scrunching shut momentarily, savouring even the simplest, clumsiest contact.

Fucking Christ. Why can't all of Tony's girlfriends be like this? With new vigour, she eagerly pulls off the black bra in her way, and feels the undulating writhe of the older girl beneath her. Yes, definitely a good night.

The next day brings a throbbing headache and massive confusion. Tentatively opening her eyes to the harsh sunlight of mid-morning, she only sees a tangle of brown curls. Shit, shit. Not a good night. Not at all. The events come rushing back a little too forcefully and she clenches her eyes shut to will them away. Maybe this part is a dream too. Her hand is warm, and she realises that they're not simply sharing a bed, she & Michelle are sleeping together. (An important distinction, in her opinion). She pulls her hand back from where it had been softly grasping the curve of the other girl's bare waist. Christ, they're practically spooning. It's soppy and stupid and Naomi chides herself for whatever mental breakdown caused all of this. This isn't bloody normal behaviour for her.

This is Michelle. Tony's Michelle. Fucking great. She'd managed to cop off with his ex, or current, girlfriend. It doesn't seem to matter which it actually is. The sentiment is all the same.

A stealthy escape is the best option, she reckons. Maybe it'll be like it never happened. Maybe she won't remember if Naomi isn't there too; they were drunk after all. The blonde slips slowly and carefully out of bed. Naked. She's not sure her morning could realistically get any worse. She manages to barely pull on her pants before there's stirring in the bundled duvet on her bed. Like a deer frozen in headlights, she just stares, a little terrified, a little wide-eyed at the girl in her bed. Michelle sits up, far more alert (and pretty) than Naomi had anticipated. It catches her off-guard, makes her question her aversion to this, for a moment more before she hardens.

“Where are you going?” The question is asked softly, but intensely, as if Naomi's early morning escape was not expected.

Seriously? Naomi's not sure whether it would be appropriate to scoff as loudly as she'd like to at the question. So much for what her first grade tutor had told her about there being no such thing as a stupid question, only stupid answers. “Toilet.” It's the opposite of romantic, or even alluring, that's for damn sure. Good. Michelle looks down, as if she's coming to understand the reality of the situation they're in. Naomi sighs, covers her arms over her chest. The blonde has to force herself to ignore how good this girl looks in her bed in the morning glow. It doesn't help issues in any fucking way. If it wasn't such a bloody shit-show, this may have been something worth pursuing. But it's a right mess and Naomi wants no part in the complications. “Look, it was stupid. We were cabbaged, yeah? Just a one-off, okay?” She turn away and reaches for her bra and pulls it on. “A stupid mistake,” she mutters quietly, but she's admonishing herself more than Michelle. “It's done.”

She waits. There's no response from Michelle and Naomi's not stupid. She can tell Michelle's been around the block a few times. Anyone who's put up with Tony Stonem needs to have a few tools in their belt. This can't possibly be a novel experience. Finally, she glances over and watches as Michelle pulls the duvet closer to her chest, as if holding onto a teddy bear. Those hazel eyes latch onto hers.

“Why – was it me?”

Oh, for fucks sake. Where did this insecure, timid little creature come from? She certainly hadn't been around yesterday when she was snipping about Naomi's nicotine habit or desperately shoving her tongue down her throat. Naomi Campbell doesn't much care for lying. She is rather talented at it, but she doesn't enjoy it. Not when she knows it's untrue, at least. When she can't pretend it's true. In all honesty, Michelle, though an excellent kisser had obviously been a novice, if not complete beginner, in bed with another girl. It shouldn't be a bad thing cos Naomi is well aware that she too had been there once. And, well, in the end, yes, she had got off with a little subtle nudging despite the brunette's inexperience. But it was just drunken fucking. Sloppy, clumsy and mediocre. Hardly a stand-out performance, regardless of how much Michelle had seemed to enjoy herself.

Naomi presses her lips together and stares, trying to formulate some answer that says none of that. It must come across in her face however, because she can hear the shuddery intake of breath. Michelle doesn't appear to be crushed exactly, but she's certainly affected. It makes Naomi feel like a total cad. If she had been a better person, she would have admitted it's not about the quality of the sex at all. It's about all that other shite that comes along with it. She wants simple now, and relationships –of any kind– are anything but. Instead, she coldly mumbles, “We both got off, yeah? It's fine.”

Nothing is fine though. The comment doesn't make any appreciable impact on the brunette. She's still sitting there, looking something between irritated and gutted. Without glancing in her direction again, the younger girl quickly pulls on a t-shirt and joggers and leaves the room. It feels all too familiar.

PART 2 >>

FIC: disintegration [4/4]

doreah — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 18:22:59 GMT

Title: Disintegration
Author: Eskimo Jo
Rating: T
Warning: Substance addiction/use, language, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

Full notes in Part 1

And so the pattern has repeated once more.

The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.

But she needs to break something.

The airport is small, but busy. She's standing there, taking it all in, Emily's small hand nestled in her own. It's full, noisy, and people seem to be moving so bloody quickly that they're blurry. It's like time is going slower for her than the rest of the world, like in a film. But she knows better. This is much more likely to be an acute anxiety attack, but she doesn't feel too warm, her breathing is even and her heartbeat doesn't feel like it's about to thump itself to death against her sternum. She fingers the boarding pass she printed out at home, it feels damp. She lets Emily lead them both to the queue for Ryanair.

She vaguely hears her mum behind them, pulling along her luggage. And Katie is yapping about something to Ems. Everyone seems excited, it's buzzing in the air around them, but it never quite soaks in like it should. This is Goa, for Christ's sake. Beach parties, relaxation, nothing but Emily for 4 months of absolute bliss.

“What are you doing?” Naomi suddenly asks, turning to Katie abruptly.

“Excuse me?” The mild offense in her tone makes Naomi almost roll her eyes.

“In the next few months. What are your plans?”

Emily shoots her a curious glance, but it's there. The doubt, the fear. It's like Emily's 6^th sense has everything to do with expecting every move Naomi is about to make before she even knows it herself.

Naomi knows that right know Emily is talking herself into ignoring her instincts. They know each other so well it may actually be perverse, because, well, Emily's instincts are spot on. Always.

Katie shrugs nonchalantly, tossing her hair over her shoulder like she hasn't a care in the world, like things are just going to fall into place despite all their combined experience to the contrary. “Nothing specific worked out yet.” She pauses, glances between her sister and Naomi and the pitch in her voice changes distinctly. “Why?” She knows too. She's suspicious.

The blonde turns her face from the twins' prying view. “Just wondering. Jesus.” She grips the boarding pass tighter and feels it poke into her palm as it crunches up. Plastering a smile on her face, she turns back to Emily and quickly places a chaste kiss on her cheek as they walk. It's supposed to be reassuring, but maybe it's really just overcompensation. No, it's nice. It's nice. It's the way it's supposed to be.

The security check is just ahead, looming over the crowds like some metaphorical monster, but Naomi assumes it's just more of her imaginative overreaction to this entire situation. Her mobile vibrates insistently in her pocket and she stops, unlaces her hand from Emily's and fishes it out. There's a single text.

I fucked up.

She finds it a little amusing that she has to double-check the sender because it really could have been any one of them. Effy Stonem. About fucking time. A wave of relief passes from her head to her toes. It's warm and calming. But then something settles in its wake, a cold sort of heavy sickening feeling. Katie is unaware, picking her nails in a decidedly unladylike way. Emily's eyes are darting every which direction around the airport, like she's trying to take it all in, like a puppy on its first day at the park. She's also blissfully unaware. Naomi prays for a good minute that Katie grabs for her mobile too, receiving some similar text from Effy.

Nothing happens and it just seems like they're randomly loitering in the foyer, for no particular reason. Perhaps it seems suspicious and any moment, burly security will tackle them and escort them outside, and bar them from the flight. There shouldn't be this much doubt; she shouldn't be constantly daydreaming of a way out of this holiday. That's not okay. She's not okay. She feels a need to stay, if not for herself, for Effy and Cook. But that's just fucking bonkers and she knows this too. She should go to Goa, but it just feels like she's running behind, grasping at Emily to try to keep up, hoping the love of her life will tug her along forever. But lately she's been running in place as Emily gets farther and farther away. It's not right. Chancing a look at her mum is a bad idea; she knows this as soon as it happens because her mum's eyes are already on her, studying, searching.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” It's soft, and too knowing. Everyone knows too much. Everyone except her, it appears. She ignores her mum, her attention rapt on her girlfriend.

There's a long pause as Emily finally focuses on her girlfriend's face. It literally takes 4 seconds after that for everything to click into place. The redhead shakes her head slowly, and almost imperceptibly.

Her eyes begin to water and the resulting guilt settles uncomfortably into a familiar place in Naomi's gut.

“Please.” Emily says just that single word, but even that is too much to hear. She accompanies it with a stronger, more defiant shake of her head, as if pure will alone can alter the pre-decided path. It's fate perhaps, to break Emily's heart. It doesn't seem to matter how hard they both fight against it, it always ends up the same.

“Wait for me,” Naomi tries, almost flailing for hope, fighting against inevitabilities. And it's a stupid request because that's all Emily had ever done: waited for Naomi to catch up.

“Will you love me, til then? Forever, Naomi?”

There's a pause that says more than any words could. Naomi wants to promise that, wants to scream affirmations of everlasting love. But reality holds her back, doubt, uncertainty. Truth. Instead, she remembers how she had been the first and only one to visit Effy in hospital the last time, until she had assured an uncharacteristically nervous Katie that Effy was actually all right to be seen; how Emily has support, of all kinds and Effy has barely a mother at most. Responsibilities. Habits. They're merely weak justifications for the action she's about to commit to. And aren't they really just the same thing? Things you must do. She purses her lips tightly and wills the quiver to subside. Her eyes sparkle with the birth of tears. They never escape but Emily sees it anyway.

She looks down, shakes her head slowly, a minuscule movement really. It causes Naomi's pressed sob to catch in her throat. They both know what's next.

“It's over?”

There's no reason for it to be a question. The answer is already clear. There will be no struggling to keep up any longer.

So Naomi runs the other way. It's just what she knows how to do.

After she leaves Emily at the airport with tears slowly burning trails down her cheeks and her chest so painfully constricted that it feels like crushing punishment, she knows immediately she can't stay. Not in Bristol. Not in her – no, their – flat. Not with her fucking mum who doesn't know what the fuck is happening. She runs, but not because she's scared this time. No. She's running towards something instead of away from it, even though it may not seem like. Even though she feels twisted and tangled, turned upside down. There's something there. Maybe it's just a justification. Maybe not. She needs to save them both. The cycle has to end.

She keeps running, intent on a destination.

