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starkeymeow · 2 days ago

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❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part thirteen, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, continuation of enobaria talking to reader, heavy emotions, president sn*w

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

you can’t move much, still strapped down in some places, still healing in others, but you’re sure your body reacts anyway. something in your face must shift, because enobaria doesn’t speak right away. she’s watching you, arms folded tight around herself, like she’s cold even though this room is boiling.

you don't know what emotion you’re feeling. you don’t even think there’s a name for it.

you should be happy. you should be relieved.

rafe is alive.

you glance at enobaria, and she takes the look as permission to keep going.

“look, you don't have to say anything right now,” she starts. her voice is quieter than you remember. it’s less clipped, more like . . . like a person, and not a trainer or a warrior or a capitol cog. “i just— i thought someone should be the one to tell you. properly.”

you blink slowly. the lights above sting your eyes. your throat itches. there’s an ache in your arm where you think an iv is buried deep.

“you’ve been asleep a long time, kid. we weren’t sure you were gonna wake up.”

your mouth stays shut. you can’t even part your lips. they feel too dry. you just breathe through your nose.

“they kept you under, said your body needed to recover, and it did. barely. you were . . . torn up pretty bad. worse than i thought anyone could survive. honestly, they didn’t think you’d make it past the first night.”

her eyes are glassy.

“rafe?” is all you manage, and it doesn’t even sound like a word, more like a breath escaping.

she knows what you’re trying to say. she expected it honestly, so she nods. “he’s alive. in another room. been healing too. he’ll ask about you, once or twice. every damn day until they told him to stop talking.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. you don’t know what you’re supposed to feel. your face twitches once, but you don’t know what expression it makes. something like guilt or maybe fear.

“they didn’t know what to do,” enobaria says, folding her hands in her lap now, leaning forward like in her seat. “no one expected it. you were too far gone, and he . . . i mean, he should’ve died with you. or before you. that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

you flinch.

“you were raised to believe the games were glory, right?” she says, almost gently now. “you win, you bring pride home. your district puts your face on posters. your name gets whispered like legend.”

you look at her, blank.

“that’s what they teach us. it’s what they taught me, too. but you know what they don’t teach?” she looks at you with guilt, almost like she doesn’t even want to be the one to tell you and make you face the harsh reality, “what happens after you win.”

your stomach twists from the way she’s behaving. you feel like scooting up higher on the hospital bed.

“you think the arena was bad?” she goes on, eyes fixed to the floor now like she’s ashamed of what she’s saying. “that was the easy part. this? what’s coming next? this is gonna be the real game for you.”

you’re breathing hard again.

“snow’s not happy,” she says finally. “you probably already guessed that. but it’s not even just snow. it’s the capitol, panem. no one knows what to do with you two.”

she starts to wring her hands in her lap. this is the first time you’ve seen her look nervous.

“two victors? it’s not just . . . rare, you know. it’s unacceptable. you changed something. and i mean, you didn’t even mean to, did you? you just wanted to keep him alive. or yourself. or both . . . but this isn’t what i meant by start a romance if things turn out for the worst.”

you close your eyes, just for a second. this obviously isn’t what you meant to do either.

“you kissed him.”

your eyes snap back open.

“and that—that—is what they’re going to use.”

you stare.

“it wasn’t even that romantic,” she says, frowning, almost a bitter smile. “you looked like you were both dying. which, i mean, you were. blood everywhere. but the camera caught it. just one kiss. just one moment. and that’s all they needed.”

she exhales.

“you know what a love story does in panem, y/n?”

you barely shake your head.

“it saves lives.”

your brow furrows.

“it gives them something to root for, something to cling to. because otherwise they’d have to see it for what it is: a system that lets kids tear each other apart and call it entertainment.”

you blink. she’s still going.

“so now they want you. both of you, all cleaned up, all shiny and tragic and perfect. they want a narrative. and you gave them one, without even trying. two victors, a surprise kiss, and a bond they can’t explain.”

you’re shaking. you only realize it now.

“you didn’t mean to rebel,” she says, voice quieter now. “but you did. and snow? he’s deciding what to do about it.”

you don’t ask what that means. you already know.

“he hasn’t asked for you yet,” she continues. “but he will. you’ll be called to meet him. maybe both of you, maybe just you. and whatever he says, you’re gonna listen. you’re gonna smile. you’re gonna play the part. because if you don’t—”

she doesn’t finish that part. she doesn’t need to.

you understand the risk, even if your brain doesn’t want to fully accept it yet.

you breathe out, shallow and strained. “so is rafe okay?”

her expression softens. she nods slowly. “you’ll see him soon. not yet. but soon.”

your eyebrows furrow. your lips part. “how soon?”

“depends on snow.”

depends on snow? what he says?

you don’t want to cry. you already have, maybe in your sleep, maybe when you were unconscious, maybe during the games. you don’t want to give them more.

“i’m sorry,” enobaria says, again.

you stare at her. you don’t know what to say. you don’t think there’s anything left to say, so you just lie there, still and aching and confused.

and for the first time since waking up, you want to go back to sleep.

when you meet president snow and you see rafe for the first time.

you’ve been told it’s the day. the day you’ll finally get to leave.

the day your body, still bruised and bound with healing flesh, gets to leave behind the antiseptic rooms and sealed windows. they tell you your family has been notified, that preparations are being made for your return, that soon you’ll be going home, back to district two, back to your worried parents.

when the nurse helps you out of your hospital gown and into a soft grey set of capitol-issued clothes, she brushes through your hair slowly, avoiding the scabbing at your temple.

you don’t speak much. your throat still feels like it’s full of blood sometimes. your body has stopped aching the way it used to, though your legs don’t hold you like they did before the games. everything inside you still feels raw but . . . dulled.

the nurse offers you a smile as she finishes, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear like you’re a child, and says something quiet you don’t quite register. you nod anyway, and she leaves.

the door closes.

you wait, hands folded, eyes on the window that doesn’t open. but when the door opens again, it’s not her that returns.

it’s peacekeepers.

not just one. but three.

your heart skips, not out of surprise. there’s been protocol, always guards posted, always quiet footsteps and mirrored glass. but this is different. they’re facing you, and they don’t speak.

you stare at them.

one of them gestures, not unkindly, just expectant. so it takes a second to move, but you do, slowly. you think at first they’re just escorting you down to the lobby to make sure you get on the train-ride home until you realize you’re in an entirely different wing of the building.

