Work Text:
Don’t pick me up, I’m going to the )(ospital.
The text message scares the shit out of you, making your heart clench in your chest as worry seeps into your bones. Today was supposed to be a good day, but it looks like you may not be celebrating later after all. Plan: TMCAHO is a failure. You retaliate accordingly.
fef are you okay
fef
come on fef answwer me PLEASE
oh god fef you cant just text me somethin like that and not tell me if youre okay
You even call once or twice for good measure, but she doesn’t answer. Irresponsibly, you skip breakfast and take your meds on an empty stomach, deciding last second to grab a banana as you’re walking out the door to go to school. You really want to skip, but it’s the last full day of school before Christmas break and the end of the grading period, so you wouldn’t be able to make up the calculus test that’s today. You’re tempted to say “fuck it” and just stay home to worry the day away, but you don’t want to risk fucking up your grade.
Over the past hour, your worry has fermented into nausea. As you drive, you force yourself to eat, trying to ignore how your hands are shaking. Seeing as you know you’re distracted, you try to keep below the speed limit and tell yourself to focus on the road whenever you feel your mind wandering. The rational part of you keeps saying that since her text didn’t contain any urgency, she has to be pretty much okay. Maybe she’s just going to see her doctor or something.
She finally texts you when you’re parking your car in its assigned spot on campus. You rip your phone out of your pocket, lighting up the screen and reading, Sorry, I was wit)( my doctor! I was stupid and got a minor pressure ulcer, not)(ing to worry about. 38P I’ll be )(ome by lunc)(time.
The instant relief that comes is like a lead weight got removed from your stomach. With the fear gone, you’re left with a raw feeling on your insides, one that makes you want to drive to her and just hug her until she complains that you’re too clingy and dramatic and you use too much cologne. You make the decision that you will indeed do that, but once she’s home.
text me wwhen you get home and ill bring you some food after school
Okay!
Your first period of the day is your least favorite, because no one sane makes a math class the first thing on someone’s schedule. “Morning, Kar,” you greet as you slide into the desk next to him. He’s frantically pouring over his notes, examining each page with such intensity that he can’t even acknowledge your greeting. Snorting, you say, “Why are you even trying to study for calculus? You can’t study for math, and we’re all going to fail anyway.”
“Shut up,” he snaps, turning the page. “Maybe you don’t look over your shit before a test, but I think that there’s a reason I manage to outdo you on all of these fucking exams.”
You sniff, offended, “Only by a couple of points. Anyway, I’m a science guy, whether you’re talking physical or social.”
He may have just growled at you. Shrugging, you get out your calculator and get ready for your brain to melt.
After everyone finishes the test, there are about two minutes left of class, and you use that time to lament to Kar. “My big plan can no longer be implemented.”
“Remind me what your stupid acronym stands for again,” he requests, head down on his desk.
“Two Months Clean, Ask Her Out,” you tell him. You’re a bit put out that he forgot, but it’s Kar, he at least will remember the rest of your plan if not the fancy codename for it. “She’s at the hospital.”
“Oh shit,” he says, sitting up immediately. That’s the thing about Kar—he’s rough around the edges, but he’s like a crème filled doughnut, all mushy and concerned on the inside. Sure, his hovering usually is pretty coarse, but that’s how you know he cares. “Is she okay?”
“Apparently it’s nothing major,” you say, shrugging your shoulders slightly. You look more nonchalant than you actually feel. “I’m going to her house after school.”
“Well tell her I hope she kicks the ass of whatever’s keeping her down, alright?” he says as the bell rings. You both gather up your stuff, and you affirm that you will deliver his important message before moping onward to your next class.
Five excruciatingly long periods later, you’re jogging to the parking lot and pulling out before the rush comes. Since tomorrow is a half day, you’re sure you’ll skip it, so you say good riddance to school for the year and drive to Publix. The grocery store is one of the best places to get premade food around here, even if it is mainly for ingredients and shit you stock a pantry with.
As you walk into the store, you dial her familiar number, and she answers after a couple of rings. “Hey, when are you coming over?” The last word is swallowed by a yawn, and you think that you might’ve woken her up.