She needs to see Effy, sort it out; that's the great, selfless reason she abandoned the love of her short life in the airport. It suddenly seems far too impulsive and not that great after all. But she doesn't unpack her luggage. She scrapes the heel of her hands across her flushed and tear-strained cheeks and just insists that the taxi goes straight up the A38 instead of taking a right at Hereford, as she should. The driver drops her at Temple Meads instead. She gives him a hefty tip for the speed which he delivers her. She almost makes it to the ticket machine before her mobile rings, louder than she recalls it doing ever before, flashing her mother's number and she realises that she has 4 missed calls in the span of 20 minutes.

“What?”

There's some whinging about running away, being scared, not having to force things too quickly and all of it just goes in one ear and out the other. Naomi knows it's not about those things. Maybe it had been at one time; maybe a year ago such an insightful and motivational speech from her mother would have been helpful. Now it just rings hollow and redundant. This habit can't be broken, but at least she can break Emily's, even if it breaks them both in the process. Emily can move on, smarter, stronger. And Naomi knows she's broken, and she needs to be fixed. But in order to put things back together she has to break it all apart, into pieces.

Habits. People. There's no winning, just life. She doesn't have to worry about straggling along behind any longer. She knows she loves Emily too much. It sounds weak and clichéd, but she knows she has to let go before it kills them both. She feels like she just knows too much for her own good.

She impatiently interrupts the tirade and informs Gina that she's not coming home again, at least not for a while. She fingers the wad of bills in her pocket that had been meant for blissful, drunken nights in India as she speaks. The ticket machine prints out a one-way ticket to London, to Goldsmith's really. She insists that the university will take her, and comes clean about never really deferring the offer properly. She had decided on doing that from an internet café in Goa, probably. There's anger, a cold, quiet sort, that escapes from her mother's voice when she asks if she had ever really been planning on leaving the country. An indignant “Yes” echoes around her when she almost screams into her mobile.

Gina says nothing in response, just sighs in that resigned, almost disbelieving parental sort of way that let's Naomi now that she's the worst kind of disappointment. The call ends not long after that with a forced “I love you, sweetheart,” and Naomi's non-committal reply.

For some reason, when the call ends, she wills it to ring again. But it's not her mum's number she wants to see.

The train rattles along through the English countryside.

I fucked up.

She stares for what seems like a good ten minutes at Effy's text that caused her to abandon Emily, and the good life she knew. Three simple words. Painful in their raw honesty. But not the three words that are supposed to decide a person's life-path. Dialling the callback number, she puts the phone to her ear and waits.

The line opens. There's a pause and neither says a word. Naomi figures this is all part of the new Effy, or the old one. She can't decide. Doesn't seem to make a difference one way or another.

“I fucked up too,” Naomi states, not bothering with pleasantries. She can hear Effy's breathing on the other end of the line. That's enough. “I fucked up well and proper, Eff.” She wants to explain what happened. How she loved someone so much that she couldn't love them properly anymore; how it becomes too much. But that was all gibberish nonsense and likely wouldn't help mentalcase Effy sort

things out any faster. The simple explanation would involve the tangible basics: leaving Ems at the airport, trying to shove her ticket into Katie's balled fists as she ignored the hatred that flowed from her face, ignoring her mum's disappointed and gutted yet pathetically oblivious stare. Her breath hitches instead, choking a sob out against her will.

“I didn't love him.” Effy's voice cuts through the cacophony in her head. It's toneless, empty. Absent of everything, and she realises that Effy had never not felt anything despite her claims – not until now.

Everything else had just been a ruse because she had never sounded as hollow she does now, like the words are echoing around inside an empty shell.

“Eff?”

Effy continues as if she's talking to herself. “Not properly. He died for me, like it all meant something important and I couldn't even love him like that. How fucked up is that? Well done, Elizabeth. Well fucking done, you useless slag.”

“Effy. Stop it.” There's a cold chuckle on the other end of the line and it sends chills straight through Naomi's body. “It's not your fault, you know that right?”

The chuckle grows louder but still just as vacant... until it abruptly stops. “Does it matter?”

There's a hint of disbelief in the tone of the question suggesting that Effy does consider it her fault, but it is ignored. Her actual question hangs in the air. Does it matter? Naomi doesn't know what matters and what doesn't anymore cos the whole world has gone completely tits up and things like love –real pure love-- are thrown away while a pathetic loneliness and solitary existence seem to be taken up, again and again. Does anything matter? Naomi struggles for a response, even something placating, no matter how false. She opens her mouth and loses hold of whatever words she had planned to say. There's a click and the line goes dead before she replies. Just as well, maybe. She dabs the corners of her eyes with a tissue and sniffles, swallowing down what she knows is another sob.

The train lurches languidly and Naomi is struck with memories suddenly: of open days, betrayals, college excursions to London, summer breezes, picnics, and, strangely enough a feeling of lightness, of a heavy weight being lifted, or maybe just pushed aside for the time being. She knows better than to believe running will be any different this time. But if her problems never catch up, it can't be that bad. There are other people who have worse ones, and she knows she has to do what she can to help them. Dreams, illusions. Fanciful delusions. She grasps onto them as some sort of security for the upheaval she's about to send her life into. Scrolling through her contacts, past Sid and Freddie, Cook and Panda, her mum, her broken love Emily, she settles on the single solution. She presses talk and waits, letting out a nervous breath right before it connects.

“Hi, Ms. Stonem. It's Naomi again.”

THE END

-----------------------

FIC: disintegration [3/4]

doreah — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 18:05:31 GMT

Full notes in Part 1

It's been about 42 hours since she's had a drink, and she feels strangely fine. Just more evidence that she wasn't an addict, didn't have a problem and everyone was just over-reacting. Regardless, she feels good about her accomplishment, and even more pleased about the sparkle in Emily's eyes. She'd forgotten that the numbing worked both ways: on the good and bad, and the good was slowly seeping back as well. But she's insanely restless. Goa is soon and she's yet to pack a thing. Emily's almost completely ready, and constantly pushing for Naomi to hurry up and do the same. They talk about it at the supper table every meal and Gina is constantly piping up with her own suggestions. Emily brushes over the fact that her parents won't be accompanying her to the airport since they're in Spain but she smiles at Gina and admits that it's all right because at least one mum is there.

But there's something else missing and it's nagging at Naomi constantly. It has nothing to do with the resistance to packing, or the deep down fear of going to Goa, because Naomi reminds herself that those things actually don't exist. She's just imagining them out of habit. Pure habit. She's gaining ground, catching up. But she's still checking her mobile like it's her new addiction. The texts she wants to see never come. There's no word from Cook, and despite both herself and Katie trying to track him down, they fail to figure out where he's being held. There are far too many prisons in England. It nags at her conscience, when she's lying awake at night, as if it's a responsibility that she has, and that's she failing amazingly at. But more than Cook, she thinks about Effy and her disappearance. There had been no time before the funeral to go round the Stonem's and check up on her. Katie mentioned going by once, but leaving soon after when there was no answer.

The listlessness inside Naomi propels her out of the house, to walk aimlessly while Emily is shopping for more gear for their holiday or out with Katie. She chooses different neighbourhoods each time,

struggling to place inebriated memories and recall anything of value. Without really making a decision, she knows eventually where she'll end up.

Bristol seems foreign somehow as she walks up the road to Effy's house. It's grey and miserable like always, the people seem to be the same, everything looks the same, the buildings, the streets, the parks.

Yet nothing really feels... real. Like any moment, she'll be surrounded by cameras with some loudmouth American twat yelling about how he's taking the piss. Freddie will be there too, grinning and Cook will give him a high-five and they'll all be standing around laughing at her and her sodding miserable mess of a life. Because friends aren't supposed to just die, doctors aren't supposed to be mental, and everyone else is not allowed to just leave. It's all some part of a cruel joke. Absolutely.

When she rounds the bend, her hopes fall. There is no television crew to mock her. No Cook. No Freddie. All she sees is more grey, and Effy Stonem's front door about 10 paces away, her front garden

piled high with debris. The gate squeaks open and she surveys the large rubbish bins overflowing with broken objects and mess. A dismantled bed frame lies in pieces, providing a suitable sort of bench. Though everything is damp, it smells like smoke and burnt wood. Musky and abandoned. She rings the doorbell twice and is somewhat surprised at the absolute silence surrounding her. It's eerie and her skin starts to crawl. She glances quickly over her shoulder, paranoid about baseball bat-wielding psychopaths. The garden is still empty. She knocks this time, perhaps the buzzer is just broken, like everything else.

No sound, no movement. The sky has opened up again and a light drizzle is slowly coating everything in sight. Without really understanding why, she takes a seat on the pile of wood that was once Effy's bed. She can tell by the carvings of initials and filthy words in the headboard, some of which were done by her own hand. She traces her fingers over a ridiculous 'EF+NC' engraving. It had seemed cool at the time, sitting on Effy's bed, half in the bag with a pocket knife passing between the two of them. Effy had laughed, in a kind of maniacal way in retrospect, at Naomi's complete lack of creativity. She had then taken her cigarette and burned a spot on the lop-sided heart accompanying the letters, her laugh dying quickly. Of course, then just as randomly as that action, Effy had run off to Italy after a total of 3 days in Bristol.

Naomi lights her own cigarette this time, inhaling slowly, savouring it until it's burning hot enough then plunging it against the little “+” sign between the initials. She can't explain why, even to herself.

There's suddenly a creak of the heavy door and she glances up to see an unfamiliar boy shuffling into the garden. He's watching her, almost indifferently, as if it's a normal occurrence to see strangers loitering in the yard in the rain. His shaggy hair pokes out from under his cap and he offers a hesitant, confused sort of smile in greeting. Pulling out his earbuds, he steps down to the front walk.

She wonders if this is Tony Stonem. He's certainly nothing like she expected. While Katie Fitch may not have impeccable taste in boys, she had been quite adamant about how fit Effy's mental brother had

been. This boy was not up to Katie's standards. He looked more the type to spend his days alone on the internet, not chatting up ladies. But then, Effy had mentioned only briefly that the accident had changed him. Honestly, Effy could have made everyone's lives a hell of a lot easier had she just divulged a little bit more. Then Naomi wouldn't be sat, in the wet, on a broken bed, waiting for a friend who may or may not ever be coming home as some strange boy struggled with something to say.

Clearing her throat, she attempts to get his attention. It works, sort of. He turns to her. “Hello.”

Seriously? That's it? She nods, “Hi.”

Appearing to change his mind, he turns back around, shoves a key back into the lock, fiddling with it unsuccessfully. He jams the key in a final time and gives it a good shake until the lock releases. The

door opens and she resists the urge to lean forward and peer into the house. As he steps inside, he mumbles something that she can't make out.

“Pardon?”

He turns, finally out of the rain. “I said, are you waiting for something?” He pushes his glasses up with a finger before shaking the rain from his hair like a dog. Naomi sneers slightly.

“Yeah, Effy.”