“where are we going?” you ask, voice quiet, barely used.

no answer. no need, apparently.

you walk. the hallway is unfamiliar, and that’s what makes the fear start creeping up again. the walls are too quiet and you swear the doors you pass look more sealed than open. you swallow, but the dryness in your mouth makes it harder to breathe.

you think of your parents, the promise of seeing them again, the idea of falling into their arms, or hearing your name spoken with warmth again. are they here, or?

you’re about to ask again, panic starting to swell, when the hallway bends, and you stop.

because up ahead, standing in front of a set of tall, dark doors, is someone you haven’t seen since the arena.

you don’t realize how tightly your chest is pulled until you see him and everything inside you lurches forward. your legs want to run before your brain even catches up. it’s instinct, it’s him and he really is alive. he’s real.

“rafe,” you breathe, like his name alone could close the distance.

his head turns slowly, and it takes only one look.

his posture doesn’t change, but his eyes meet yours and something behind them tightens. he lowers his chin just slightly, and shakes his head. sort of like a warning, and you feel it immediately. it’s like not here. not now.

you stop yourself as your lips press together.

you feel your face fall, just for a second, brows twitching in confusion. you want to ask why. you want to reach. but there are guards behind you, guards beside you, and rafe’s gaze tells you all you need to know.

you walk until you’re beside him, both of you facing the doors now.

you’re standing still, shoulder to shoulder with him but not touching, not speaking, not even breathing too loudly, because the peacekeepers are behind you like stone statues.

your eyes are just fixed on the wood. rafe’s head stays low, chin dipped like he’s glaring at the seam between the two doors. he looks carved out of stone, honestly unreadable and serious. you don’t dare look at him too long.

your chin is lifted slightly, but your fingers begin to tingle. they’ve done that on and off since you saw the peacekeepers. it’s like pins and needles, it’s anxiety. so you move your fingers just slightly, shifting them where they hang at your side.

then something brushes your hand. you almost flinch.

your first instinct is fear, it always is now, but then you recognize it. that warmth.

the kind that found you before the interviews, when you were being pushed into heels and corsets and coached to smile in front of thousands. that small, wordless gesture that had steadied your pulse when you needed it most. you remember how his fingers had ghosted across yours then, and how you’d leaned into it like it was the only real thing in the room.

now he does it again.

he moves slowly, subtle. it makes you hesitate. your hand hangs loose at your side, and you don’t dare turn your head, but you feel his knuckles brush yours again. it’s light, like a question or like a check-in. you don’t answer for a beat.

then slowly you move your fingers toward his, inch by inch. you feel him still, feel him hesitate the same way, feel him breathe through it.

your pinky bumps his, he doesn’t pull away, so you press again, and finally, finally, your hands find each other in the middle, barely touching at first, then his hand shifts open and yours slides into it like it was always meant to be there.

his palm is warm. your fingers tighten, and so do his.

the last time you felt his touch was when you thought you were aboit to die.

but this, it’s in a way to connect after the games. you want to think it’s rafe’s way of telling you it’s going to be okay, or maybe it has something to do with his thoughts from the arena. maybe a thank you? you aren’t sure actually if he’s appreciative that both of you are alive right now, at least to an extent.

but still, it’s comforting knowing he still wants to show this to you, despite everything. he’s just glad you’re okay.

you exhale just a little in a quiet, shuddered sigh as if you’ve been holding that breath for years. but rafe doesn’t move. he doesn’t even look at you. doesn’t wanna give anything away. he just breathes through his nose, spine straight, shoulder brushing yours.

the doors groan open.

your hands let go instantly, your fingers aching at the loss of his. your stomach flips at the sound of the hinges.

your eyes lift, and there he is.

sitting at the end of the room like a ghost in a throne, a single red rose gleaming at his chest, and that smile stretched thin across his face like it’s barely hiding the rot beneath.

president snow.

and he’s looking straight at you.

you glance sideways, and the peacekeeper closest to you jerks his chin forward, a silent command. your stomach turns.

your gaze flickers past him and lands on the table. a chair waits for you at the opposite end of snow, another one for rafe beside it.

your feet feel heavy, like they’re tethered to the floor, but you make yourself move and you sit.

a second later, rafe’s shadow shifts beside you. he’s slower, heavier in his steps. before he even reaches the table, you see the sharp tilt of his chin, the way his head turns ever so slightly toward the peacekeepers who flanked him in. there’s a glare in his eyes, but they don’t even blink at him.

he eventually turns and lowers himself into the seat beside you. no touch, no glance. but you can feel him. he’s tense.

your eyes finally lift.

president snow is already watching you. not rafe, but you. like he’s been waiting for you to look up. like he knew you’d try not to, but in the end, he always gets what he wants.

he doesn’t smile. but there’s something in his expression that just fucking chills you. there’s no warmth or welcome. more like interest maybe.

you swallow again, throat dry.

his fingers tap lightly against the armrest of his chair, knuckles ringless, nails neat. every movement is careful, precise. he’s not here to rant or rage. he’s not that kind of monster. no, snow studies his prey first.

“well,” he begins, voice low. he leans forward just slightly, folding his hands together atop the marble. “this isn’t quite how the story was supposed to end, is it?”

your hands are in your lap, fingers tangled, knotted tight. you don’t answer. neither does rafe. silence is safer. always.

snow lets the pause stretch a few seconds too long, like he enjoys watching you squirm.

“you believed, as victors, you’d be discharged back to your districts with some grand speech and a warm meal, a parade, a new house, a fresh start.”

his eyes harden.

“but that’s not what you earned.”

you blink, unsure if you heard him right. your eyebrows pull together, not quite angry, but confused.

snow turns his gaze fully to you now, and it pins you in place like a needle through silk. “you didn’t just win the games,” he says. “you rewrote them.”

your confusion only deepens. you feel your breath catch as he continues.

“your stunt in the finale,” he says, eyes flicking between the two of you, “has become more than just a tragic little act of desperation. the world saw something else. they saw love. devotion. defiance of death for the sake of another. it’s poetic. it’s dangerous . . . it’s useful.”

useful.

“and now,” he says, “that image must be maintained. not just for the sake of the capitol’s narrative, but for the stability of panem.”

you open your mouth, voice catching as you finally whisper, “what?” you stare at him like he’s speaking another language. “maintained?” you echo.

“from this moment on, the two of you will live in the public eye. you’ll smile at galas. you’ll sit side by side in interviews. you’ll hold hands, exchange sweet words, indulge in romantic gestures that reaffirm what the world already believes.”

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s giving you a gift. “you will be the capitol’s golden couple.”

you just . . . stare.

it doesn’t register at first. it sinks in slowly. it’s not like the plan itself is the worst thing in the world, it isn’t hell to pretend to be in love with someone like rafe. it’s just control.

you feel rafe shift beside you, not dramatically, just a subtle inhale through his nose. there’s another clench of his fist.

he finally speaks, and his voice is flat. “we already gave you what you wanted. we won.”

snow raises an eyebrow. “you won wrong.”

you swear the air in the room turns to ice.