It’s astounding she can sound so excited to see you when you see her pretty much every day. Sure, you’re always eager to see her, but that’s because she’s Fef. You’re just… you. “I’m at Publix,” you tell her. “Do you want a sub or sushi or chicken or something I can make?”
“Sushi sounds good!” she says. “Could you get something warm to drink with it? I’m feeling kind of cold.”
“Are you running a fever?” you ask, grabbing a basket and heading towards the back of the store.
“A little one,” she sighs. “We caught the sore before it could go all the way down to the tissue, but there’s still cellulitis. I’m on antibiotics so I’m sure I’ll be patched up in no time!” She laughs a little bit even though there wasn’t a joke. “I won’t give you all the gross details, don’t worry.”
As you pass through one of the aisles, the hot chocolate display catches your eye. You grab the most expensive brand they have before continuing on your way, making a mental note to grab a bag of mini marshmallows on the way out. “But you’re okay? It’s in a place where you can’t feel it, right?”
“It’s on the border, so it’s a bit tender, but I’m okay, Eridan,” she sighs, and somehow you can hear affection in it. “I’ll be in bed when you get here. Just hurry up and get some food!”
“Fine.” You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “Bye.”
“Bye!”
Ten minutes later, you’re leaving the store with three packages of sushi, hot chocolate, a bag of marshmallows, and a box of éclairs from the bakery. None of it particularly mixes together well in terms of a civilized dinner, but it’ll taste good so you don’t really care.
Soon, you’re pulling into Fef’s driveway, and you let yourself into the house. Before you head upstairs, you put some milk in the microwave and start digging in the coat closet. Once you find a soft hoodie, you throw it in the drier to warm it up and go back into the kitchen to finish fixing the hot cocoa. Once it’s all ready, you carefully grab everything and go up to her room, using the stairs instead of the elevator for the first time in years.
You knock before you enter, using the hand that’s holding the bag of sushi and éclairs. Your arms are pretty full, with two mugs of hot chocolate in one hand, the warm hoodie thrown over that arm, and your meal in your other hand. You wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up spilling the hot cocoa and scalding your skin. She calls, “Come in!” and you enter.
“You said you were cold,” you start, fumbling and almost dropping the drinks as you try to close the door behind you without slamming it, “so I brought you some hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows and whipped cream, and I threw a hoodie I found in the closet into the drier so it’s extra warm.” You look up from the stuff you’re carrying to make eye contact with her, and you see that she’s sitting up in bed, the mattress raised and pillows piled up behind her, and your chest clenches a little bit. She pauses the game she’s playing and leans over to put the controller on her nightstand, and the movement looks awkward so you’re hurrying over and saying, “No no, I’ve got it.”
She’s settled back into position before you can set all the stuff down. She turns her exasperated expression on you, and you feel the tips of your ears getting warm. “Eridan, I’m fine,” she emphasizes, pulling herself into a cross-legged position. You have to admit that she really does look okay, so you force yourself to hand her a mug of hot cocoa, put yours down on the nightstand, and unpack the sushi. You’ll eat it out of the packages instead of on plates (and you’ll feel like a heathen the entire time). You made sure to grab some chopsticks so it isn’t too improper.
Fef scoots over on the bed and pats the spot next to her. You sink down carefully, staying on top of the covers and pressing your right leg against her left; you can feel the heat even though a blanket separates them. She pulls on the hoodie you brought her as you put a pack of rainbow rolls on her lap, and you take out your own helping of tuna. You got some dragon rolls to share, and those go in the middle.
“You’re a wasabi wimp,” Fef remarks a few minutes into the meal, smearing a glob of the stuff onto her roll before popping it into her mouth.
“We’ve been over this, I don’t like spicy things,” you say, enjoying your own piece with low sodium soy sauce rather than the gooey green smear of death. “Just because you want to burn the taste buds out of your mouth doesn’t mean I do.”