He shifts, obviously uncomfortable. “Uh yeah, right. She's not coming back.” He shrugs, “You know.”

But Naomi doesn't know. She doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on and it's starting to piss her off. The rain starts to hit her with fat drops of cold water. This is bullshit. She stands and moves towards the doorway. She pushes her way past the boy who is barely taller than her. She could take him in a fight, she reckons. Her breath catches though as she enters front foyer. It's empty, almost. Some bottles litter the floor. A large crack has spidered across the wall. Stepping into the front room, there's nothing but a few more bottles, a chair, a half collapsed table and an old painting. It still smells like fire still, but she can't see any charred walls.

Turning to the boy again, she pins him with her best glare. “What are you doing here? Are you a squatter?” His hands are shoved in his jeans pockets, and he rocks back on his heels, almost impatiently.

He chuckles and slips the key out of his pocket. “Anthea asked me to help clear it out. Saw you sitting on Eff's bed and remembered something else.”

Naomi seems to consider this news for a moment and just continues to look around slowly. He breaks the silence again. “You know Effy's been sectioned, yeah?”

The news shouldn't be surprising, and it shouldn't hurt as much as it does. The bitch could have at least mentioned that in her voicemail. It still didn't make any fucking sense though. She wants to ask him if he's fucking with her, but he's gone towards what used to be a familiar kitchen. There are some empty boxes that he picks up and makes his way towards the stairs. Naomi finally moves and follows, curious about the state of the rest of the house.

It's just as barren as the front hall. The stranger is placing a bunch of odds and ends into one of the boxes. A photoframe with no photo, some candles, little figurines that had been apparently thrown around the room. Effy's room echoes with each movement. A few floor pillows are stacked where her bed used to be. She softly pokes at a pair of Effy's old plimsolls with her toes, feeling uncomfortable to be standing in this room, empty as it is. Like someone is slowly erasing parts of her life, her memories one by one. Everyone was disappearing. Soon she'd be left with nothing but dreary, grey sky.

“I called the hospital,” she offers to the stranger. “They said Effy wasn't there.”

He turns around, almost like her had forgotten she was standing there. “Um, yeah. She's not in Bristol anymore. They've gone to London. Better resources or some bollocks.” He sounds resentful for some reason. Naomi doesn't know who this is or why he would be upset about the Stonems moving. He seemed like just another neighbourhood kid. “But that's it, right? Everyone leaves in the end.” He tosses a wooden elephant into the box with so much force that it bounces back out again and the trunk breaks off as it hits the floor. He kicks it towards the rubbish bin in the corner. Naomi eyes the broken item curiously, and as if he catches her gaze, he shrugs and speaks again.

“It's not like she'll miss it if she doesn't remember it existed.” It's supposed to be a justification for his actions apparently, but the words seem heavy and layered with another meaning that Naomi can't grasp, like he's not really talking about the elephant at all.

She's curious now. “You're from Bristol?”

“Unfortunately,” comes the grumbled reply. “You too, I'm guessing.”

She nods and he lets out a short, disdainful chuckle. “Figures. Bloody lonely place.” Without warning, he just drops the box to the ground. “Fuck it.” He fishes in his pockets for a moment. “Spliff?” And

without waiting for her reply, he falls onto the pillows and sparks his lighter, dragging slowly on the joint. She tentatively sits down beside him and he passes it to her silently. They don't say anything until the spliff is almost gone, content to merely exist in the empty space, wandering inside their own heads. Naomi shifts and catches a glimpse of something underneath the edge of the pillow. She fishes it out and sees it's a torn photograph of some other unfamiliar boy. The boy beside her glances over at it and lets out a derisive huff.

“Everyone leaves.” He snatches it from her hands and tosses it away. “Mates, dads, girlfriends. Fucking everyone.” She merely stares at him, squinting and trying to make sense of his meaning.

“You could too. I mean, like, go after them.” She wants to push the subject, remind herself that it's not as hopeless as this boy seems to think it is.

He's staring at the opposite wall, blankly but a disbelieving half-smile creeps over his face. “Nah. Sometimes you can never catch up once they're gone. Doesn't matter.”

“Why not?” She's curious how he can be so sure.

Shaking his head, he flicks ash off the joint before inhaling deeply, slowly exhaling, making her wait for a response. “Cos sometimes, by the time you catch up, if you do, you can't really remember who they were to begin with cos all the time it's been about catching up, yeah. Then other times, you can catch up to them, remember all that shit, chase them all over the fucking world, literally, but... I dunno. Your heart just lags behind and it never quite keeps up with how fast you're running. And theirs too. Or whatever. It's fucked either way.”

“Deep,” Naomi states, with a chuckle. He glances over at her and smiles, shaking his head. He offers her the remaining bud and she takes one last drag before squishing it out on the floorboards. “Some girl broke your heart then?”

He shrugs again, and she's beginning to think that he's got some sort of tick cos he sure does it a lot.

“Among other things.”

She leans her head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, me too.” The truth slips out before she can stop it. It was unexpected because, all this time, she had thought her heart was finally healing, almost better. But now, at this moment, it feels more broken than ever. Empty and cracked. Even with the knowledge of Emily waiting at home, somehow it feels as if everything is slipping away, the truth hiding, lurking, somewhere just beyond her vision.

It's probably just the weed, she reminds herself. Yeah, it's just the drugs making her paranoid and stupid. But she can't help thinking about the boy's words about the heart never quite catching up even though it seems like everything else is on track.

He rises from the pillows and picks up the box again, throwing more items into it without much care.

“I'm used to getting left behind,” he mumbles. His brown eyes meet hers, and she struck with some odd sense of connection, a sad camaraderie. (Just the drugs, she says again in her mind.) She bites her tongue before she can agree. Huffs instead, pretending to be bored, or annoyed. Whichever works.

Fucking wanker. What does he know anyway? Sad sack. She stands up too, her foot prickling with pins and needles.

The box is full and the room completely empty then. Naomi picks up the pillows under her arms and follows the boy down the stairs. He places the box on top of another near the door. She leans the

pillows against the wall alongside them.

“I can give you the number for Effy's place in London,” he suggests as they stand at the door. “But it's at home.”

Naomi nods, unsure what he's trying to say until he pulls out his mobile. “Give me your number and I'll text you.”

She recites it, feeling strange. It's the first time she's been asked for (and actually given) her number to any male in ages. Or any person, for that matter. “What's your name anyway?”

She can kind of see why he's so lonely. His awkward and almost blunt way of talking isn't exactly a charming trait. “Naomi.” He nods and types it into his phone. He looks at her for a moment, and before she has the chance to ask, he extends his hand.

“Sid.” She shakes his hand, the oddly formal gesture feeling out of place and he quickly busies himself with his phone again.

Hers vibrates almost immediately afterwards. She plucks it from her bag and sees the new number.

“Just checking,” he says, an almost embarrassed smile passing over his face. She clicks to save the number.

“Nice to meet you, Sid,” she states. “Thanks for the, erm, drugs.” She wants to say 'talk' but she reckons that makes her seem just as pathetic as he is.

“Anytime.” A forced laugh comes out of his mouth.

She opens the door, grimacing at the weather, before turning back. “Text me that number, yeah?”

He nods again. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” She turns and leaves before it gets any more awkward. Effy's gate snaps closed behind her. The cool rain washes away some of the weird sense of gloomy connection she felt. She makes a note to ask Katie who the fuck Sid is.

At the time it happens, Naomi doesn't realise it's their last full-on fight. She had returned from Effy's hours ago, and received not one but three text messages from Sid with varying degrees of awkwardness. But now she has the number of the Stonem's flat in London now.

She's sitting in her bedroom when Emily enters. She's just ended a conversation with Anthea Stonem. It wasn't Effy, but it was close enough and the strain and fatigue in the other woman's voice somehow put Naomi more at ease than her own mum's forced cheerfulness and Emily's constant reassurance. There was a reason to be upset, to be struggling. It wasn't just in her own mind. Regardless, Anthea had seemed almost pleased to chat with someone who even remotely understood the situation.

There's no preamble beforehand, at least none that Naomi is aware of. She's sober and her head is pounding from the weight of her last conversation. Effy's not speaking again. Again? Naomi's not sure she understands that comment but she only assumes it's a very bad sign. Meanwhile Emily is scowling about something and all Naomi desires is a warm bed and cuddly, quiet, happy girlfriend.

“Are you ever going to stop lying to me?” she asks, quite harshly. The accusation is not lost on Naomi, muddled as she may feel. Emily swings the bedroom door closed with a loud slam, and Naomi flinches so hard that she nearly slips off the edge of the bed.

“I don't know what you're going on about now, Ems, but can we just—.”

“Just what? Leave it?” Emily interjects. Her lack of patience is already obvious. “Where were you this afternoon?”

Naomi runs a hand over her face and sighs. “Seriously, Em. Let it be.”

But she knows better than to think, even to entertain the idea for a second, that Emily will ever just let it be anymore. She's broken the redhead's trust far too many times, and far too devastatingly to ever be afforded the benefit of the doubt again. And that knowledge disgusts her suddenly because they're not supposed to be like this anymore. Things are supposed to be fixed and better and not full of anger and mistrust. It's fucking bullshit, is what it is. She doesn't deserve to be treated like some ASBO twat. She's not on some sort of fucking probation.

“No, Naoms. I need to know. I'm worried about you.”

Naomi shrugs, a familiar gesture, and stands, pulling down the duvet and sliding under the covers.

Emily's still standing, hands on hips, in the middle of the bedroom floor when Naomi reaches over and turns out the bedside lamp. She knows she's not making things any better for herself, but for some reason, she doesn't want to tell Emily. Partly because she shouldn't have to lay out her minute-by-minute activities and partly because she's not sure Emily would understand. This issue with Effy is her own to cope with; her own to handle. It's hers and no one else's. Maybe it's a remnant from being an only child that she still has a problem sharing what's hers but she doesn't really see the need to let

Emily in on the problem this time.

She can hear Emily stomping around to the other side of the bed and the cold rush of air lets her know that she has company under the duvet. “Tell me, please, Naomi.”

Naomi squeezes her eyes shut, willing the annoyance to go away. “Why? It's nothing.”

“If it's nothing, why can't you tell me?” Emily always was a quick one. Her tone is making it crystal clear that Naomi's pathetic evasions are teetering precariously between irritating and downright

infuriating.

“Just because, okay?” She's bloody tired of arguing all the time. “I wasn't at the fucking pub, if that's your damn problem.” She clenches her eyes shut even tighter as if pure strength alone will catapult her into unconsciousness.

“Oh, because I'm concerned about you, it's suddenly the worst thing ever?”

Naomi tries to bury her face into the pillow but finds that breathing becomes too difficult that way. She concedes. “You're not worried. You're looking for something I've done wrong again so you can punish me. Don't you think we've both had enough? For Christ's sake, Ems.”