“do you understand what your actions caused?” snow ask. “two victors walking out alive was not a triumph. it was a complication. and now i have to clean it up. i have to shape the outcome into something palatable. something inspiring.”

you don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until your chest tightens.

“and the only way i could do that was to turn your little . . . suicide pact . . . into a grand, star-crossed victory,” he says it with disgust. “a romance so moving that it eclipses the rule you broke.”

“we didn’t do it for a narrative,” you whisper, anger threading under your voice now. “we did it because we didn’t want to die.”

snow gives the softest nod. “and yet here you are. alive. which means, from now on, you’ll live exactly how i tell you to.”

you glance at rafe again, and he’s already looking at you. there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before. it’s not just anger, not just fear. it’s the crushing, soul-deep exhaustion of someone realizing that no matter how hard they fought, the game never really ended.

you feel like crying, but you won’t. not in front of him.

“and if we don’t go along with it?” rafe says.

snow’s smile is thin, like a slit in paper. “then perhaps the next year’s victors will be told a different story. one about two ungrateful champions who couldn’t bear the weight of their own fame. a tragic ending, of course. the kind that keeps the people on edge.”

your stomach flips.

you know what he means. what he’s not saying.

he’s threatening your families.

he’s threatening your lives.

snow watches you both with vague interest, the pads of his fingers resting thoughtfully against his cheek, elbow perched on the arm of the chair. there’s something leisurely about him now, like a man who just finished winning a game of chess and is wondering if he should give you a second chance, just for fun.

then he speaks again.

“let’s see it.”

you blink, unsure if you misheard. snow’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“go on,” he says smoothly, his eyes trained on the two of you. “hold hands. right here. on the table.”

your stomach turns.

you’ve been fiddling with your fingers this entire time, pressing your thumbnail into your palm, rubbing the ridges of your knuckles to keep from shaking. your hands are clammy.

you glance at rafe but he’s already looking at you. and he doesn’t move, but you can see the hesitation in his eyes. he doesn’t want to do this either.

it’s just holding hands. that’s all. but suddenly it feels like the worst thing he could’ve asked of you.

your breath hitches as you tear your hand out of your lap and, despite the shame, you reach across the table and slide your fingers into rafe’s.

his hand closes around yours. he moves slow, reluctantly, but it’s solid.

you stare down at them—your hands, intertwined on the wood surface like a staged photo, and something in you curdles. it’s not rafe’s touch that makes your heart pound. it’s the context, the control, the fact that nothing you’ll do anymore feels like your own decision.

you don’t look up. you can’t. but snow forces you to.

“look at me,” he says. you do. your spine straightens like a string’s been yanked.

“i see potential in you both,” he says, lifting his chin like this has all been so very civilized. “that’s the only reason you were allowed to win. but that win is conditional. it always was.”

his eyes meet yours one last time.

“make it worth it.”

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

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kk-iki · 14 hours ago

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— pouring my heart through a sieve.

pt. iv : LEGACY.

synopsis: falling out with silena takes its toll on you. you come to realize that falling out with you is taking its toll on her, too.

word count: 7.8k

tags: fem!simon riley x fem!reader, sfw, brief fem!john price x reader, misunderstandings but they're cleared up here, implied violence, nonsexual intimacy, religious imagery, reader finds solace in someone else and it ruins both her and silena, patching her up, hopeful ending.

notes: the end. finally. it took longer than i expected to get here, and i put myself through the wringer on the way. i haven't been able to write anything concrete but this since i started, and it's all finally coming to a close. i don't know what's going to come after this, but i'll find out, i think.

one last time, for now; all my love to @hcneymooners for being the muse always and forever, and to @femmemichaelis for being silena's biggest fan and cheering me on through this. you both deserve the whole world, and i'm sending as much love as i can hold to both of you.

reblogs are always appreciated. please feel free to leave your feedback anywhere where i can see it, from the comments to the tags to my inbox. my messages are always open too. i love to hear from you all and i love to know that my writing speaks to you, but mostly i just love you.

for the next three months, you go to great lengths to erase silena from your life.

not entirely. never in full. you scrub yourself clean of her in increments. you remove the heart from her contact name, then change it to her full name instead of ‘si’. you leave her jacket at her door, then flee before she can find you at your oldest haunt. you spend more time on your work than anything else.

she shows up at your door after the first two days, just like you had done at hers so long ago. and, like her, you never answer.

the only difference is that she learns to stop showing up.

you try not to think about what that implies about you.

you’ve found a confidante, at least. the ever-observant miss price—josie, as she insisted you call her—had become aware of your woes long before you’d even thought of telling anyone. you suppose that’s partly thanks to you; you’d become loose-lipped after a glass of mezcal, and she was just too kind to not pay your tab after taking a closer look at you.

eventually, the words had come out of you like water through a sieve, still dribbling out of you into the wee hours of the morning.

and she had stayed. she didn’t leave when you began to drift off, only walked you up to your room and helped you into bed. were you more coherent, you might have noticed a pattern. that morning, you’d woken up alone and to delivery at your doorstep, a note written in her tightly packed scrawl attached, and had had no desire to think on it further.

‘you look so much more peaceful when you sleep. i hope i got your order right. i was relying on joni to know your favorite. —j.p.’

traitorously, your heart had clenched in your chest as you opened the delivery bag to find, as promised, your favorite hangover cure. you’d gone through it in record time and had tried not to cry into the takeout box, then got up and got dressed to go out.

autumn is fast approaching, you notice as you step outside. the air is crisp and sweet, the leaves overhead crackling a bit more dryly than the day before, and the slight breeze that flutters in rivulets down your arm is perfumed with morning dew.

you realize with a start that silena had had you for the summer, and now you were entering fall without her. it feels like leaving behind a piece of yourself. you find it a little ridiculous of yourself to have expected her to be there when you did.

you tug the soft brown leather of your jacket a little tighter around yourself, relishing the way your perfume—caramel, vanilla, a furnace tucked beneath the layers—smells nothing like her. as you wander down the streets you’re becoming increasingly familiar with, you force yourself to stop looking for her in the black overcoats and white surgical masks and glints of silver piercings that seem to endlessly pass you by. that’s all done for, you remind yourself stubbornly as you turn a corner.

you don’t run into her, but you end up stumbling into an antique store nestled tightly between two buildings that you’ve yet to visit before you can think better of it, just to stop noticing her in people and things that have nothing to do with her.

the store is badly lit and smells like incense, sending another sharp thrum of remembering through you. you force yourself to ignore it and walk deeper inside, past the modest facade; you’d come in here to get out of the metaphorical rain, and you’re too obstinate to step back outside as if you were some lost little lamb running from the things you couldn’t control.

the store is silent, except for the sound of pages turning. you have to squint at the shadows to make out the source and almost stumble again in your shock. “miss price?”

the woman in question looks up from where she’s tucked behind a tiny desk, reading a faded copy of master and margarita. her half-moon reading glasses are perched at the very tip of her nose, and she stands to greet you with her usual affable smile. your stomach traitorously flips in your stomach as she approaches you.