Suspicion arises in you when she gets a lump of it on the end of one of her chopsticks, and then she’s quickly reaching over and smearing it onto the tip of your nose. You shrink back, squawking. Surprisingly it doesn’t burn your skin, and as you frantically search for a napkin to wipe it off with, she laughs and sips on her hot chocolate.
A box of tissues on the nightstand saves you. Glaring at her, you get all the shit off your nose, whining, “You could’ve killed me.”
“Oh shut up, drama queen,” she says, winding her arms around you once you’re back into position. You try not to let it show how good that feels. Propping her chin on your shoulder, she inquires, “What did you get the éclairs for? They’re your special occasion food.”
You love to be reminded that she knows you that well. If you do end up going on with Plan: TMCAHO, little things like that make you think it might be a success. “I’ll tell you when we finish the sushi,” you promise. You finish up your boxes in companionable silence.
Everything keeps getting delayed: you end up playing hours of video games, carefully selecting titles that aren’t known to ruin friendships. Somewhere in that timeframe, you roll up your sleeves, because even though there are scars she’s seen them all; there is nothing new to show. You think that’ll be a good segue for later. Glenys comes home from running errands at around seven, and Fef has to take her prescription. Within the next hour or two, her fever comes down, and she takes off the sweatshirt but keeps herself pressed against you. She has to shift her position every once in a while, making sure not to keep pressure on one area (especially not the place just under her butt that’s wrapped in bandages).
By nine o’clock, you’ve settled in and put on a movie. You’re under the covers with her at this point, mattress still propped up and warmth surrounding you. Your arm is around her shoulders and hers is around your waist; her head is tilted towards your shoulder and you’re using her hair as a pillow. Shouldn’t this count as cuddling? You do this sort of thing with her pretty often, so it would be logical that the next step would be moving into a relationship that’s less platonic, right? But what if she doesn’t like you like that? What if she’ll never want to see you again? What if you really don’t mean anything to her?
“Hey,” she says, poking you in the side, “you’re thinking pretty damn loudly.”
Swallowing hard, you reach over to the nightstand, untangling your arms from each other as you do so. You take the box of éclairs and put them on your lap, opening it up and getting ready. You’ve rehearsed how you want this to go again and again, because it has to be absolutely perfect or else she’ll be disgusted and cut all her ties with you for good this time and—
She takes your hand, curling your fingers with hers, and you meekly look over to meet her gaze. “Deep breaths,” she coaxes, “there’s no reason to freak out.”
You follow her instructions, gulping in a few swallows of air. Since you’re starting to lose some courage, you stall by lifting your linked hands and pressing the back of yours into her forehead. A slight frown graces your features. “You’re running a bit of a fever again.”
“It’s doesn’t feel like it, or else I would’ve put the sweatshirt back on,” she assures you, bringing your hands back down to her lap. “Now come on, tell me what the special occasion is.”
Everything is old enough to be scarred over. Marks on your legs and stomach have faded to thin white lines, and only the deeper ones are still visible on your arms. A small smile settles onto your face as you flip your conjoined hands over so your pale forearm shows; she needs to understand the meaning through cues so you don’t have to awkwardly explain. “I’m two months clean,” you tell her, only a little bit afraid of what she’ll say.
Usually, things like this are a personal victory. Every interval you went without cutting you kept to yourself, because no one likes it when you talk about that kind of thing, and the entire practice is so deeply private. However, Fef has been coaching you and doing all she could to help you while still understanding that most of your recovery you had to do on your own. The therapist she recommended about two months ago really has helped, because you let her. Before, you were afraid to tell anyone anything, so you closed yourself in, buried any insecurities under pomp and went on with your life until you couldn’t. You’ve always drawn your strength from Fef, because she has an abundance that she’s willing to let you tap into when you need it. Honestly, you don’t know if you would’ve been able to do any of this without her.
