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The first time it happens, she is thirteen. The cicadas are chattering and the heat rises from the ground in a visible haze. The river, engorged from the recent rain, tumbles in its bed with frothy sprays of white, offering a blissful respite from the sun beating down on their heads. The current is strong, and she grips to Fang’s hand, fingers interlocked as the river attempts to pull her away.
There is a moment — an inexplicable, wonderful, and utterly confounding moment — when her foot slips on a stone, and with a shriek she flails but does not fall; Fang’s hands grip her arms and pull her up off her feet and against her chest. The other girl’s hair is wet, curling over her shoulders, her expression suddenly strangely intense, her eyes almost painfully green.
For a moment, all Vanille can do is stare, lips parted, breath caught.
Then the moment passes — Fang’s intensity melts into an indulgent smile and she sets her on her feet with a carefree, “Be more careful, yeah?”
And Vanille lets out her held, shaky breath and pushes sodden bangs out of her face and ignores the curious feeling in her stomach (as though a whole flight of butterflies is caught there, beating their wings).
She is sixteen, and her hands are steady as she wields the needle, stitching torn skin together. She cannot ignore the flow of blood, though, nor the pained grunt of her patient. There are tears pricking at the corners of her eyes but she attempts to mask her distress with a flow of words.
“You need to be more careful,” she says.
Her friend laughs carelessly — as carelessly as she throws herself in harm’s way. “Just a scratch, Vanille.”
“It nearly severed an artery!” the younger girl exclaims, tying off the final stitch with relief. Her hands nearly fly to her hips before she remembers they are red with Fang’s blood; they flutter in the air before her like wings for a moment before she grabs a towel to wipe them. “What would you have done then?”
“It didn’t,” Fang says with a shrug followed by a wince. “No sense worrying about what could’ve happened.”
“Someone has to worry.” The tears spill over only then; helpfully, they remained at bay exactly long enough for her to stitch the wound closed, but there is no task to distract her now. “You never worry. If you —”
Her words are cut off at the source with Fang’s hands on her cheeks, calloused fingers wiping at the tears under her eyes. “You’re always such a crybaby.” The words are gentle, imbued with fondness; the tease has no sting. Vanille sniffles, trying not to pout. “You know why I don’t worry?” she asks.
“Why?” the younger girl demands.
“Because,” Fang says, “even when I’m stupid, I know you’ll always be there to patch me up.”
“Well, you are stupid,” Vanille says, her voice petulant. “Jumping in front of an angry behemoth is stupid.”
“I knew you’d take care of me.” The last of the tears is wiped from the corner of her eyes. “You’re always taking care of me.” Vanille considers saying, you’re the one always taking care of me, but she is thrown off-kilter, again, by the way Fang is looking at her. It isn’t just trust, or friendship, or gratitude. It isn’t anything she can put a name to, but it is something that has her lips feeling suddenly dry and her heartbeat speeding in her chest, as though she is on the precipice of something.
She has more to say than she knows how to express, but the words are caught in her throat. But her chin tilts up almost of its own volition as her body leans in, shrinking the distance between them. Always has been between them from the start, that bond that holds them eternally close, but this is….
Fang clears her throat. “You should… wash your hands.”
“But —” Vanille says. Then she drops her gaze, feeling her cheeks warm. “You’re right. I’m all bloody.”
And as a dismissal, it is pretty clear. She is sixteen and foolish, but she is not entirely stupid. At least, not in this way.
And she is scared.
She is nineteen and she realizes now that they are doomed — doomed to a horrifying, grotesque death and madness, or, perhaps, to a loss of their souls. It must be the former; she does not think she can steel her heart enough to accomplish the latter.
She wants to hope that Fang can’t, either, but by the stubborn set of her jaw, she knows that this hope, like them, will die.
But they are alive, now. Right now, right this moment, under the night sky, with the frogs croaking in the distance and the scent of autumn on the wind, they are still here. Right now, she is done crying, and she is done waiting.
And so, right now, her hands are cupping Fang’s cheeks, and they are not shaking; she is made brave by the knowledge that even if she is the only one struggling with these roiling, desperate feelings, she will not have long to suffer a broken heart. Because right now is all they have.
She doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t let herself think. She simply rises on her toes and brings their lips together, and it is both shocking and inevitable how perfectly they seem to fit against each other, how easily Fang’s lips part under hers, how immediately strong arms come to wrap around her back and pull her close, so close she can hardly breathe (and she doesn’t care; breathing, right now, is a secondary concern to what is happening).
And when they part, and she sees the stars reflected in Fang’s eyes (she is, after all, still nineteen, still romantic, still a dreamer), she sheds her concerns, her worries, her fears along with her hesitation, throws her arms around the other woman’s shoulders, and clings tight, as though some invisible current is once again attempting to drag her away.
Fang, though, won’t let her drift. She holds her in place, not just with her arms, not just with her quick breathing and the kisses she is sprinkling over Vanille’s hair, not even with her broken, hesitant attempts at words (they are a mixture of endearments and apologies). They are here, right now, with each other, and for this one moment, the inevitability of what will happen to them doesn’t matter.
There is no room for it in her heart.