“thought i told you to call me josie, sweetheart.”

you flush, taking the inside of your cheek between your molars. “right.”

josie smiles anyway, regarding you with those kind eyes you’d quickly grown fond of—the ones that don’t seem to prick into your back wherever you walk and make you afraid to knock anything over like you’re sure hers would have.

“do you own this place?” you ask before you can lose your nerve.

“naw,” she replies. “i just come ‘ere when i need somewhere quiet t’ do my thing. fellas in the place above me’re either chronic clean freaks or they jus’ like vacuuming at seven in the goddamn morning.”

“you poor thing,” you laugh lightly. she offers you a smile in return, and you subsequently feel your heart drop right through your red onitsuka tigers and into the floor.

“didn’t think anyone came through here anymore,” she comments. you blink, glancing around as if you’d just noticed the state of the store you’d walked into.

“why?” you ask, glancing around. sure, it’s a little…run-down, but you still think there’s beauty to be found in the light that snags some of the pieces on display.

josie pluffs out a laugh, crossing her arms and gesturing to the sparse orange lights that flicker precariously overhead. “y’ looked around yet? ’s not exactly a museum. not even sure the owner comes here anymore.”

“i think it’s charming,” you insist.

“right,” she snorts. “and i’m a twenty-somethin’ pretty young thing like yourself.”

you can’t stop the small laugh that escapes you, even as flattery curls deep and hot in your stomach. “you’re too hard on yourself, josie. you could’ve fooled me.”

josie laughs right along with you, low and warm. “oh, you got jokes now, sweetheart?”

“what did you think i was doing before?” you ask, your voice incredulous.

“well, i’d say you were tryin’ t’ put the moves on me,” josie starts, “but that changed real quick when i saw you around with silena. like two peas in a pod, i swear. now i just think y’ like confusin’ the shit outta me.”

whatever you had to say in response to that quickly fizzles out of you at the mention of silena. you know that you had been a bit…attached to her after what happened at joni’s party, but you didn’t think it was so obvious that you’d get called out like this. or maybe your skin just wasn’t as thick as you’d have liked to believe.

you look over at one of the displays, something like shame coalescing in your throat. a choker with a large square-cut emerald set in gold winks back at you. only thirty-five quid…

“sweetheart?” josie says slowly, tilting herself into your peripheral with an incline of her head. “you a’right?”

you blink, forcing down the nausea that’s become all too familiar to you these days. “yes, i’m fine. i just…”

josie’s so kind, you think. always looking out for you, always so sweet and gentle in how she handles you—hell, the idea of her handling you is enough to make warmth flood down your neck. she’s a constant presence, unwavering and steady, and she’s just so stable that leaning on her feels like the only natural thing to do. she’s patient, she’s sturdy, she’s…

she’s everything you had thought silena was.

josie’s hand finds your shoulder, and you make the decision to place yours on top of it.

“are you sure you don’t think i’m putting moves on you anymore?” you ask, the words dipped in a bitter coat of hyper-aware guilt beyond your best attempt at a coquettish half-smile. “what made you stop?”

josie stills, eyes widening a margin, and you feel an unwanted surge of triumph at the fact that you’ve gotten her to startle at something that you’ve said. nothing, you think, is more thrilling than getting a reaction out of a woman who seems so nonplussed all the time.

“well, ‘s like i said. you were always mooning over silena, i just figured—”

“i’m here now,” you say, a little too quickly. the way josie’s brows twitch upwards lets you know that you’ve just shown too much, and you attempt to recover before she can start to pry. “doesn’t that count for something? or do i have to start batting my lashes to get your attention?”

josie stares down at you before huffing out a laugh, taking a step closer. you step back instinctively, your back brushing against the wooden display shelves. the gleaming jewels caked in dust that perch atop them rattle in tune with the skittish thump of your heart, and you’re vaguely aware of how josie’s leaning into you, her cheek pressing to your jaw as you swallow.

she inhales, and you follow suit—lebanon cedar and honey whispers in a halo around your head, and your lips part in a wordless cry. the dim sunlight fighting to crawl through the windows flickers over you in sharp lines, and for a moment you feel a punch of indignity threatening to tug you away from josie. your hands don’t dare to hold her, clutched awkwardly against her chest, and her hands find the wood behind your head.

“you’ve always had my attention, sweetheart,” josie murmurs. “always.”

you feel it before she sees it—a hiccup lodged in your throat. a cry, soft and lamblike, begging to be heard.

you say nothing. she tilts her head to press her mouth to the column of your throat, and you let her. it’s not quite a kiss, certainly nothing you would place above affection—but it’s enough. she remains in place, one hand drawing up to hold your cheek still, and you shiver under her when her lips press more fervently against the side of your neck.

“miss price—”

“josie,” she corrects, firmer this time. the blinds are all but shut, and she shifts her grasp on your jaw until it feels like she’s about to pry you open from the throat down. “say it right, sweetheart.”

you do.

silena sees you only once after it happened.

it’s been months, and she’s starting to suspect you’re more of a ghost than she could have ever anticipated, because she has yet to even see you around. you’d imprinted yourself on every square inch of the building, but now it was like she was chasing after dreams—untouchable and smoke-like, as if you’d never been there in the first place.

joni had seen the worst of it. she’d watched as silena grasped aimlessly for something that wasn’t there, eyes pinned to the bottom of her glass as if your reflection would be looking back if she just gazed hard enough. the younger woman would never say it, but it was nauseating to watch silena chase after something long-gone, and she knows it. she knows you’re not there anymore, not like you were. not for her.

she dreams about you, though. often. in the good dreams, you’re running from her, legs scraped and eyes wild with fury as you scramble to be as far away from her as possible. the distance between you two goes for miles, and silena always chases after you because she doesn’t know how to hide herself from you like she used to anymore. she wakes up nauseous, and takes comfort in it; it’s the last thing you’d left her with.

in the bad dreams, you’re dressed in nothing but one of those silk camisoles you’re so fond of. you’re tangled in the white cotton of her sheets, pulling tight around her shoulders, and you kiss her.

she wakes up crying because she cannot take comfort in it, no matter how idyllic it all feels. you hadn’t given her that; she has no right to it.

it’s after one of these dreams, born from an afternoon nap—which silena never takes, but she’s just so tired of wandering aimlessly like she did before without you there—that she finally leaves her apartment. there’s no purpose behind it, no intent; maybe she’ll get a drink. gas station wine never did her wrong.

it’s then that she runs into you.

she feels you first—notices the strides of your steps against the floor like a tangible thing, taunting her to reach out and take. then she sees you; the whirl of your hair over your shoulder, the way your eyes lock onto hers and she promptly feels all the blood rush behind her ears.

