Jal waits by the door. Her father is silent for once. Nods to her. Heads up the stairs.
It's raining.
Chel drags her feet up the stairs, falls into bed. Watches the rain, and cries. She's not making sense—or at least, less sense than usual—and as Jal tugs her head into her lap she can hear, It's different, it's different, it's different this time, like a song, like one of Anwar's prayers.
"Wha's that?" Jal asks her, and Michelle chokes out a sob.
"He came to my house," she tells Jal. "He stood at my door," she tells Jal. "He told me he loved me, and I said no."
Good, Jal thinks, but there are too many reasons for the fleeting word, too many threads she can't take care to untangle. She's never been a patient one, Jal.
"Oh, Chel," she says instead.
"I miss him," Chel hums, and it rings more true than any of her other words, more true than I love him, in fact.
"I know, I know you do," Jal murmurs. Runs a finger through a ringlet curl.
Chel shifts her head, nose pressing into Jal's stomach. "I'm a shit friend," she breathes, eyes wet. "I am."
Jal should probably say You're not, because that's the type of thing she always says in these situations, but instead she finds a laugh bubbling up inside of her, absurd, unstoppable. "You kind of are," she agrees, and then the laugh cuts out between her teeth, and Michelle's shaking in her lap, a chuckle.
It dies away. The rain beats on against the window.
"I miss him" again.
"I know."
Michelle shifts.
Tilts her head away from Jal's stomach.
Eyes are pink, puffy, swollen.
She's still beautiful. It's not really fair.
"I want you," Chel says, "to kiss me," so Jal leans down and kisses her, lips chaste and closed against Chel's mouth. Her face is wet, from the rain, and from tears, and from lip gloss.
Jal pulls away.
"I miss him."
"I know."
"Kiss me again."
And this time there's Chel's jaw slanting open beneath the press of her lips, and the soft, wet inside of Chel's mouth, and Chel's tongue gliding lazily into the curve of Jal's cheek.
And Chel's hand snaking into the back of Jal's hair, and Chel's chest arching upward into Jal, an inhalation, and Chel's tiny, open moan—
(We should stop, Jal thinks she ought to say, but it's different, it's different, it's different this time.)
Chel's fingers curling around the hem of Jal's shirt, and Chel's palms brushing Jal's ribs as she pulls the shirt up over her shoulders, and the heat of Chel's everything as she straddles Jal's hips.
And the pulse of Chel's finger inside of her, and the bite of Chel's words when she tells her Come on, come for me Jal, just fucking come, and the sight of Jal's own hand pushing down in Chel's hair, and Chel bends at the touch, for once, for once.
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It's not as though this story's any new.
Jal waits by the door. Her father is silent for once. Nods to her. Heads up the stairs.
It's raining.
Chel drags her feet up the stairs, falls into bed. Watches the rain, and cries. She's not making sense—or at least, less sense than usual—and as Jal tugs her head into her lap she can hear, It's different, it's different, it's different this time, like a song, like one of Anwar's prayers.
"Wha's that?" Jal asks her, and Michelle chokes out a sob.
"He came to my house," she tells Jal. "He stood at my door," she tells Jal. "He told me he loved me, and I said no."
Good, Jal thinks, but there are too many reasons for the fleeting word, too many threads she can't take care to untangle. She's never been a patient one, Jal.
"Oh, Chel," she says instead.
"I miss him," Chel hums, and it rings more true than any of her other words, more true than I love him, in fact.
"I know, I know you do," Jal murmurs. Runs a finger through a ringlet curl.
Chel shifts her head, nose pressing into Jal's stomach. "I'm a shit friend," she breathes, eyes wet. "I am."
Jal should probably say You're not, because that's the type of thing she always says in these situations, but instead she finds a laugh bubbling up inside of her, absurd, unstoppable. "You kind of are," she agrees, and then the laugh cuts out between her teeth, and Michelle's shaking in her lap, a chuckle.
It dies away. The rain beats on against the window.
"I miss him" again.
"I know."
Michelle shifts.
Tilts her head away from Jal's stomach.
Eyes are pink, puffy, swollen.
She's still beautiful. It's not really fair.
"I want you," Chel says, "to kiss me," so Jal leans down and kisses her, lips chaste and closed against Chel's mouth. Her face is wet, from the rain, and from tears, and from lip gloss.
Jal pulls away.
"I miss him."
"I know."
"Kiss me again."
And this time there's Chel's jaw slanting open beneath the press of her lips, and the soft, wet inside of Chel's mouth, and Chel's tongue gliding lazily into the curve of Jal's cheek.
And Chel's hand snaking into the back of Jal's hair, and Chel's chest arching upward into Jal, an inhalation, and Chel's tiny, open moan—
(We should stop, Jal thinks she ought to say, but it's different, it's different, it's different this time.)
Chel's fingers curling around the hem of Jal's shirt, and Chel's palms brushing Jal's ribs as she pulls the shirt up over her shoulders, and the heat of Chel's everything as she straddles Jal's hips.
And the pulse of Chel's finger inside of her, and the bite of Chel's words when she tells her Come on, come for me Jal, just fucking come, and the sight of Jal's own hand pushing down in Chel's hair, and Chel bends at the touch, for once, for once.