A small hand snaps out and yanks Naomi onto her back, her eyes opening reluctantly to stare a darkened ceiling. Emily's there in a few more seconds, hovering above her. Even in the dark, Naomi can see the fight in her eyes. “You're so full of shit,” she snarls, and Naomi is taken aback by the sound.

But something about the way Emily is over her, and that look in her eyes makes her feel less scared than she thinks she should be.

“You do this all the time to me, Naoms. It's killing me.”

There it is. The breaking point. Emily's body instantly becomes less rigid with the admission, but she doesn't back away. Naomi wants to feel bad about this, wants to feel apologetic but she can't help but feel Emily brought it on herself. All these arguments, this resentment and tension, they're not her doing anymore. There is however, despite her attempts at the contrary, a niggling of guilt worming around in the recesses of her mind. Despite how it may appear, she doesn't enjoy having Emily so unhappy. She doesn't like not being trusted, or having these rows every week. She misses the days when all it took was a smile to inspire a similar one on Emily's face. Now everything is layered with justifications and explanations. Too many fucking words.

It's killing them both.

It can't go on like this forever. She takes a deep breath.“I just went for a walk, around Effy's neighbourhood.”

Emily rolls onto her side then, relinquishing any physical control she had of the situation. “And?”

Naomi huffs. Of course it couldn't have been that easy. “And nothing. I went for a walk, then I came home.”

“Did you see her?”

There had always been some sort of odd tension when Naomi spoke of Effy to Emily. She'd never been able to place the reason why, but it had already irritated her slightly. It's almost as if, maybe due to their friendship or Effy's track-record, Emily believes Effy will steal Naomi away. It's a ridiculous concept really, and Naomi does recognise her own tendency to run to Effy when things with Emily become complicated. But that's just friendship, she figures. Maybe if Emily didn't push, Naomi wouldn't run.

“No. She wasn't there.” It's the truth.

“So you checked then.” The accusation, whatever it means, strikes a chord of annoyance within the blonde.

Naomi withholds a sad chuckle as Emily's issues come to the forefront. “Yeah. Of course. She's our friend.” Naomi makes sure to stress the word 'our'. It probably won't make a difference but it's worth a shot. Emily shakes her head, and Naomi's not sure if she's disagreeing with the observation or Naomi's actions anymore; always hiding, keeping secrets, even innocuous ones. Effy's friends really are dropping like flies. She winces inwardly at the thought. The redhead shuffles around, a defeated sort of posture obvious in her shoulders, even lying in bed. It kills Naomi a little bit too.

“Don't think I've forgotten, Naoms,” Emily whispers, sounding fatigued. Naomi hopes this isn't about Sophia, or some weird issue with hanging out with Effy last summer. “You loved me since you were 12.”

Oh.

“What does that even mean to you? You says things, Naomi. Say wonderful things to me when you need to but you never follow up. I just don't understand.”

“I meant it,” Naomi assures her, but it comes out a little less convincing than she had planned. “I mean it.” She chooses not to remind Emily about the fact it's killing her.

“You said all those things. All the things you did, cos you were scared, cos you wanted to push me away. Why are you still scared? Why are you still pushing me away? I thought you were finally telling the truth.”

“Ems...”

Emily sighs again, sinking further into the bedsheets. “Love changes people, yeah?” Naomi nods in affirmation. “That means I've been changing you for 6 years. Christ, what have I done?” Her voice is broken and lost. Emily runs a hand over her face. “What have you done?” It's horrible: the idea that maybe they've done this to each other, like they are each others' Frankensteins. It's supposed to make people better. Maybe this feeling she's always had of being torn was just Emily rearranging her parts. Like stripping her of her lungs when she couldn't breathe; zapping Naomi with electrodes to jump-start her brain; ripping out a piece of her own fiercely beating heart, sewing it to a piece of Naomi's soul. At this point, they're so tightly sutured to each other that even the smallest tear would cause unimaginable pain, she reckons. But they're so, so tangled... It needs to give for both of them.

As final fights go, it's pretty anti-climatic. For anyone else, and in fact for Naomi herself, it hardly seems like the kind of thing to end a relationship over. Merely a spat, the usual kind of disagreement that had pervaded their relationship for a year now.

Maybe that's entirely the point.

An hour later, they're having sex and the incident is pushed aside, like it can't hurt them. Like it never happened. Two hours later, in the middle of the night almost, Naomi finally begins packing her suitcase for Goa, as Emily watches, still naked in bed and smiling.

PART 4

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FIC: disintegration [2/4]

doreah — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 17:34:14 GMT

Full notes in Part 1

Emily's gone again. Naomi doesn't care where any longer. Doesn't care when she'll get home, if she comes home. The front door slammed long ago and the half moon's light has been piercing through the gaps in her bedroom curtains for fucking hours. It was stupid to think things could change so quickly, she knows. She knew it at Freddie's shed. She'd just proven it to herself now. Like an elastic band, time has just snapped right back again. She also knows it's equally pointless to ask Emily to pack her bags because one of them will give in at the last moment, and they fall back into the world of apologies and make-believe promises of “It'll be different this time.” It never is, it's just pretend for as long as the charade lasts. Inevitably it will splinter, and on again the cycle will continue.

Naomi hopes that once her mum gets back, she'll have the strength to either sort this out for good, or let go completely. She feels herself on the very edge but unable to ever take that final step. Mums were supposed to be good at making you do the right thing. It worked in the past. Didn't it?

She turns over quickly, cursing the spinning in her head after just a few drinks. Obviously it hadn't been quite enough to knock her out. She pulls the duvet practically over her head in an attempt to block out the slivers of pre-dawn light, even though that wasn't really the problem. It's probably about 10 minutes later that she hears the door shut, the thump reverberating throughout the house. Maybe Emily will just crash on the sofa. That would certainly make things easier.

Instead she senses, rather than hears, the presence in the room. Purposely evenly out her breathing, she pretends to be asleep. It's sort of a surprise when Emily pulls back the duvet and crawls in, smelling strikingly not like cigarette smoke and Mandy's perfume. (Naomi had finally narrowed down the origin of that scent a week ago.) Emily just smells like trees and grass and rain. She feels like it too as Naomi flinches at the cold and damp fingers brushing against her exposed waist, rising gooseflesh meeting the redhead's fingertips. It feels like the hand of death until Emily's palm is pressed firmly into Naomi's abdomen, and she shifts herself up against the almost unresponsive body in front of her and Naomi wills her breathing to remain steady and not expose the shock she's feeling at this change of pace. This isn't them, this isn't how it had been for a year. This is a flush of memory.

She knows that this is the part where the reconciliation comes, and they start pretending to be okay again.

Emily still feels cool, like she had actually been outdoors all night and is chilled to the bone. Fucking great. There was no point resisting anymore. Naomi pushes back into the smaller girl's embrace, intertwining their fingers and pulling Emily's arm tighter. She feels a shaky breath tickle over her neck. Neither speaks. Emily doesn't offer any apologies that Naomi knows she doesn't mean anyway, and Naomi, for her part, pushes aside the resentment, for the time being. They'll simply revert to ignoring problems again. Their legs twirl together, Emily's incredibly cold feet seeking out the warmth of Naomi's, just like old times.

The next morning, she opens her eyes to Emily's gaze fixed determinedly on her. She sighs, yawns and then stretches before turning back to her girlfriend who remains seemingly unblinking.

“So how do we fix it then?” It's a tentative question. She's afraid of the answer.

There's a pause before an almost unrecognisable voice of her girlfriend whispers, “I don't know.”

The words move inside her, slowly, like snakes slipping between the crevices of her broken heart and strangling the faint hope that she knows exists somewhere in the remnants of its weakened beat.

I don't know. That's all it really takes. Emily had always just known. She had known everything before Naomi, leaving the older girl to catch up to every tit bit of knowledge, even about herself. But now?

Emily doesn't know. It isn't just the tired sigh of so many times before, like when she had just had enough arguing and wanted to end the conversation. No, this is different. This sounds honest. And if Emily doesn't know, than Naomi certainly has no fucking clue. She feels helpless, scrambling inside her own mind for something more concrete, a feeling even. Just anything that lets her know there is something left for them.

She comes up empty and it the realisation stings. She lacks the desire to even lie, to flounder and fight hopelessly for something. She looks at Emily's lips... and feels nothing. It's like liquor, really. She's lost the ability to even taste it, to remember why she indulges to begin with (though the mere speckle of thought gives her the urge to run downstairs and pour a drink immediately. She calms herself by making a promise to do that as soon as this discussion is over.) A part of her mind screams that it's not true. There's no fucking way in hell that after all this shit, the feeling has just vanished. Like it was never really there to begin with. That's just bloody stupid. Lost the plot completely. Cos something had been there and it had ached and stung like hell but felt really fucking wonderful sometimes.

She looks at Emily again, harder, squinting. Her lips, her eyes, hair, breasts, that curve of her waist, everything. She reaches out, slides her fingertips down a smooth, slender arm. She ignores the flinch (will that ever cease?). There is no comfort however in holding that small, warm hand in hers. Not anymore. There's no ember of desire glowing deep within her body.

Fuck.

Through all the ups and downs, the wanting (her one constant) had reminded her that she was alive.

Suddenly, with the realisation that the driving feeling no longer exists, she feels cold. Like a ghost.

No, this is not right. This isn't how it ends. Can't be. She won't let it.

She's spent the last year drifting aimlessly around, waiting, pretending. She doesn't want to act like a ghost, let alone be one, any longer.

“I love you.” It's painfully honest. Brutally so, she thinks because it hurts a little too much and takes a little too much effort to get those words past her tongue, almost as if each syllable is attached to a piece of her heart and it tears as they escape. Maybe that's the strength of a lie instead.

Emily's smile glows only for a brief moment before fading again. Like she appreciates the attempt but isn't entirely convinced. A sort of darkness settles into her eyes, almost as if she can read Naomi's mind. It wouldn't be the first time she's debated Emily's telepathic abilities. The worry must cross over her features noticeably because Emily furrows her eyebrows momentarily and searches the face in front of her.

“Okay, yeah,” she starts, then nods, and Naomi thinks that it's a really odd response to a declaration of love. “We can do it.”

There's a disconnect somewhere again. It's short-circuiting the whole conversation and Naomi wants to wince because she can almost see the burning sparks flickering and jumping out, warning them of

impending failure.

“We can fix it.” Emily concludes finally, rolling onto her back. She lets out a long sigh. Naomi says nothing in response until, almost a whisper, Emily asks, “Right?”

In order to harness her resolve, Naomi doesn't answer immediately. “Yeah.” It doesn't feel quite as forced as earlier. Momentarily forgetting her promise of distilled potatoes for breakfast, she smiles and curls around the girl in bed beside her. She may not feel the tug of want at the moment, but she wants to want again.