the way you stop when you see her, perfectly still, as if captured in a painting.

your fingertips, clutched around a round little icon of la virgen de guadalupe, are rose-tipped—curling around the edges of the thing like strands of coral. your touch is so light, the item seems to float in your hands. you’ve wiped off your lipstick, a bit of it still snagged in the corner of your mouth, the lush tint of plums giving way for bareness; the smoothness of an oyster's flesh, pale as petals. faintly, she registers the maddening urge to peel them apart with her fingers to find the rows of pearls beneath.

you look like you’ve stepped straight out of her dreams.

you also look like you’re not sure if murdering her in the middle of the hallway is worth the clean-up.

for a moment, she waits. waits for you to say something—maybe the ‘good evening, miss riley’ you’d once greeted her with, before things had changed. maybe a demand to know why, why she’d been so quick to try and leave when all she ever wanted to do was be with you. why she’d had the nerve to say that and then leave anyway.

she would have told you, if that’s what you’d asked of her.

she knows she should be the one to say something. she should—would—beg you to let her explain, to call her back, to see her again because being a ghost of your past makes her feel like death has finally caught up to her.

she says nothing. she waits, selfishly, for you to make the first move.

and you?

you refuse to take her bait. (you’ve always been a smart girl.)

instead, you meet her with silence. you brush past her as if she had never been there at all, fingers clasped around the veiled head of virgencita, and she watches as you enter your home without so much as a backward glance.

and when she hears the lock click on your door, she feels it then—the cold, merciless slide of shame like coagulating blood down her back, damp and haunting. she turns around then, hopeful for even a glimpse of you; the curve of your shoulder, the toss of your hair, anything to let her know that the two of you didn’t have an expiry date after all.

but it’s just her in the hallway, baking in your perfume, feeling it fade with every second that she stands there—waiting for someone who knows better.

and she realizes that she has never felt more alone.

the walls in this building have always been painfully thin, so silena is grateful that you’re an entire four apartments down the hall from her—because the moment she manages to shut her door behind her, she falls apart.

back pressed to the door, she heaves until her throat runs raw as baked clay, her eyes stinging but refusing to spill over. even now, even after losing you in her life, she has nothing to show for it but suffocation.

she has known death before, intimately. looked it in the eye to avoid making eye contact with the bodies of her family cradled in her arms. watched as it stole the last vestiges of life from those she loved, their eyes dull and distant like the vacant stares of struck deer in the road. kissed it on the mouth when it came to visit her, but never let it stay long.

but you had been the one to watch her walk out, and god—this had been nothing like that. there’s nothing she’s experienced in her life like watching the horrified realization dawn on your face, and what she would have given to hold your jaw in her hands like water and kiss the soft expanses of your cheeks until that look was gone, no matter how beautiful it was on you—

and yet she had walked out anyway. left you naked and alone in your bed like it was nothing, the quiet click of your door behind her like a closing act to a story that didn’t belong to her anymore.

she remembers now, as clumps of mascara long past ancience cling stubbornly to her under-eyes, that you had been the one to kick her out. you had demanded that she leave, and if she weren’t so used to leaving by now, she’s sure she wouldn’t have been able to go through with it—you’re just so beautiful, even and especially when you’re angry.

isn’t this on you too, though? surely you’re not exempt from blame in this either. you hadn’t even been willing to hear her out, no matter how bad it had looked when you’d woken up. did all the effort you’d put into gaining her friendship—hell, did her putting in a tampon for you mean nothing? was it truly that easy for you to just throw her away?

or maybe it had been her, all along. her nervousness had read as indifference at first, you’d told her once over a breakfast not-date she’d taken you out on. maybe that had lingered in her—the expectation you’d had of her, warring with common sense, stinging more deeply than she’d wanted it to. or maybe she really was indifferent to an extent, if she could leave you like it was nothing after what had felt like being touched by the pillars of heaven.

…how could she have let this happen? how could she have done this to you, to you, the girl who had smiled so sweetly at her door and reached out to take her hands despite how clearly bloody they were? you’d taken her heart and pressed it into the pages of your life like it was the most normal thing in the world; and somehow, in the midst of her addiction to you, it had never once occurred to her that she could have lost that.

thirteen years, and she’d almost gotten used to missing her fallen comrades—her family. but you’d tumbled into her life with wild hair and eyes like new moons, and she’d realized belatedly that she never had to miss you. not when you’d spent the better half of a full year always there, waiting at her door with your gifts and that half-shy smile, never straying because it just wasn’t who you were. was it really that easy for you to just leave?

it can’t have been. the grief in her has hardened over the months, but that’s because silena riley– because ghost is cold as metal, cutting as brambles underfoot. you’d always been the sweetest girl she’d known, far too emotional for your own good. too easily attached to things—especially things like her. how could you have severed that so easily?

no—how could she know how devastating the extent of her affections were, that she would cling to you so selfishly, and still choose to leave you bleeding?

maybe josie had a point; silena was a good woman beneath the ruthlessness, but it was so difficult to find the gaps that sometimes it didn’t feel worth it to try. maybe you’d gotten tired of searching for someone that wasn’t there—that wasn’t her.

or maybe she’d just been scared of what you would do if you held her in your hands, in her entirety, in all the ways she was absolutely infatuated with you. maybe she worried that she’d spill over, without realizing that you’d cling to what she gave you anyway.

she wishes she could have let herself be tender enough to hold you back—maybe then, you wouldn’t have had to fight to keep her close.

someone knocks on the door behind her. she groans and stands up—when had she fallen to her knees?—before opening it a crack. traitorously, her heart clenches at the thought that it might be you–

but it’s not.

of course it isn’t.

joni’s brows pinch at whatever look silena’s giving her, arms crossed as she gestures for silena to open the door fully. she does not, but joni doesn’t seem to care either way.

“clear yer calendar. ah’m throwin’ another shindig in two weeks.”

the only reason silena doesn’t slam the door in her face is because…well, it’s joni.

joni takes that as permission to continue. “ah know ye’re in no mood ta be around anyone wi’ the way yer girl’s left ye. but ah’m not sittin’ back an’ watching ye kill yerself over this. one way or ‘nother, ah’m gettin’ the both o’ ye ta talk it out, or fuck it out. whichever one gets ye ta quit mopin’.”

“y’r a proper arse, y’know that?” silena grumbles. the promise of an excuse to do whatever it takes to forget you is the only thing that keeps her from saying no.

joni’s grin is dazzling. “all day, swee’heart. dress nice for ‘er.”

