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Evelynn’s curled up on her side under the blankets, her back to Akali, the covers rising and falling as she breathes. She doesn’t look small, per se, because Evelynn doesn’t do that. She lounges, she takes up space, she breathes like the air owes her for just being alive. Now, though, there’s this quiet clinging to her that isn’t quite right, and her breathing is a little too even for her to really be asleep.
Usually Evelynn would’ve said something by now, something about how Akali’s standing at her door and just watching. You can come in, you know. I won’t bite. She doesn’t say anything now. That’s another sign.
(Sometimes Akali looks at her and thinks, aren’t you tired? Aren’t you lonely? Who takes care of you?)
A moment passes. Then another. Then Akali pads over to the bed, hesitant but determined all at once. Evelynn doesn’t say anything, not even when Akali sits down at the edge of the mattress and it dips under her weight. Akali can see the way she draws in on herself, shoulders tightening infinitesimally. There’s so much space between them. Akali’s not good at this. Usually she’s on the other side, and Evelynn’s the one gently bulldozing the quiet wrapped around her. She doesn’t know what to do.
(She recognises this, is the thing; she knows this quiet, even if she’s never seen it on Evelynn before. It’s what happens when someone’s been alone for a long time. That shit fucks with people after a while.)
Akali looks at Evelynn, really looks at her, the long line of her back, the way her hair splays across the pillows, the too-even rise and fall of her breathing. Then she shifts until her back is facing Evelynn’s, scoots backwards, close enough now that the way the mattress is dipping starts to pull Evelynn closer, and that’s when Akali stops, leaves room to breathe between them, pulls her bare feet up so she’s sitting cross-legged on Evelynn’s bed. She waits, but Evelynn doesn’t tell her to leave. So she stays.
And then they just exist.
The quiet is a living thing, but Akali’s good with quiet. She looks around, takes in the room. She’s here almost every day, at Evelynn’s insistence, because otherwise you’d forget about your hands, and I—let me help, okay? Akali’s never had the chance to really take it all in though; Evelynn’s always too close for that. There’s looseleaf notepaper sprawled over the table, a black pen and a blue pen scattered across it. A cup with some tea still left in it, cold by now, probably leaving a stain on the inside, too. An empty wrapper for an almond butter biscuit, the kind that Evelynn’s recently discovered and really likes. It has cinnamon in it, Akali knows; Evelynn gave her one after dance practice this week, made her try it on the spot, watched her closely to see if she liked it. Akali liked it. The hoodie she’d lent Evelynn a few weeks ago is draped over the back of the chair, dark blue and soft-looking and at least two sizes too big for Evelynn. She gets cold easily, Akali’s learned—they’ve hit the part of the year when it’s not quite winter but not quite spring either, and even on a fairly warm day, standing in the sun, Evelynn still shivers whenever the breeze picks up. Evelynn never returned the hoodie. She wears it to dance practice; the too-long sleeves swallow her hands when she relaxes on the sofa. Akali never asked for it back.
Then the sheets rustle, the mattress shifts, and Evelynn’s back presses gently against Akali’s.
“Hey,” Akali says, leaning back into the touch. Then Evelynn’s moving, the mattress shakes, and then arms are threading around Akali’s waist, and Evelynn’s buried her face in the small of her back. Akali freezes in surprise, and the arms around her waist tense, but before Evelynn can pull away, Akali puts a hand over them, light and careful.
“It’s okay,” she says quietly. “I don’t mind.”
Evelynn relaxes. Pulls her legs up so she’s almost curled around Akali. She still hasn’t said anything, but she doesn’t have to. Akali stays.