When her face lights up like you haven’t seen since you got her a clutch of cuttlefish eggs for Christmas, you know it all was worth it, because it makes you feel significant. She lets go of your hand so she can throw her arms around your neck, and you almost topple out of the bed from the force of her tackle. The box of éclairs falls on the floor, but luckily the lid shut so they don’t get ruined. Your arms encase her in return, and you’re surprised when she kisses you on your forehead, on the tip of your nose, on your temple. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, and you have to bury your face in her neck so she doesn’t see your eyes start to moisten. “God, Eridan, congratulations! I knew you could do it. And I know you’ll keep doing it. I’m just… I’m so proud of you.”
It makes your heart ache to hear tears in her voice. She won’t cry, you know, just like you won’t, but for once you’re kind of glad to hear the inflection because that’s how you know she’s genuinely happy for you.
And that makes you want to come clean about everything right now, while you’re tucked into each other and surrounded in so much care that you feel like you’d never get turned down, but you won’t because she could think you’re trying to use that little accomplishment in order to get her to go out with you. That’s not what you’re doing at all; you needed a motivator that kept you from buying new razor blades and melting ice on your skin instead. You told yourself you’d take the big leap with her tonight, and if she turned you down, you’d still have the anniversary of something spectacular to feel good about. The rejection looming on the horizon makes you worry that if your mission to ask her out is a spectacular failure, you might end up in the same position you were in when Cronus broke a bottle of wine and drove away drunk.
You definitely don’t want her to know about that last thought, because she has no obligation to say yes, and if she thinks you’ll go home in despair and break your streak, she may say yes out of pity, out of desperation. Years ago, you would’ve taken that, but now you think that would feel worse than if she just said no.
That’s when you make the decision to not do it tonight. If you put it off for a while you know you’ll keep doing that forever (like you have up until this point), so you tell yourself you’ll do it tomorrow. For now, you just squeeze her tighter and pretend she’s your entire world.
A few hours later, the room is dark except for the light of the TV—she’s watching a musical, you think it’s one of the really old ones—and you’re dozing off with your head on her lap. You haven’t been able to sleep because she shifts around every few minutes, and you know it’s because of her bedsore so you don’t complain. Her hands are warm in your hair, her fingers playing with the strands and trailing across your scalp.
There are two light knocks on the door and before Fef can respond, it opens. You don’t open your eyes because a streak of light from the hallway lands directly on your face. “It’s getting really late, Feffy,” her grandmother says.
“He fell asleep a little while ago,” she says quietly, and you’re too content to correct her. “He doesn’t get enough of it, so I thought it’d be fine to leave him until he wakes up.”
Glenys seems to ponder this for a moment before allowing it. “Okay, make sure you tell him to lock up when he leaves. And darling?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re not doing anything up here, are you?”
“No, Grandma,” she responds. As she does so, she runs a thumb across your jawline. You didn’t shave this morning, so it’s a bit stubbly. “We’re still not like that.”
Maybe your tired mind imagined the bittersweetness in her voice, but you swear there’s something sad in her tone. “Okay,” Glenys says. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
She goes back to playing with your hair, singing along softly to whatever song is playing through the speakers of her television. Her voice isn’t particularly pretty, but it’s making you even more tired, so even with her near constant shifting and the light from the TV, you do end up falling asleep.
“Eridan. Eridan, wake up.”
“Mmphm,” you groan into something warm, entirely unwilling to move. It’s too comfortable, too relaxing.
There’s a finger poking your stomach once, twice. “You have to leave before my grandma wakes up.”
When you open your mouth to speak, you realize the warm thing your face is pressed up against is Fef’s bare shoulder. The strap of her tank top doesn’t cover the entire curve, and when you open your eyes, you can’t see the dozens of freckles dotting her skin because you don’t have your glasses on. One of your arms is lying across her back, and you retract it and sit up, rubbing your face. You hope you didn’t drool on her.
As you turn away, you see her take the corner of her sheets and rub the spot where your face was. Goddammit.
Double goddammit, you correct yourself, subtly siding your hands over your groin and bringing your knees up.
“What time is it?” you ask, head still foggy with traces slumber. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and blanch at your wild hair. You’d say it almost looks like sex hair, but just because you slept together doesn’t mean you slept together.