“you’re sure i can be here?”

miss price—josie, you remind yourself, it’s not that hard—scoffs out a laugh, low and indulgent as she settles her hand on the small of your back in that way she’s been doing since that day in the antique store. “y’ look too good not to, doll.”

you know you do. she’d insisted on the details, after all. the icon of la virgen de guadalupe she’d gotten for you is nestled just above the valley of your breasts, the golden halo around her cobalt-blue veil dipping beneath the low cut of your neckline. josie likes when you’re tenderly exposed, soft in the skin you bare; she’d told you once that seeing you like that was like undressing a wound to find healed skin there. her lips had found yours afterward, and you’d felt like you were about to burst into tears.

now, in joni’s doorway, you feel it again.

before you can second guess, though, josie’s gently guiding you past the stragglers and into the heart of the room.

the shimmery oil you’d applied to your skin snags the light, your body alight like a stolen star. you feel naked as the characteristic rgb lights of a proper joni mactavish party swallow you whole, but somehow it doesn’t make you want to shrink away and wrap yourself in whatever will hide you. no, you feel like a gulp of air into hungry lungs—like you’ve been breathing smoke all your life and learned to lean out of the window.

you feel like you’re free-falling.

you try to ignore how nauseous it makes you feel.

josie leads you through the crowd, bodies parting for her as she looms over them all. tucked into her side like this, you feel infinitely smaller than ever—and you cling to her, desperate to feel like she’s doing this because she’s protecting you.

the both of you end up on joni’s balcony, bass thumping behind your teeth from inside the building, and josie keeps one hand just below your ribs while the other holds her cigar steady. it makes you feel younger, somehow, to be on her arm like this. you’ve only ever felt this way once before.

“you’re thinkin’ again,” josie murmurs from around a puff of smoke. it curls against your cheek, oaky and tart. “wha’s goin’ on in that pretty head, baby? talk t’ me.”

you know it before you say it. when you do say it, it’s not even the truth.

“thinking about how nice you clean up,” you reply.

josie knows it’s a lie. still, she smiles, amused. “aren’t you charming?”

“it’s true,” you insist. and it is, because josie looks like she’s stepped off of your curated pinterest board of faceless older women whom you wanted to treat you like their precious girl—sharp edges softened by age, loosened from the taut grip of the mid-life crisis because she had someone as sweet as you to temper it.

you’d braided her hair away from her face before the party; all the while, she’d rubbed lazy circles with her thumb against the bare skin of your leg, and somehow having her face exposed in this way feels like she’s telling you a secret. like this, always by your side, she looks like a dream.

you recall that you’d woken up next to her that morning. it had been criminally early for a saturday. you had pouted, full and soft, and insisted on a few more minutes of sleep. she had laughed, warm and amused, and indulged you for another hour.

“i need you,” you’d whispered, eight minutes before finally managing to fall back asleep.

somewhere amidst it all, around the six minute mark, you could have sworn you'd heard josie whisper back.

“it's okay.”

and it is okay. it’s more than okay. being here with her, with her—it’s a dream. she’s a dream.

so why isn’t it enough to make you forget?

you don’t voice this to her. you’ve never been brave enough to do that, even if you’re sure she already knows what happened between you and silena. instead, you lean up when she pulls her cigar away from her mouth, and you kiss her there—the corner of the crease in her lips, perfumed by tobacco. it feels like surrender.

she turns into it, fingers firm on your waist as she shifts you into a proper kiss; you’ve always loved the ease with which she maneuvers you.

it isn’t just her, you recall. silena used to do that too. and you loved it just the same.

nausea rolls through you, dull and heavy. you feel like you’ve sinned for just admitting that to yourself, and you’re grateful for when she pulls away—there’s an irrational fear possessing you, that she might taste your guilt like lemon peel on the edges of your teeth.

you smile anyway. you’ll make this enough. “josie?”

“hmm.”

“can i be honest with you?”

you feel it—her grip going slack, even as her fingers remain locked impossibly tightly into place. like she’s bracing for impact. she responds casually, but you hear it too; a thread of tension, the slow caution of someone who knows they’re going to receive bad news.

“would be worse f’r you if y’ weren’t,” she says. it’s supposed to be a joke, so you offer an exhaled laugh, but both of you sober up in sync.

“i really like you,” you say, quietly. “and i– i’m a little scared, i won’t lie. i don’t…i can’t do this if you’re not serious about it. about me.”

you swallow. your eyes don’t have to be on her for you to know that hers are tracking the movement.

“i just– i can’t.” your tongue tastes like rock salt around the syllables. “not again.”

she’s quiet. the embers at the end of her cigar blaze with the force of her pinch. it’s oppressive, the way she insists on silence, and all of the feeling in the soles of your feet vanishes. you feel tethered, unable to move—suddenly made too aware of the moment.

then she speaks, and the burn of her voice isn’t quite as soft as you remember. your name is uttered first, and you know the betrayal intimately before you even hear it.

“baby,” she tries again, voice hardened like flint. your name, she’s decided, is too personal for this moment. “this isn’t permanent. you knew that. i can’t be what y’ want.”

you wonder why your own body betrays you in tandem, that you’re seized with the sudden urge to cling to her regardless. surely, by now, you would have known better than to let another woman with her countenance in like this.

instead, too calmly, you say, “i know.”

“so…this ‘s it, then?” the way she says it is what kills you, truly and entirely—as if there was never any fear in her that she might lose you. “you going back t’ silena?”

you don’t respond to that. it’s more of an answer than anything you could’ve said.

“‘s alright, love,” josie says, turning back to face the suburban skyline ahead of both of you. “i knew what this was. i was y’r limbo, yeah? a place to stay while y’ decided if you were really lettin’ her go.”

“josie, that’s not—” you try, but the words fall pathetically flat.

“i said it’s alright, didn’t i?” she says. it’s gentler than she has any right to be. “i see how y’ look when y’r thinkin’ of her. y’ go somewhere else, when she’s on y’r mind. i’m smart enough t’ know that i can’t do that t’ you.”

she casts you a sidelong glance, and her smile is so tender that you feel like she’s looking into you. “so…what’ll it be, baby? you gonna go back t’ her?”

your molars snag on the inside of your cheek, fingers fluttering to the thin chain holding the icon around your neck. you know what you want, and she knows you’ll never admit it to her.

but, of course, girls like you can’t handle being anything but honest with josephine price.