It seems like enough.

They don't really get a chance to even attempt to patch things up solidly. When the doorbell rings and Naomi answers it to a considerably dishevelled looking Katie, she immediately calls upstairs for Emily. Mascara stains strip Katie's face and she can't seem to actually form any words. A sob instead escapes. Naomi fears the worst obviously, and ushers the twin inside and onto the sofa. Emily comes stomping groggily down the steps and face to face with her distressed sister. Her face blanches at the sight. Walking slowly over, Naomi holds out her hand in support and realises it's shaking terribly. She snatches it back without thinking, opting instead to make a beeline into the kitchen. When she returns, both girls are on the sofa, sitting silently.

“What is it, Katie?” Emily's voice is hardened with fear and frustration, but it trembles still. Naomi places the drinks down on the coffee table carefully. The whiff of vodka penetrates her nose even. After a quick sip, she perches carefully next to her girlfriend, waiting for Katie to stop sobbing and give them whatever terrible news is keeping her schtum.

“It's Freddie,” Katie finally whimpers and Emily lets out a breathe that Naomi knows is relief. It would seem callous perhaps, but no doubt Emily expected her family to be involved. But as the initial wave of relief passes, dread settles over them both. The truth is sinking in, assumptions being made. Naomi feels a familiar choking sensation and Katie barely has to even say anything because they all know already.

“Cook's in jail.”

It's shocking, terrifying, real. Freddie in trouble; Cook in prison.

No one says anything for a moment, before Emily hesitantly begins to speak. “Did Cook...?” She avoids Naomi's glare as the words come out, knowing exactly the accusatory death stare being shot in her direction.

“Emily.” Naomi's voice is low and holds a tone of warning, irrational anger bubbling in her head with the insinuation. Instead of arguing, Emily glances over to her girlfriend and takes her hand instead. She squeezes it. It's grounding and the animosity evaporates.

“Freddie's dead, Ems.”

It's a very strange sensation for a while in the living room. No one says anything, not a sound. It's possible no one is even breathing. Naomi isn't sure what to make of the news, as if it's not actually possible to be real. Katie is silently wiping the palm of her hands over her cheeks, smearing any remaining mascara even further. Emily's lips are pursed in thought and she's staring unblinking at a spot on the carpet. Neither of the girls can seem to process Katie's words yet. When no response emerges, Katie continues after a strangled hiccup.

“It's not Cook, you know. Effy rang. He rang Effy. His shoes. Her doctor...” At this point, the truth is like an 800 piece puzzle and they've only got the edges sorted out. And no one has the top of the box for reference.

“Please start making sense, Katie,” Emily pleads, not angrily. Just fearfully.

Katie recounts a garbled version of the events to the best of her knowledge, which truthfully isn't much. Naomi wants to know which prison, but Katie doesn't know. Emily wants to know about Freddie, and she doesn't know the answer to those questions either. Effy was not exactly a talkative person at the best of times, let alone moments after the apparent murder of her boyfriend by a lunatic. Katie becomes frustrated and upset by the questions pestering her and breaks down again leaving Emily to huddle up beside her, breaking her grasp on Naomi's hand and replacing it with her sister's. Naomi stares at the exchange for a moment, feeling like a sad voyeur suddenly. She rises, triggering only a split-second acknowledgement from her girlfriend and rushes upstairs for her mobile.

Sitting on her bed, she speed-dials Effy's number. It goes to voicemail and she leaves a brief message, willing the tremolo of her voice to subside. She tries the Stonem household. It rings and rings, indefinitely. Searching through her outgoing call list, she finds an unnamed number. It was the number of the hospital from before. The nurse on the other end has no patients by the name of Elizabeth Stonem.

She sets her phone to vibrate, not wanting to miss a call from either Effy or Cook. It feels like she's stuck in the previous summer again, waiting on a call from Cook and Effy, letting them all rest easy

knowing that they're safe. Naomi never did receive a word from Effy when she had run away, only when she had returned, and again only mere short text messages from Italy. And nothing from Cook.

Part of her hoped neither would return her call. Then she could just pretend they've run off together again. Partying, fucking, not in prison, not in despair, not with a dead best friend.

But pretending is useless, she knows that much for sure despite her almost professional skill. It never really works the way it's supposed to. So she worries instead, pulling a ¾-empty mickey of vodka from under the bed, and raising it to her lips.

Naomi can't be sure how long it's been by the time she hears two sets of tentative footsteps going down the corridor to the spare room. There is murmuring amongst it all, the sound of a door closing softly. She tosses the empty plastic bottle in her hand over into a corner, thoughtfully chewing on a piece of gum. The blonde is surprised when the floorboards creak again at the entrance. She turns to see Emily standing there, shaken and pale, tears welling up noticeably in her brown eyes.

“Naoms,” she croaks weakly, a desperate pleading sort of sound that shatters Naomi inside and she knows this time exactly what Emily is thinking.

Everything seems to hit her then, full force. She stands abruptly and starts in the direction of the redhead. They meet halfway to the bed and Naomi's crushing kiss is enough to almost knock Emily off her feet. The twin grasps on to a loose t-shirt as Naomi's fingers almost claw at her scalp, securing them together, neither slipping. Emily's tears soak Naomi's thumbs, sliding down to her wrists and she pulls back, drawing a shuddering breath.

“If it was you, Ems...” she trails off, unable to finish the thought as if saying it aloud will tempt fate.

“I know.” Her voice is so small and feeble, terrified really, mirroring everything that is coursing through the air. The despair, fear; the whys, hows, and what ifs. Emily is trembling when she reaches

up and pulls Naomi's lips to hers again. The sparks are flying again, signalling a major malfunction or maybe a live connection; it's hard to tell anymore. But she feels every muscle under her fingertips,

every shaky breath, every desperate attempt to reconnect. As the remaining clothes are shed on the floor, the snapping feeling of electricity sparks life again.

The want is back, perhaps in the worst way possible.

In the midst of it all, Naomi's phone vibrates futilely against the carpet under her bed just as Emily comes hard, and bursts into tears clinging tightly to Naomi's body.

1 missed call.

Effy

Effy hadn't left a message. It had just been exactly 1 minute of silence, down to the second. Naomi had listened to the message 3 times thinking maybe there had been a whisper in there somewhere. There wasn't, and the number rings through directly to voicemail this time. Emily takes the mobile from Naomi's hands and places it on the bedside table, out of reach before linking their fingers, and pulling Naomi back down. They lie in silence, Naomi tracing patterns on Emily's clavicle with studious attention. It doesn't take Emily long to fall asleep. Naomi can't. She still can't, even after everything and now especially with Freddie's death and Effy's peculiar avoidance hanging over her head. She's become accustomed to this routine. She counts each breath Emily takes for a while, her own breath catching in unfounded fear when the pattern breaks and Emily doesn't inhale on cue. She waits, and thinks, and yawns. Sleep takes forever to find her.

Gina walks through the door early on the morning of the funeral three days later. Naomi's already awake, half-drunk and sloppily making beans on toast for two. The older woman makes a beeline for the kitchen and stops abruptly, hovering in the doorway. Her daughter glances over briefly, barely even registering the new presence. A spoonful of baked beans slips and falls with a foul kind of squishy sound to the tiled flooring. Naomi merely stares at it for a moment before continuing on with her task.

Gina steps over and takes a paper towel to wipe up the mess before standing quietly beside her daughter, waiting. But Naomi doesn't take the bait. She merely plops another spoonful of beans onto a piece of toast, then takes a swig from her glass, the aroma of cheap vodka swirling in the air between them.

“Naomi.” It's a single word but said with such a mixture of compassion and disbelief that it causes the younger girl to momentarily pause. Gina takes the opportunity to slide the vodka from her daughter's reach and take over the task of preparing breakfast. Mutely, Naomi just stares at the countertop.

“I'll give you a lift to the funeral, okay, honey?”

A nod is all that Naomi can muster at the moment without feeling like she's going to crack into pieces. She watches as her cup of juice and alcohol is dumped into the sink by her mother. “You need to stop this.” It's a statement. An easy statement said as casually as possible, as if it were really that simple.

Naomi wants to argue, but instead she presses her lips together tightly . They still quiver noticeably and a hot feeling begins to build up behind her eyelids. Fucking tears again.

“I'll help you, sweetheart.” Her mother places the utensils down and turns, gathering a shaking Naomi into her arms. She kisses the top of her head softly. “I'm sorry.” The admission causes Naomi's shoulders to hitch up and she squeezes her eyes shut to stop the tears before they escape. After a year,she's finally getting this from her mother. She didn't think actually leaving that message for her mum about Freddie's funeral would have actually changed things.

Quickly as it happens however, there's a cold breeze and Gina is back to serving up breakfast. “Now go upstairs and brush your teeth, wake Emily and come down for brekkie, 'kay?”

The rest of the morning passes mostly in silence. They try to make conversation, the three of them, but it fades out each time and eventually Gina gives up until it's time for the service.

It's fucking freezing in the cemetery. August is not supposed to be this cold. Naomi shivers and pulls Emily tighter against her side, their arms linked as if life itself depends on it, and maybe at this point it does. She glances around at the many faces of strangers huddled around this hole in the ground, in some morbid show of bleak pageantry that she still has yet to understand the meaning of. She doesn't recognise most of them and it hits her how little she actually knew about Freddie. The eulogy was almost like a cold shock because the information, the memories, the feelings were all things she didn't share. Almost as if Freddie was a totally different person than she knew, or pretended to know, at any rate. Now, Karen's sobbing. JJ's rocking back and forth on his heels, Lara by his side but looking rather overwhelmed by the experience. There's an empty space where Cook and Effy should be. Katie's on the other side of Emily, sniffling, but looking eerily immaculate with her waterproof make-up plastered on.

No one else she knows is here. There are a couple seemingly familiar faces from college, but she can't remember names and it's not like it matters anyway. Effy's absent even after repeated futile attempts to contact her. JJ's starts mumbling louder and becoming visibly more agitated as the minister continues. She glances down to see Emily watching JJ nervously and Naomi loosens her hold on the redhead. It's all the excuse Emily needs because she's floated over to JJ's side before Naomi even has a chance to blink.

She shouldn't be jealous. It's a goddamn funeral, for Christ's sake, for JJ's best mate. But she is. Jealous and hurt at being left to fend for herself again. Typically irrational. Before she has a chance to dwell too long, a cold hand slips into hers and Katie is standing there, staring ahead silently, but holding her hand all the same. Naomi realises the Emily had just ditched them both. Her anger evaporates and she squeezes slightly.