(Something about that makes uneasiness sit like a stone in the pit of your stomach. You don’t know why, but the image of you doing anything past second base with Fef makes unease creep into your system. It’s weird, because you really want to do everything with her, and you can’t imagine yourself having a problem with doing things for her, but there are some things that make you want to shiver. You guess you’ll face that head on if it ever comes.)
“It’s almost seven,” she says, stifling a yawn.
You almost ask if she wants to go to the beach and watch the sunrise, but you can tell she wants to go back to sleep. Awkwardly, you slip out of bed—she must’ve laid the mattress flat sometime in the night, you’re surprised you didn’t wake up—grabbing your keys off her dresser. You really want to stretch, but you’re busy keeping your back to her and letting your hands hover over your morning wood so it’s not as noticeable. You’ll have to hit the bathroom before you leave. “We should do something this afternoon.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, unable to cover up this yawn. She’s cute and sleepy and if you were anything other than stolid, you’d have a dopey smile on your face. “We’ll figure it out later. Be quiet when you leave, and make sure you lock the door.” With one last lethargic smile, she slides back under the covers and curls up. You notice that the side with her sore is pointed towards the ceiling. You hope you weren’t pressing against it while you slept; your atypical night of comfortable, undisturbed sleep wouldn’t have been worth it if she were in any pain.
Quietly, you pad into the bathroom (holding your boat shoes so they don’t clunk against the floor), do what you have to, head downstairs, and slip outside, locking the door behind you. Your car is waiting for you in the middle of the driveway near the grandiose fountain. For good measure, you dig in your pocket and find some change from your Publix transaction the day before and toss it into the water. Wishes are dumb and magic isn’t real, but you really need all the help you can get.
You didn’t want to drag Fef out of bed, but you’re wide-awake now, so you decide to quickly swing by your house to grab your camera and change into something else. Since you’ll have some time to kill when you get there, you put on some work out clothes and grab your sunglasses. There’s not enough time to be meticulous with your hair, so you slather on a bunch of gel to make it into something a bit less disheveled. You’re careful not to wake Cronus, who’s passed out in the den. Ten minutes until sunrise, you are speeding towards the beach.
It’s not very far from your house—just five minutes up the road. There aren’t many people around, as tourism probably won’t pick up for another couple of days, but there are a couple of joggers (you’ll be one of them after you finish taking photographs) and two middle-aged women doing yoga by the shore. The tide is creeping further up the shore but won’t be high until a few hours from now. As the sun comes up, you snap some gorgeous pictures of the shoreline and the horizon, watching as gold and pink streak across the sky and penetrate the thin clouds that try to block it out. Pelicans skim over the water, and one dives; you get a nice action shot of that.
It doesn’t take long for your camera to start flashing the low battery symbol, so you frown and head back to your car, putting it in the glove compartment so it can’t be seen. Next, you strap on your armband for your iPhone, stick in your earbuds, and replace your regular glasses with your prescription sunglasses. Putting on your running playlist and stretching takes a couple of minutes, and then you head back out onto the beach.
If it were summer, two hours of jogging without sunscreen would’ve left you burnt to a crisp. However, the December sun is less scorching on the skin, and you come away slightly pink. You were in the sun a lot more when you were younger, yet you have never tanned that much; you always burned and developed freckles, though they’re scattered all over your back and shoulders rather than on your face like Fef’s. Well, you do have quite the sprinkling over the bridge of your nose, but they’re pretty faint and can’t be seen unless someone is right up close.
You run to the pier and back, and your stomach and head are mad at you for exercising without eating first. To soothe them, you head to a bakery in the historic district, ordering a cinnamon bagel and some coffee (fuck what you are and aren’t supposed to be drinking, you need some goddamn caffeine). Not wanting to be seen in public all that much while you’re sweaty and gross, you opt out of sitting at a quaint table and head home.
Cronus is still splayed over the couch on the den, head hanging over the side and hand dragging on the floor. You’re tempted to flick the light switch a few times to wake him up and trigger a headache from hell, but seeing as he may try to kill you for that, you refrain, opting instead to take a shower upstairs in the glorious master bathroom.
That’s when the panic starts to set in.