“...is that okay with you?” you ask. your voice comes out small, almost meek, and you feel ridiculous because the sound of it makes you feel like you’re actually going to cry.

her hand slides from your waist, reaching up to the curve of your jaw. you collapse into her, clinging to her—a small, evil part of you wishes she’d tell you she doesn’t want you to go, that it isn’t okay with her, that she wants to be the only one you ask for like that.

she leans in and kisses you, full and soft. if yours had felt like surrender, this feels like a goodbye.

she pulls away, slow and careful, and whispers against your mouth. “go t’ her.”

her eyes remain pinned to your back as you walk away.

you do your best to pretend you don’t feel it—you’re just grateful she can’t see you trying not to cry.

you hear it first—the collision.

it’s unmistakable, the sickening crunch of bone—then, in the next half-second, the gasps on onlookers and a shriek from somewhere further in the room. the lights do nothing to illuminate whatever the hell’s going on, but there’s at least ten phone flashlights pointed directly at the center of the living room, where a crowd’s begun to coalesce.

and then someone yells, “holy fuck– silena—!”

your mind promptly empties.

shoving blindly past bodies, your nails snagging against mesh shirts and bare arms, you squeeze and push your way through the gaps until you stumble headlong into the center of the room.

and there she is. silena riley, white surgical mask halfway tugged down, blood in her bared teeth—and, in the next moment, her tight fist colliding with some girl’s nose. her eyes dart up, wild as a forest fire, and train on you. you feel faintly like you’re being held at gunpoint.

then you see it—realization in her eyes, dawning on her as she slowly brings her gaze down to the fist she’s curled into the girl’s mesh top. silena’s eyes dart between you and her, rapid and confused, and you can’t help it; you take half a step forward.

she stills like a cornered animal, and that’s all it takes.

you’re dragging her to the bathroom down the corridor before either of you knows what’s going on. her hand is rough, painfully familiar—the scrape of her calluses against your palm brings a fresh rip of sickness through you. the second the door shuts behind the both of you, you drop her hand.

“sit down,” you instruct, digging through the cabinet under the sink for where joni keeps the first aid kit. your voice is harder than you’d like for it to be.

silena does, plunking herself gracelessly on the edge of the bathtub. the speed with which she complies almost scares you.

you eventually strike gold when you reach behind a bottle of windex, twisting out a small tube of liquid bandage and a small handful of cotton swabs. you’re quiet as you wash your hands and dampen the cotton under the tap, and when you turn to approach her, she goes rigid.

“hold still,” you tell her, the stiffness in your voice faltering as you take her fingers between yours. there’s an angry flush to her knuckles, underlining smears of ruby-red that dry too fast in the creases of her fingers.

“[name], i—”

“don’t.” there’s more hurt in your voice than you’d intended to let slip. “just…just don’t. i’m not doing this because i forgive you.”

“i know,” silena whispers, her voice tapering dangerously on a fracture. you try not to let the sound of it break your heart. she doesn’t say anything else.

you kneel in front of her, uncaring for how the skirt of your bodycon dress scrapes against the tile. she doesn’t look away from you once, and you try to swallow down how bare it makes you feel. silena’s gaze has always had a way of making you feel like you’ve been stripped bare and placed in a glass display case, sequestered in her personal collection to be admired—but never touched, not like how you had wanted her to.

not like how you still want her to.

“saw you with price,” silena mutters as you lift her hand, pressing a soaked cotton swab to the split skin of her knuckles. she doesn’t flinch or hiss at the sensation, but you feel her briefly twitch with tension. “you’re familiar?”

“why does it matter to you?” you ask, voice laced with an edge of something you’re sure she picks up on. “who i spend my time with isn’t your business anymore.”

“was just wonderin’ who picked your dress tonight.” that’s not all there is to it, and both of you know it. “green’s your color.”

you raise a brow, unimpressed. “it’s not yours.”

silena exhales through her nose, fondly exasperated in a way that would make you balk at her audacity if it wasn’t still so cute. you adamantly veer your focus back onto cleaning dried blood and peeled slices of skin from her fingers, trying your best to ignore the way she’s staring down at you without interruption.

the inside of her wrist smells like a warm bed; almond milk and sprays of powdery-white flowers. it’s familiar—painfully so.

you look up at her, ignoring the way your chest curls in on itself. “are you wearing my perfume?”

silena can’t meet your gaze. “couldn’t help m’self. i missed you. ‘nd you left your tester at mine.”

i missed you. something in the back of your throat clenches, invisible fingers pressing to the flat of your tongue until you choke. you taste salt and look away before it begins to mimic the sensation of crying.

you should tell her to give it back to you, but you don’t. somehow, the idea of parts of you still bleeding into her life doesn’t repulse you like you feel like it should. instead, you nod once and focus back onto her fingers.

“it suits you,” you say, quietly. a concession.

silena puffs out one of her little half-laughs, disbelieving. “the hell it does. this was always your scent.”

“what does that matter?”

“it’s yours. means it can’t belong t’ me.”

but it could.

you nip that particular thought in the bud before it can spill from your mouth in petals.

“why were you…beating on that girl anyway?” the usual grace with which you divert the subject is lost, but she thankfully doesn’t comment. “what’d she do to you?”

“didn’t,” silena replies, her voice shuttering off into something more controlled. you try not to feel betrayed at that.

“then why?”

silena looks away, repentant. you feel your ribs squeeze. “she was talkin’ shit about you.”

you barely have time to snap your parted jaw shut before she’s continuing, her voice a grumble that’s almost petulant. “saw you w’ price on the balcony ‘nd said it was only a matter o’ time before y’ moved on t’ the next. pissed me off. phillie’s always runnin’ her mouth about somethin’– but she should’ve known better than t’ try and come for you in front o’ me.”

you promptly ignore the way your heart swells with affection in your chest. “silena.”

“what?”

“you can’t just–” you start, holding your hands up in a half-helpless, half-exasperated gesture. “you can’t just beat a girl up because she talks shit about me. i don’t care about any of that. you especially shouldn’t be getting hurt because of–”

“well, what the hell was i supposed to do? sit there and let her run her mouth?”

“wh– silena, it shouldn’t have even bothered you in the first place!” you exclaim, bewildered.

“but it did!” silena protests, turning to face you. there’s something in her eyes that you’re scared to put a name to. “and i know it shouldn’t have, okay? i know it should’ve just gone in one ear ‘n out the other because you sure as hell aren’t my woman, so i shouldn’t care, but i do.”

she’s facing you fully now, braced on her knees and leaning towards you. “okay? i still do, and like it or not, i’m still not gonna take shit about someone i love just because we aren’t talkin’ anym—”

“you love me?”

“i–”

the room goes quiet. outside, someone shrieks with laughter, muffled by the walls. the light of the bathroom is white and wholly unglamorous, casting the hard set of her cheekbones in a sterile pink glow. her fingers twitch in yours, and you hold firm. you can’t let her flee again, not when absolutely nothing is making sense about what she’s saying.

she’s looking away now, the corner of her mouth snagged between her canines in a way that you might have found completely endearing if you weren’t still angry at her.

“said what i said, didn’t i?” she mumbles, and it dawns on you—you’ve made the infallible silena riley nervous.

“why?” you ask. “why now? this isn’t– it won’t change the fact i’m still angry. you know that.”