There's talking and movement and suddenly the wooden box is being lowered into the earth and Karen is crying hysterically and JJ looks as if he's about to claw his own eyes out, despite Emily's attempts to soothe him. Beside her, she can feel Katie shaking, and looks over to see her tears coming freely and her mascara no longer holding up to the barrage of salty water. Naomi just feels numb and cold, with a distant throb of a headache building behind her eyes. Completely and utterly frozen. She can't muster up any tears but she does unlock her fingers from Katie's and reaches out instead, pulling Katie closer. Her only thought is how different she feels than Emily.

It's kind of a blur perhaps but it's over and people are moving away slowly before Naomi realises. Emily's on her mobile, frantically talking while grasping JJ tightly and Lara is no where to be seen.

Katie has moved away from the only comfort she'd been offered with a sad, tight smile towards the blonde. Naomi wonders why she's ashamed to be weak at a funeral for her ex-boyfriend. Without thinking, she turns and follows Katie around to the crematorium archway down the path. It's sheltered from the rain and offers some sort of respite.

Katie says nothing but lights up a fag with ease. Naomi's a little surprised considering she'd rarely ever seen Katie smoke, and nothing other than spliff. She offers it up to Naomi, who accepts hesitantly.

“Heard from Effy?” Katie's voice is hard. She sounds irritated.

Naomi thinks about the blank message and decides that's not really news. She blows out a steady stream of cigarette smoke that swirls around them. “No.”

Katie scoffs, a sneer overcoming her features. “Figures. The stupid cow.” She takes a much deeper drag and coughs slightly, patting her chest momentarily. Her demeanour doesn't change however. “I thought I was her friend, yeah? Took care of her for ages. Do you know what it was like to find her covered in blood in that manky old person loo?”

Naomi doesn't know, and she shakes her head. She pulls out her own cigarette as Katie seems to have stopped wanting to share hers, her finger joints nearly turning white around the cigarette.

“Dumps all this shit on me. Now she can't even fucking talk to me. What the fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. It's shit.” Naomi curses herself for not having anything better to add to the conversation. She watches the twin instead, noting how despite her angry words, she has a build-up of water in her eyes

and her fingers are shaking as they balance her fag. For the first time, she's curious about Effy and Katie's relationship, whatever it was.

The brunette blows out a lungful of smoke. “She's not allowed to just disappear like this.” This time there's no mistaking the resentment in Katie's voice, but there's something else there as well. It's a kind of deep concern.

The blonde nods in agreement as she watches Emily jog towards them, without JJ in tow. By the time she reaches Naomi's side, Katie is ready to snap.

“Have fun with the mong?”

Emily's face darkens even further than it already was. “Don't.”

There's another loud scoff from the twin. “Right. Just run off and leave me alone there.”

Emily shakes her head in disbelief. “Don't be such a selfish prick. It's JJ. You know? Freddie's best mate? Honestly, Katie.”

Naomi wonders if Emily understands that Katie's behaviour isn't about JJ at all. If she does, she doesn't let it show. “I had to call his mum, by the way. I've never seen him that out of it. And Lara fucked off so what else was I supposed to do?”

Katie shrugs and flicks her cigarette into the wet grass. “Whatever.” Yeah, it's official, and sort of shocking: Katie misses Effy. Naomi searches her girlfriend's face for a similar epiphany there but is

greeted with nothing of the sort. Just a tired glare from one sister to another.

And truthfully, Naomi misses Effy too. She takes Emily's hand tightly and kisses her quickly. Anger evaporates into the air and the three girls walk down the road to where Gina is waiting.

She arrives home to find all her secret stashes of liquor empty. It seems like the worst time to decide to get sober and she curses her mother loudly as she slams the cabinet door shut. Gina enters the living room with two mugs of tea and offers one to Emily who is sitting on the settee, and stretches her arm to hand the other to her daughter. Naomi snatches it and settles resentfully beside Emily, taking a sip as her mother putters around, adjusting knick knacks. She pauses on a baby photo of Naomi and Emily shifts uncomfortably for some reason at the action.

“We'll fix it, love,” she says to Naomi but it seems as if she's talking to the baby in the photograph instead. She places the frame down again and turns to the girls. “Emily told me everything.”

Naomi wants to ask when the fuck Emily had the opportunity to spill all their secrets but realises it really wouldn't make much difference. The hot, ragged slice of betrayal is all that matters at the moment. She glares at Emily who meets her stare for a moment before turning back to her tea. She says nothing in her own defense. Gina notices the tension. “It's good, Naomi.” It sounds almost persuasive, almost true. But it doesn't stop the sting. She doesn't know if it's because she's sober, but everything feels so much harsher, so much more real than before. Her body hurts all over; her heart aches far more.

The cushion shifts as Emily leans over, laying a soft kiss on Naomi's temple. She can't resist tilting towards those lips, and fidgets, tucking some of her loose hair behind her ear.

They all just want to fix it. Her mum, Emily, everyone. But Naomi's not sure what exactly they are trying to fix. Is it her? Is she so broken that everyone can see, and it will take a group effort to put the pieces back together? Is she now Effy Stonem? Debating the outcome, she wonders what would happen if she really did shatter as completely as Effy. Would anyone truly bother at that point, or would she be slapped with a “Lost Cause” sticker and left to slowly disappear, out of sight and mind in some nameless facility?

Maybe she'd rather not be fixed. Maybe some things are better left broken. Maybe they can't be put back together.

Then Emily's hand slips into hers, warm, reassuring. She offers her girlfriend a small smile, and promises she'll try, at least for Emily's sake if not her own. That doesn't make the prospect of doing so seem much easier though. Her thoughts continually flicker back to Effy and futility.

PART 3

-----------------------

FIC: disintegration [1/4]

doreah — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 17:22:33 GMT

DISINTEGRATION

“When one's character begins to fall under
suspicion and disfavor, how swift, then,
is the work of disintegration and destruction.”
- Mark Twain

Author: Eskimo Jo
Pairing(s): Naomi/Emily, appearances by other Gen1/2.
Rating: T
Warning: Substance addiction/use, language, sexual situations.
Fanmix: one and two.
Summary: Maybe in order to break a habit, you have to shatter everything else around you too. Post-4x08, Naomi-centric.
Notes: This took a really long time to get out. Writer's block and a general dissatisfaction are bitches. I'm still not pleased with it entirely, but hopefully someone will find something to like. To me, it's a means to an end, tbh cos there is a sequel which I find much more interesting. This is kind of just an attempt to deal with some of the issues that were avoided, unsatisfactory or left hanging after S4, in my opinion (I was very unhappy with S4's finale, to put it lightly, lol.) And if you get the Peep Show references, I love you.
Thank You: Most of all to my wonderful beta, holeybubushka, who bravely took this on and tried to set me straight; especially as I dismembered and tortured her OTP. Thank you so much, bb! :) xx Also to anyone who encouraged me to finish, cos honestly without that, I would have probably just left this to wither and die. x
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Skins, Company Pictures, & Channel4. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

Samuel Johnson quote, by the way.

DOWNLOAD PDF: normal format || book format

Just a side note: There are probably some formatting issues with the web version cos I hate formatting html from documents. PDF probably has quite a few mistakes too.

The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken.

At least that's what her mum said when she had attempted to quit smoking for the fourth, unsuccessful, time. Naomi reckons she could have at least said it a little less dramatically. Like 'old habits die hard'. It was just as apt, but lacked that ridiculous flourish and flair that her mum had always possessed. She had said with conviction, as if a quote from some dead poet could justify her being caught sneaking a fag from her own daughter's pockets. The concept hadn't really concerned Naomi herself at the time. After all, her mum was often randomly quoting supposedly inspirational things that she overheard in that organic juice bar she was always banging on about. Mostly in some sort of attempt to seem like an in-touch mother-figure. (Course that would have been more easily accomplished by actually sticking around instead of running off to London with that awkward, chubby wanker she had a thing (as she put it) with once.)

But now, Naomi stirs from a disappointingly fitful sleep, glances over at the redhead snoring softly beside her, quietly slips from the bedroom and realises that occasionally her mum (or more likely, the source of her mum's wisdom: that gay guy who winked too much when handing over her smoothies) is right. It's unconscious almost. Like tying shoes or riding a bicycle. Bad habits penetrate absolutely everything about her existence now and she isn't sure exactly how, or if, she can break them.

It's not with pride that she immediately pulls out a half-empty bottle of vodka from the fridge instead of eggs and cheese. Honestly, it isn't even until the glass is sitting there, fully prepared with orange juice that she realises what she's done. Again.

But it's not like she's an alcoholic or anything. Everyone has their way to cope with things and under the constant barrage of Emily's silent rage over the last year, she had needed numbing. A coping mechanism. Cook has mindless sex and violence. Effy has drugs. JJ, drugs of a different kind. Emily had … Mandy so Naomi figures she's allowed something too. What difference does it really make where it comes from? She knows however that there's only so far she can bend that truth until it breaks. Carrying on as she had done for the past year may just snap it.

It should be easy to push the glass aside, dump it down the sink but there's a tug she vaguely recognises and it overpowers sensibility. Instead, she opts to pull out a mostly-eaten loaf of bread from the cupboard to accompany her liquid breakfast. She promises herself that she'll make a proper breakfast as soon as Emily wakes, just like old times. After all, that had been a habit too. Making and eating breakfasts together in companionable silence, peppered with sneaky grins and fresh memories of the night previous.

Surely that will just... return. It has to.

Of course, it would be helpful if they had anything to grin about this morning. Freddie's party for the absentee boy had been moderately eventful. In some ways it was fairly regular. The gang of them getting pissed up, Cook disappearing, and she not waking up with a clue how she got into bed. Brilliantly done, Naomi. She remembers bits and pieces, like the rather affectionate show in Freddie's garden when she and Emily hadn't actually realised they were on display like a pair of endangered species in a zoo. She remembers the vodka, and the wine, and the shots. And Emily's hand in hers as they stumbled back to hers. (She remembers too that even despite the pretty bandage applied to the relationship, she had stuck for a moment on the realisation she still considered the house hers alone.) Then she vaguely sees a park maybe. Swing sets.

She glances down at her knees, and sees an angry red blotch across one knee. There appears to be bits of gravel still stuck in the newly scabbed wound. Disgusting. She can't remember how or when that happened. She's pretty sure she passed out first when they finally made it into bed. Doesn't really matter what happened cos she can't remember it anyway. And considering she's still dressed in her pants from last night and an old t-shirt, she guesses not a lot. The state of her bedroom this morning would suggest otherwise however. Emily's clothes, every piece she seemed to own, were strewn absolutely everywhere; on top of the wardrobe, over chairs, hanging off lamps and radiators. She has a fuzzy recollection of tossing it all around, laughing with Emily, and claiming it was time to unpack for good.

Another brilliant idea. It had seemed so clever at the time, she's sure. But in the harsh light of a new day, it had looked more like a bomb exploded and it seemed far too similar to the state her house had been in prior to her rather random epiphany not 24 hours ago. Ugly. Dishevelled. Falling apart.