Seeing as there’s nothing to do except lather up and think, your mind crafts all the ways this could go horribly, catastrophically wrong. Your breath could stink or you could take her somewhere she hates or you could crash the damn car (wouldn’t that be fucking wonderful, revisiting childhood trauma?) or she could laugh in your face and say she hardly wants to be your friend, let alone your girlfriend…
You could eliminate most of those possibilities by just doing it over Pesterchum, and that would make you feel a lot better about it, but you were raised to do it in person or not at all. And yet you don’t even know what you’re going to do; there’s nothing entertaining around here. The only plan you have is drive her some place, and then drop the bombshell.
Oh god, this is going to be awful.
(You’ve had a few good days in a row, which have put you in a mood past your normal uncaring haze. The pleasant undertone has lasted too long, you know that, something bad is going to happen and you’re going to go back to always having a condensed lump of exhaustion and dread in your stomach. Someone like you isn’t supposed to be anything but miserable.)
When you get out of the shower at around eleven, you have a text from Fef. Sadie’s S)(ellfis)( S)(ack for lunc)(?
sounds great ill pick you up in an hour
Your hair looks like it was professionally done, and you feel like a politician as you practice winning smiles in the mirror. You look dapper and sophisticated in a dark purple vest, a gray button up, and black slacks that match your shiny shoes. As always, you’ve got some rings on your fingers, and you have a feeling you’re going to be turning them nervously all day. You’re hot shit, your confidence assures you, and no one who looked at you would be able to tell you read scientific journals and weapons manuals for fun.
Taking a deep breath, your straighten your vest and bounce on the balls of your feet. This is it, then. You grab your keys, send her a text to say you’re leaving, and head to your car.
When you arrive, Fef is just coming outside. “You’re looking particularly spiffy today,” she says as she locks up her house.
“And you’re looking gorgeous, as alw-ways.” Fuck you fucked it up already, fuck. She does look pretty; you’re glad it’s warm enough for her light blue sundress. It shows off her toned arms and the hem reaches just under her knees. Her hair is loose, as it usually is, but there are two braids branching away from her part and meeting at the base of her skull.
She giggles as you open the car door for her and shove her wheelchair into the backseat. “You pick the music,” you tell her as you slide into the driver’s side. She immediately starts rifling through your center console to find the right disk.
The place Fef suggested is somewhere you go quite often, because the seafood is fresh and excellent and the back deck overlooks the ocean. You split a crab cake appetizer, eat tons of shrimp (she gets them fried, yours are grilled), and chat about your plans for break. This year, her family Christmas party is in Washington, so she’ll be heading over there for a few days, but you make plans for New Year’s. You’re not going anywhere this year, but Cronus is heading to the west coast of the state for a week or two with some friends, and you’re glad he’ll be gone. He hasn’t tried anything, but he’s so fucking annoying and being in the same room with him makes you tense and nauseated.
Before you can initiate your plan, the server is bringing you the check. You split the bill, because you’re both rich enough that no one gives a fuck who pays. As you walk to the car, you just get more and more nervous, because here you fucking go.
You turn on the car and make sure the music is off. Fef looks a bit bemused that you haven’t immediately pulled out, but even the parking lot has a half decent view of the beach so she looks out there. “Fef?”
“Hmm?”
Swallowing, you venture, “Can I talk to you about something?”
She turns away from the window and meets your gaze, making your stomach do a backflip. Oh god, eating right before was not a good idea, you might throw up. “Yeah, anything,” she says.
“So,” you say, twisting the ring on your right middle finger, “I was thinking and… Hav-ve you ever thought about, um… I think w-we should—no.” You sigh, shaking your head. Come on, Ampora, form a coherent sentence. “We’re friends.”
“Yes,” she affirms when she realizes you were waiting for a response.
“Really good friends.”
“Eridan, what are you—?”
“Have you ever w-wanted to be more than that?” you rush out.
There, it’s said. You can’t take it back now. The silence is long and heavy and next time you open your mouth you’re either going to burst into laughter or tears. As it stretches from contemplative to disgusted, you’re about to try to explain yourself when she replies, “I’ve thought about it.”