“yeah,” silena nods once, more solemnly than she has any right to. “i know. just…didn’t know what else i could say. wasn’t even supposed t’ tell you like this. i had a whole thing planned, for after the jazz show, but i didn’t– we never…”

her jaw tightens, and you watch as her fingers curl into themselves. you hold her through it, even when her skin feels like it’s searing yours at every angle.

“…then–” you start, swallowing thickly as a fresh needling of emotion threatens to rip your throat open. “why did you…why were you going to leave?”

“oh, [name],” silena starts, her face crumpling. “i never meant–”

“but you were going to anyway,” you reply, pulling one hand away to dab at your eyes with the edge of your sleeve. she trails after your touch with the hand you’d been holding, fingers hovering dangerously close to your cheek, then she drops it as if she’s just remembered herself.

your mascara is running, you’re sure of it. you don’t let that deter you.

“do you even know how embarrassing that was, silena?” you hiccup from behind the butt of your palm. “to have someone i was ready to go all in for, someone i liked, just…leave? do you have any idea what that did to me?”

“i–” she starts, voice wavering uncertainly. “i don’t, [name]. don’t…don’t think i ever could. but god, baby, i am just– i’m so–”

“i know you are,” you interrupt gently, voice slightly steadier. “i know. but it still hurts, you know, and i’m still angry.”

silena’s head dips, her expression defeated as her hands lie limp and uncurled. before she can fully shrink away from you, however, you squeeze her fingers carefully.

“i’ll still be angry after this,” you tell her, your words stalling for half a second before you offer a small smile—weak, faint, not nearly as warm as you can usually be with her; but there. “so you’re not entirely off the hook, no matter how much i love you.”

for a moment, silena seems to wilt again, half-accepting and half-forlorn. but you see the second your words register, her eyes going as wide as full moons as her cheeks bloom anew with color. you scarcely stave off the urge to laugh as her lips part slightly, stunned to silence.

“you–” she starts, hesitant, fragile—as if what you’d said might shatter into a lie or a trick of the wind if she speaks too loudly. her tongue swipes nervously over her lips, and you feel a pang of irrational envy somewhere past the…everything else. “you just said– you said…”

“i did.”

“…wait, so–” she blurts, looking every bit the fish out of water she currently sounds like. “y’ love me? too? as– as in…me?”

“no one else but you, si,” you reply earnestly, throat dry and pulse thudding deafeningly behind your ears.

silena gazes at you for a long moment, jaw slack. beneath your hands, you can faintly feel the hummingbird-quick throb of her heartbeat in tandem with your own. bringing your eyes up to meet hers, you nearly startle when you realize she’s looking at you like you’re the saint around your neck.

when she speaks, she sounds like she’s about to break. “you called me si.”

you can’t help it then—you laugh, quiet and open, pulled out of the open wound in your throat as you uncap the tube in your hand. silena stares at you, bewildered before she lets out a small laugh of her own. god, you’d missed the way that little exhale she did had sounded.

“yeah,” you mumble as you smear a bit of liquid bandage onto her knuckles. you apply it carefully, looking away from her as you do, and you feel her fingers twitch under yours once more.

“is– are you…” she starts, the powder-brown of her eyes tugging the breath from your lungs like a surgery. “are we…”

“are we what?”

“still…are we– can we be close again?”

you still your movements, your adhesive-sticky thumb pausing from where it’s brushing over her knuckles. you don’t look up at her, not yet, but you know she’s watching you. she always has been.

before you can even think of anything to say, she’s talking again, and it takes your brain an eternal two seconds to catch up to what she’s saying.

“i just– i’ve missed y’ so much, [name], so fuckin’ much–” she’s practically babbling. “all this time wit’out you, i’ve…god, i feel like i’ve been crumblin’ at th’ edges. i thought i’d gone ‘nd ruined it f’ good, thought i’d never be able t’ tell you how much i actually liked you–”

she inhales, shaky, as if her words are rattling at her bones to be set free. “because fuck, [name], i’ve liked you since th’ moment i saw you at m’ door, and i couldn’t even tell you.”

the world promptly tips you upside down.

you’re left sitting there, liquid bandage under your nails and cool tile bruising your knees, staring up at her like she’s god and you’re fresh out of the confessional. the scent of the white poppy josie had placed in your hair before you’d left hits you harder than ever, slightly spicy and redolent with earth, and you wonder if it’s just because you’re not sure if you can focus on silena without coming apart at the seams.

“that long?” you murmur, trying not to make it sound like you’re about to cry. it clearly doesn’t work, because a helpless little noise leaves silena as she twitches under you over and over.

silena doesn’t say anything. just nods, once.

“you never told me,” you say.

“couldn’t,” she replies, staring at the space above you. “y’ made me so fuckin’ nervous, love. i didn’t know what i was doin’ half the time when y’ talked t’ me. i just knew i wanted y’ to keep talking.”

“oh.”

briefly, your throat tightens. you’re sure you must look like a mess right now. it takes more bravery than you want to admit for you to say, agonizingly slowly, “silena?”

“mm.”

your nails pinch your palms as you stand up, hovering over her. the icon of la virgen drops against your clavicle, cool and grounding. “i’d like that too. to be…close, i mean. again.”

...you could swear you hear her sob.

“baby,” she whispers after a long moment, her forehead pressing against your stomach as she curls into you. “[name]. my girl. thank you. thank you.”

you look down, and the way she returns your gaze from beneath pale lashes is devastating—you’re not sure what it is about her that manages to unravel you so neatly, but you’re certain it has something to do with the way she always looks at you like she’s asking permission to.

“si,” you mumble, and you practically feel the way she shudders out an exhale, breath ghosting against the cutout along your stomach.

“again,” she whispers. “my name. si. say it again.”

her eyes aren’t looking into yours anymore. they’re trained on the curve of your hip, the bruise from your mishap during that argument three months ago still sitting fresh on your skin. you know she remembers.

it wasn’t that you’d bruised so terribly that it hadn’t healed after all these weeks, but every night that you’d missed her, you’d curled up in bed and pressed your thumb to the spot until you cried out like a sick little creature of some sort. after everything, some part of you had wanted to cling to what she had left behind. it had only just begun to heal two days ago.

before you can hope to warn her that the liquid bandage still needs to dry on her skin, silena's fingers press into the bruise at your hip, the mottled discoloration paling with the pressure. your lips part in a silent cry as the tip of her nail notches at your skin, as if trying to find a way to sink in and pry you apart without making you bleed; a gentle dissection.

it’s the closest to heaven you’ve ever felt.

“si,” you say, quiet, almost whining. she twitches, and you watch the inside of her cheek snag between her teeth again. you wish you could feel her teeth there, as if it were your own mouth.

“one more time. f’ me.”

you open your mouth and crush yourself into her.

copr. 2025, kk-iki.