She gulps down a mouthful of her drink, and fails to wince at what she knows should be burning. The smell fails to trigger the normal hangover response. It only strengthens her desire to crush down the headache she knows is waiting in the fuzzy, dark corners of her brain.

Suddenly, a pipe clanks loudly above her head and she recognises it as the hot water for the shower turning on and a wave of disappointment floods through her body. She sips again. It was supposed to change after last night, wasn't it? Emily was meant to come downstairs, take Naomi's hand (and maybe a slice of cold toast to eat on the way) and drag them back up the stairs to shower. That's how it had been when her mum was out of town during the summer, and still when college started before the incident on the fucking rooftop carpark and all Emily's incessant nosing about. It was what they did. It had been their morning habit. But no, this was altogether too familiar in the wrong way.

Naomi considers boiling some eggs, or actually putting the toast in. Maybe cracking open a can of baked beans. Instead, she sits and waits for the tell-tale 3 clangs of the pipes signalling the end of the shower above. The waiting, the anticipation is doing her head in, and she drinks again. It's easier now. But she's not sure what it is that is easier. The drinking or the waiting.

Eventually, and just as Naomi almost finishes her drink, Emily appears in the doorway, dressed casually in a t-shirt and a pair of Naomi's track bottoms. They're about a good foot too long and pile up around her tiny feet. Naomi wants to think it's adorable and a very good sign but the insecure look on Emily's face steals that potential happiness away. It's like the previous night had been nothing but a fucking tease of a dream. They merely stare at each other for a beat, each trying to decipher what the next move is supposed to be. It's heavy and awkward but Naomi breaks first, something else that had also become habit. She stands slowly and plucks the loaf off the countertop, pulling out two slices of whole wheat bread and popping them in the toaster. Emily relaxes visibly and falls into the empty seat at their sorry excuse for a kitchen table. As Naomi turns, she sees Emily's hand reach out for the near- empty glass. It looks just like orange juice of course. She opens her mouth to halt everything but the warning sticks under her tongue. It's too late anyway as Emily pulls the liquid in and her face immediately scrunches up at the strong taste. She swallows quickly, but her eyes almost immediately find the blue ones of the girl across the room from her. There's something incredibly sad there, Naomi thinks. And something accusatory around the edges. Like so many months before, all Naomi can feel is overwhelming guilt.

She lets out an uncomfortable laugh to ease the tension. “Didn't realise there was anything in my juice, and, why waste it, yeah?” It's so pathetic that Naomi can't believe the excuse actually made it past her sensibility barrier. That must have crumbled sometime in the last months as well.

Emily doesn't say a word. She just stares for a moment with that resigned kind of sorrow, the regret that is so familiar. She places the glass back down on the table far too carefully and slides out of her place at the table. But as Naomi thinks she going to walk away, instead she moves toward the toaster, shrugging her shoulders.

“You really need to get a new toaster. This takes bloody ages.” She fiddles with the cord and waits.

Naomi's glad for the break in the tension. Then she realises that this is what they've become: ignoring problems, passing them over, dodging around tense situations in order to remain themselves, together. She can suddenly taste the sour liquor on her tongue.

As they both wait impatiently for the toast to spring up, Emily won't look her in the eye anymore.

Emily's mobile has been beeping almost incessantly for the last hour and the younger girl is doing her best to ignore it. She and Naomi are a jumble of limbs and lips on the living room sofa, and have been for what seems like hours. Naomi can remember times when they'd do this for actual hours at a time, in her bed or the park, hidden behind that large shrub. It had felt different then. At least, not like it does now. It's kissing, and sucking and groping like it should be but something makes her think they're just stuck in first gear. It's frustrating that this isn't even working. She knows Emily feels it too cos her hands are a little too rough and the groans that occasionally surface are not what she's accustomed to.

They're bored, sometimes impatient. As if this is a chore rather than a reconnection.

Naomi wonders if it's because Emily's now used to Mandy instead. Maybe that's why it's awkward and they're fumbling around like they don't know each other. In the absence of the alcohol and adrenaline of the night before, it all feels flat, not to mention the headache that is pulsing in her temple as the bitter hangover is finally seeping in. Her heart isn't racing in the way she knows it should, in the way it used to beat furiously at even the simplest touch from Emily.

Fuck. They were better at this when they had been at each other's throats. It happened, more than once over the course of the year though even then, it had usually been fuelled heavily by pills or liquor or anger.

The mobile rings again. Naomi heaves herself up and away from the twin, wiping her mouth quickly with her shirt sleeve.

“Just answer it, please,” she groans, rubbing fingers over her forehead, trying to massage away the threatening migraine. Emily stares for a moment, sighs in defeat and swings her legs to the floor and snatches the phone.

Naomi doesn't think there's much point in listening to the conversation but can't help it. Maybe this is just the intermission they need and then everything will be thrown magically back on track. She can hope.

Emily doesn't sound pleased with the person on the other end, only offering them dismissive grunts and impassive 'Yeah's... Until she finally snaps.

“Katie, for Christ sake! Why would I even care about that? If she's so concerned she can go hunt for him herself.”

Naomi's interest is piqued and she shifts closer to Emily, toying with the hem of her white t-shirt in anattempt to cover up her curiousity.

There's another groan. “Fine.” The redhead turns to her. “Has Cook called you since last night?”

Naomi's brow furrows in confusion, unsure what all this is about. “No. Why?”

Emily turns back and waves Naomi's question off as she continues. “No, she hasn't, okay?” There's a pause. “Then you go find him. Katie, honestly.” She's getting exasperated and Naomi's pretty sure that they won't be making out again after this. “No, I'm not. You're just being too nosy. It's Cook. He's fucked off for months before, remember? I don't have time for this, seriously.”

It's obvious now what they're discussing. She wants to pull Emily closer and give her a calming shoulder rub but they're still not back in that kind of comfort zone. Instead she walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a nearly empty bottle of scotch. She fucking hates scotch but pours a glass anyway before making her way to the kitchen to add ice. While she's there, she drains the remainder of the chilled vodka into her throat.

She holds out the scotch to Emily who has now made herself more comfortable on the couch, and is non-committally acknowledging Katie, obviously gearing up for a longer conversation than she had initially intended. Emily sips it as she listens and makes a face at the taste. Naomi sits at the other end of the sofa, and flicks on the television, careful not to have it too loud. Now this is familiar.

An hour later Emily is still on the phone. They had continued to argue for a bit about Cook apparently, then it had turned to completely banal things that Naomi had no interest in. Now it's something about her, she thinks. Emily's talking quieter and more cryptically. She considers leaving the room but the whole thing is bloody ridiculous. Who cares? She only half-paying attention until Emily speaks louder.

“Well, Effy can go fuck herself then.”

It seems more harsh than necessary and Naomi wants to know what sparked such a response.

“Yeah, as if she can talk.” A pause. “I don't care. It works for me. It works for us.” Who the “us” is isn't clear, and Naomi prods Emily's thigh repeatedly with her toe, trying to gain her attention. Without evena glance, Emily grabs the offending foot and grasps it tightly in her fist before shifting the phone to her shoulder and using her free hand to tickle the arch of Naomi's foot, a large smirk on her face and humming agreements into her mobile.

Bloody hell. This is it, this is what they had been trying to get back to and magically they'd managed, not with devout attention, but with Emily distracted by Katie sodding Fitch, of all people. A wide grin spreads across Naomi's face, and it has nothing to do with the twitching of Emily's fingers against her feet. (She's not very ticklish, to be honest.) This gentle, playful side of them was missing, and had been for so fucking long that it seemed almost completely new. Naomi scrambles out of reach and twists over on the sofa cushions quickly, resulting in tumbling off it onto the carpet near Emily's feet. The redhead gazes down at her girlfriend, biting her lip in an attempt not to laugh at the predicament.

“I have to go, Katie,” she says quickly, sputtering a little as she holds in her amusement. “No, later. Bye.” With three quick words the phonecall is forgotten.

Emily pounces.

When Gina comes home two days later, things are supposed to get better, back on track, back to how they were before she left Naomi to fuck up so magnificently in her absence. But nothing really does change. Naomi's waiting on the sofa in the living room, a glass of milk in one hand and a book in the other. Emily's out somewhere after Naomi had told her that her mum was meant to be coming home within the hour. She planted the excuse of not wanting to interrupt mother-daughter time but there was obviously another reason. Likely many reasons, all of which revolved around her mother's marvellous way of seeing right through the both of them. She hears her mum before she sees her, all the way up the path. She's huffing and chatting to someone, dragging what sounds like a dying buffalo behind her.

When the door unlatches, Gina calls out straight away. Naomi rises slowly, partly because she doesn't want to appear too eager, and partly because she's already scared what her mother will see in her. Gina pushes the largest suitcase known to modern man (and certainty bigger than the one she had left with) ahead of her, grunting with the effort until she spots Naomi peering at her curiously.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she chimes, and opens her arms for a hug. Naomi steps almost hesitantly into the embrace and fights back unexpected tears as she feels the grip around her shoulders and the scent of her mum's perfume. “I've missed you so much.” The words are said into Naomi's thankfully clean hair and the young girl loosens her hug, if only not to seem too needy of her mummy.

“Missed you too, mum,” Naomi mumbles, trying to sound uncomfortable. She fails.

The older woman backs up, holding her daughter by the shoulders and giving her a hard once-over. The creases in her forehead thicken and her smile falters. “Are you ill? You look tired.”

“I'm fine, mum.” In truth, she's a bit offended by the suggestion.

“Good. I'm glad. We have so much to catch up on. Is Emily here?” Gina smiles as she looks over Naomi's shoulders, past her into the room.

For a brief moment, the question sparks fear deep inside her. Like it's too soon to talk about Emily, too jarring. She squashes it down, reminding herself that humans don't actually read minds and her mother is, for all intents and purposes, a human being. “She's out.”

Gina shrugs nonchalantly. “Well, no bother then. Just you and me.” She busies herself with something in her brand new and oversized hemp purse until she pulls out a wad of notes and hands Naomi 20 quid. The younger Campbell is confused until Gina continues.

“For dinner.”

Naomi stutters briefly.

“Oh, I'm so sorry but I've got to dash. I'm meeting Dom at the juice bar. You know how it is,” she mocks, making a weird face. “Everyone wants details, details.”

“I want details!” Naomi snaps. She doesn't really. There's only about 5% of her that gives a flying toss about her mother's antics during the last year, but it's supposed to be their time. Not her mum and Dom and the rest of the juice bar's patchouli-scented wankers' time. It's always the same routine with her mum. Running around with hippies and lie-abouts, useless sorts and never really paying attention where it's needed.