“Just now or in the past?” you try to joke, but it comes out strangled. You’re not one for humor.
“Before this, silly,” she says, one corner of her mouth tugging up. “And… I can see it working, but I also think it could go wrong.”
“Oh.” You swallow, absentmindedly rubbing one of your wrists. Usually there’s a hemp bracelet you can twirl, but not today. She starts gnawing at her lip, and you get ready for the rejection.
“Sometimes I think we’re better as friends,” she starts, wringing her hands together in her lap, “because things like our fight freshman year happen, which shows how much we’re willing to hurt each other. Don’t,” she says quickly when you open your mouth, “interrupt me. We’ve known each other since we were little kids, and we’re already really close. There are times where I think I love you like a brother, but then there things like last night and this morning that are so intimate. It’s like… I’m an affectionate person, I’ll easily fall asleep on Aradia’s shoulder or cuddle with Nepeta, but it’s different with you, somehow. I feel warm all over and this morning when I woke up, I felt you curled up against me and it was so nice, I thought I’d love it if that wasn’t the only time I ever woke up next to you.”
Your heart swells, as it seems like she’s starting to lean away from no. “We are incredibly close already,” you say. “I don’t think we could get any closer on the emotional scale, all we’d have to add is the physical. And I’d let you completely take the lead on that.”
She takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her jaw as she thinks it over. “Okay.”
You blink hard. “What?”
“I said okay,” she laughs, sounding nervous and relieved at the same time. “Let’s date.”
Is… is that it? That’s how simple it ended up being? And she actually said yes? You weren’t really expecting that, not at all. You huff a little laugh, nausea beginning to melt away as a grin splits your face in two. She said yes.
“I want more of that,” she bursts through your thoughts, her own lips curling upward. “You have a beautiful smile, Eriglub. I know you can’t help how you feel most of the time, but sometimes you need to let yourself smile.”
You reach over, grabbing one of her hands and squeezing it. It’s starting to sink in that this wasn’t a complete and total failure, and you actually feel happy. That sort of feeling doesn’t last, you know that for sure (misery and joy and little spikes on your scale of numbness), but it’s been a long time since you’ve felt anything this far on the positive side.
Maybe things will be okay.
You didn’t think you’d end up immediately going back to her house to make out on her bed, but that’s what you do.
Her cuttlefish watch as her fingers thread through your hair and your hand caresses her cheek, her neck. You don’t go far—you only take off your vest and button up which leaves you in an undershirt, every other article of clothing stays on, and you end up cuddling and starting a new TV show afterward. Every once in awhile, she tilts her head up and kisses your jaw, or you lean down and press your lips to her temple, and you feel so warm.
Earlier when you said you’d let her take the lead, you weren’t lying. She’s the one who initiated the make out session earlier, and you’ll let her take you by the hand and lead you through anything else. You don’t want to tell her this, seeing as you can hardly admit it to yourself, but you’re terrified of going any further than you did today. It’s just… you have memories that aren’t so nice, and you can’t fuck this up by having a panic attack when she unzips your fly.
You’ll have to talk to her about this, you know. However, the only person who knows what happened is your therapist, and telling her was the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You don’t know what to say, how to put it to make it sound less vulgar and disgusting, because it’s not like you can say, “Hey, Fef, you know how I’ve never had a girlfriend or boyfriend, nor any sort of friends with benefits thing? Well that doesn’t mean I can’t give good head.”
You can taste a bit of stomach acid in your mouth from that thought, because you could see yourself saying that in some piss poor attempt to cushion sexual abuse. (Before you started seeing Dr. Schwartz, you couldn’t even think that. You still can’t say the words out loud, because they make you feel so gross and used and incestuous, but Doc says admitting it to yourself is the first step to being able to admit it out loud.) Fef will be good for you, you believe that to your core, and you hope you’ll be good for her too. You’re going to try your absolute best to be someone she deserves.
Just like the night before, you fall asleep with your head on her lap as she threads her fingers through your hair.