Naomi really wants to ask what's so hard about just being a family for once. Just for a few days. She

thinks back to the time when she had a real family, with a mum and dad and Jessie, the hyperactive border collie that peed on everything in sight. Then she remembers how it felt to lose all that. Maybe

that's why her mother doesn't want to act like they're a family anymore, why she pushes everything aside. It hurts too much when it falls apart, which, in all honesty, it's bound to do sooner or later. Everything does.

Gina hugs her daughter into her again for a few moments. “Of course you do, darling, but I'll be home a bit later. Plenty of time, yeah?” Naomi eyes her mum carrying an overnight bag as well. It's an odd choice of luggage for meeting up for coffee and an organic fucking smoothie.

“What's a bit later?” she asks sharply, frustrated.

Gina shrugs again, and grins. “A few days. But don't worry, I'm not far.” The cow actually winks at her. That's it. It's just bloody ridiculous now. She's been home a total of 5 minutes and is just taking off again. “Mum!”

“Hmm?” She's too occupied shuffling things around in the front hall, likely to find some god-awful trinket for one of her weirdo friends. She doesn't even look up.

Naomi sighs. “Nothing.” She really just wants to scream and pout and stomp her feet. She wants to beg for her mum to stay home and listen to her problems, fix them, if possible. But if not that, at least make a cup of tea in just that special way she does and kiss her on the forehead like she's a child again. “See you later,” she says instead. Defeated. She can't admit it, especially not to her mother.

Gina smiles again, victorious in her search for what Naomi correctly predicted would be some tacky souvenir. She meets her daughter's eyes, “Great. Settled then. See you in a few, love.”

Without a second glance, her mother is down the path and on her way. Naomi's suddenly glad that Emily's out for the afternoon. She almost makes it to close the front door before frustrated tears overflow onto her cheeks. Slamming the door with far more force than necessary, she wipes her sleeves roughly against her eyes and curses under her breath. God, she fucking misses her mum. The sodding bitch. Honestly, she's not sure if she can keep this all up on her own.

It's been five days since the shed party when it all goes to pot again.

Naomi's not sure how exactly, or even remotely why but she finds that it's not really too surprising anymore. All she knows is that they appear to be arguing about alcohol. Perhaps. It's probably about something else, something all sub-textual and ambiguous in Emily's words but any deeper meaning is completely lost on her. She blames the fuzzy feeling in her brain and the way her head is spinning even though she's sat on the sofa. It's softening the blow of her girlfriend's sharp tone however. That's always been the point, right?

Numbing.

Reaching out to the table, her fingers extend around the glass. Without warning there's a flash of red and the glass is knocked sideways, spills out onto the carpet and rolls underneath the table. Emily is stood there, grimacing. Naomi grasps at air dumbly for a second before peering at the spreading wet patch near her feet.

Shit. It's going to stain. She rises to grab a towel from the kitchen but a firm hand on her shoulder pushes her back into the cushions. Emily is still standing above her, staring down on her critically. She feels insignificant. Like an insect that Emily is about to squish under her toe any moment. There's a bit of bile that rises in the back of her throat and this time there's nothing to wash the taste away.

The frustrated redhead is speaking. The words are coming at her, but not registering. All she can see is the anger, the resentment, a kind of hopeless pleading.

“Emily, please!” Her voice booms out without her own permission and it stalls the tirade immediately.

She softens. “Please, just stop. For a second.” It's worth a shot, she reckons, even if it doesn't last. The sudden silence is nice, blanketing over her, the truth somewhere outside of her little cocoon now. Emily seems similarly thankful for the respite. She lowers herself next to her girlfriend, and sighs. It's a long, sad sound. With the dip of the sofa, Naomi finds herself gravitating towards the smaller girl, just like always. They just keep crashing into each other. The blonde steadies herself by placing a hand on Emily's thigh, trying to push herself up slightly.

She swears to God that her hearts skips at the contact. Buggering hell. And then Emily's hand is in hers giving her a light squeeze, and suddenly more than anything else, she feels like crying. Honestly, just bawling and it fucking pisses her off cos she has no idea why. It's like some part of her knows that something is irreversibly damaged, can't be fixed, and it's all so frustrating and futile. But she can't stop prodding. She wonders if the irreparable thing is her. What used to anchor her is slowly ripping her apart now.

Tears burn at the edges of her eyes and she stifles a small sob by swallowing hard. She wills the saltwater to recede before she embarrasses herself even further. She's weak, a pathetic mess continually. Despite her resistance, even from the beginning, Emily still holds that power over her.

This isn't fucking right. This is supposed to be finished with. She's supposed to have stopped feeling full of shame and sadness and bitterness, and Emily, she's supposed to have forgiven and let go. She'd said she had, hadn't she? Nothing feels like it has changed though. She's pretty fucking certain no one likes the feeling of absolute futility.

“I need you to stop.” Emily's voice is hoarse and strained when she finally speaks.

The realisation that she has no clue what Emily is referring to incites her stomach to spasm with nerves. She feels ill and can swear she's breaking out in a cold sweat, her head pounding now. Maybe that's just Emily breaking down more barriers. She knows she can't ask what she's supposed to stop doing, and there are far too many options. Fucking up just comes naturally these days.

Naomi opts to shake her head in silence but doesn't quite commit to the effort. Emily must sense this somehow.

“Please, Naoms.” There is a tremble in her voice that spreads all the way to the fingers loosely gripping onto Naomi and the blonde shudders in an unconscious response.

She can't quite understand still. “I can't – I don't know how. Why does it even matter?” She's feeling some sort of misplaced anger. It very clear that she shouldn't be irritated, pissed off even with the conversation. Emily's only trying to do what's best. Right? Emily's clever, she gets things done, pushes them until they're perfect.

Or they crack and break.

That's just her way, her own habit. So, if she can have one, why can't Naomi?

“Why does it matter?” The other girl's voice is totally incredulous, like she has literally heard the maddest thing in the entire universe. It makes Naomi feel fucking stupid, and somewhat humiliated. As if it's such a bloody ridiculous question that even a monkey could figure it out. Again, she's lost, swirling in a tidal pool of Emily's unspoken grudges and reasoning. “For fucks sake, Naoms. I don't believe you.”

It's crumbling around her. She swears she can hear the crushing cascade of the coming avalanche. It's thundering down around her. “Figures,” she mumbles, half-hoping that whatever chaos is in her head is equally loud inside her girlfriend's. Maybe if she doesn't speak up, it won't be heard.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Nope. Emily had heard the accusation loud and clear.

It's enough. She's had it. “What the hell so you think it means, Ems?!” God, it feels good to yell. It silences the noise inside her. Deafening one sound with another. “You never believe me! You never have.” She narrows her eyes. “Especially now.”

A huff, a scoff. Emily actually rolls her eyes now. “Oh cos you've given me so much reason to trust you, yeah?”

“I'm trying!” Her cry is strangled, desperate but laced with venom. “Why can't you just let me try? Why can't you just accept it? You go on all the time about fucking chances and forgiveness and me breaking my bad habits and you just – you don't even see yours. Why can't you stop this time?”

“You hurt me!” Emily finally screams, as some sort of explanation. Or maybe just an excuse. Naomi's not sure which and for a moment she contemplates how to respond to something like that.

“So?” It's probably not the smartest thing to ask, and it's totally obvious that Emily is completely at a loss how to reply. She opens her mouth, eyes wide, but closes it promptly again. Her eyes glaze over in utter misunderstanding. After a moment, some glimmer of her well-practised righteousness seems to peek out under it all, rage boiling internally. And then it comes: the pure hatred on her face, the belief that Naomi is merely being a stubborn, flippant cunt again. How wrong. Emily sputters slightly but can't seem to form any further words.

Naomi has been ready for this for too long and she's not about to let Emily's indignation and honestly terrifying demeanour back her into a corner yet again. She thinks about her mum, and what her mum would do cos that's the only role model she's ever had. Somehow making Emily a cup of tea and crying doesn't seem like the right move. After all, that's all Naomi had been doing for the past year. She suddenly sees her mum's brown eyes and how they glinted dangerously when she talked about Naomi's knobhead father. Naomi wants to look like that.

Dangerous. Formidable.

Like Emily does now.

It isn't the first time she's wanted to be like Emily, but she hopes it's the last.

She just wishes she doesn't have to be the person who has to say her next words, but she knows she is.

“So what?” she asks again, her voice gaining strength. “You think you're the only fucking person in the world who's ever been hurt? Like it gives you some supreme right to go around fucking everything else up and making my life fucking hell?” She knows Emily won't look at her now. “Hell, Emily. It's fucking torture to stay with you. But I'm the one being brave. You're the coward. It doesn't take courage to make everyone around you feel like shit.” She knows she's on extremely thin ice now but there is nowhere to move except forward, sprint towards the solid shore. Emily sets her jaw, but it doesn't retract from the wobble there beforehand, or the glistening of unshed tears building in the corner of her eyes.

Holding her ground, Emily merely scowls at Naomi, refusing to react, refusing to argue. Refusing to fight.

Naomi's confidence has come and gone, evaporated under the silent, steady reprimand of Emily's stare. It's almost as if she could feel it slip away, passing between them, swirling, until finally drifting into nothing. If it wasn't so disappointing, Naomi may have thought it was kind of relaxing.

“You have no idea what it was like,” Emily finally states, surprisingly cold and calm despite the weird glimmer in her eyes.

The comment is absolutely ludicrous. Like, completely mad. It's frustrating that Emily still doesn't seem to understand it at all; that being hurt doesn't make you special and doesn't give you a free pass to fuck everyone else around. And the fucking bit that would be laughable if not for it being so bloody ignorant, is that Emily has no fucking clue about her hurt. Naomi wonders really if she and Emily knew each other at all, even at their best. She wants to argue. She wants to remind Emily that not everyone had perfect middle-class childhoods like the Fitches, that her dad abandoned her when she was young, but old enough for it to cripple her completely for years. She wants to scream it in Emily's face about what pain really feels like, about the friends they know who have dealt with worse and yet still manage to either move on or forgive and how Emily is the stubborn, cowardly cow this time.

Instead, she glares. “Right.” Her eyes seem to roll by themselves. “It's all about you, Ems.” She curses herself for the waver in her voice, letting her weakness creep through despite the strength of her convictions. She hates this. Loathes it really. It may feel good momentarily to wound someone else but seeing Emily like this is never a pleasant reward.

Emily squares her shoulders and sucks in a sort of courage Naomi's never had. She scoffs in response and shakes her head in patronizing disapproval. There's no point reasoning with her now, and likely hasn't been one since her rational (yet strangely still Utopian) world crumbled back on that carpark and things no longer made sense anymore. The redhead turns and walks out of the room without another word.

They're right back where they were a year ago. Naomi looks down at the forgotten bottle beside the sofa. She swirls the vodka around briefly, considering something. It takes no time for the clear liquid to disappear. The burn doesn't slide down her throat; it seeps from her eyes. And Naomi doesn't remember it hurting this much before.

PART 2

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