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“What’s it like?” Shell asks.
Birdie’s eyes blink open and she tilts her head forward to look at Shell on the other side of the bed, thoughts coming back as the haze of the song filtering through the speakers shakes away. “Hmm?” she asks. “What’s that?”
Shell knits her hands together and looks away. Her face flushes red. “What’s it - it - like?” she repeats, and then, “Kissing people.”
Birdie’s heart does a funny little skip. “You’ve never kissed anyone?” she asks.
Shell’s jaw shifts mulishly, and Birdie gets the distinct impression she’s been thinking about this for a while.
“Not other than stupid teenager bets,” Shell says quietly. She draws her lip between her teeth - Birdie watches it - then scoffs a little. “Forget I said anything, it’s stupid, I - “
“No, no, no, it’s not stupid!” Birdie cuts in, and scrambles up on the bed so she’s sitting on her knees and facing Shell more directly. “I’m just surprised that you’ve never kissed anyone properly.”
“Ha ha,” Shell says, utterly mirthless.
Birdie’s heart twinges in sympathy. “I’m not joking, Shellie,” she says, and reaches out to cover Shell’s hand with her own. Shell looks miserable, like she regrets saying anything at all. She’s looking down so her eyelashes send shadows across her freckled cheeks under the low lighting of their bedroom, and a strand of hair falls loose from behind her ear. Her hand underneath Birdie’s twitches.
Birdie’s brain sparks with an idea, and she… wonders. Wonders if it would make Shell run.
“I could always show you,” Birdie says, and waits.
“Show - “ Shell’s voice cuts out as she sucks in a breath quickly. “Show me?” she squeaks.
Birdie leans forward. She slides her hand over from Shell’s hand to her knee, and begins tracing featherlight patterns into the fabric of her jeans. She watches Shell’s face, watches for any sign of discomfort or distress but Shell mostly looks frozen, wide eyes stuck on Birdie. Birdie lets herself smile, slow and with growing confidence. “Yeah,” she says, voice light. “I could show you.”
A deep flush creeps up Shell’s neck and over her face, and her mouth drops open as she stares at Birdie. For the longest moment she doesn’t even blink.
“No pressure,” Birdie tells her softly.
Shell’s eyes drop to Birdie’s lips. She’s quiet for long enough that Birdie almost starts to doubt, but for some reason she feels… calm. Assured.
“Okay,” Shell whispers.
Birdie’s smile grows and she leans forward further, one hand balanced on the mattress below them. The other hand trails up from Shell’s knee over her hip, coming to rest on the side of her waist. Shell shivers.
“Come here, Shellie,” Birdie murmurs into the spare space between them, and both hands come up to cup the sides of Shell’s face. She closes the gap and kisses Shell gently, taking the lead and tilting her head just a little against the warmth of Shell’s mouth. Shell sucks in a breath through her nose, and a moment later she feels her hands clasp gently around Birdie’s wrists. She’s trembling, almost imperceptibly, holding Birdie’s hands secure at her jaw. Her thumbs brush gently over the sensitive inside of Birdie’s wrists.
Birdie releases Shell from the kiss with a soft wet pop, but her hands are still caressing Shell’s face. For just a moment Shell’s eyes remain closed before they flicker open, flitting between Birdie’s eyes to her mouth and away again, spots of red high on her cheekbones, her bottom lip wet and shiny.
Shell drops her hands and coughs, looking away like she’s suddenly unable to meet Birdie’s eyes. Birdie lets her hands drop slowly, sitting back on her heels. Her face feels hot and her hands feel numb but she laughs, cocking her head at Shell’s embarrassment. She has the sudden urge to kiss her again, so she does, leaning forward and pecking a kiss to her cheek.
She coughs. “See, Shellie?” she says brightly. “It’s just a bit of fun, no big deal!”
Shell nods rapidly. “Totally,” she stutters, leaning back. “Em, well, okay - I, uh - “
“Take a breath,” Birdie interrupts. “You’re aces, okay? You’re fine.”
Shell stops mid-breath and draws her lip in between her canines. She gives Birdie a shy smile.
They’re silent for a moment, comfortable this time, before eventually Shell offers, “I’ll let you do my make up in crazy colours if you want?”
Birdie laughs in a way that feels much too much like a nervous release, and happily agrees.
--
The air is warm with laughter and the clink of glasses, and Birdie’s face hurts from all the smiling. Her face feels too hot, and the alcohol somehow has her languid and buzzing all at once. The lights above the dance floor flicker yellow to green to purple, and her foot taps as the band in the corner sways to their own music; she watches them, chin resting on her hand, and wonders if they have a spare violin for her to join in.
Across the table, Brint downs the remnants of his cocktail, pops a leftover piece of strawberry into his mouth, and stands. He extends a hand to Birdie across the table. “Ms Birdie, I do believe I owe you a dance,” he rumbles.
Birdie’s heart leaps and she bounces to her feet. “Mr Brint, I’ve been waiting all evening,” she declares. Brint chuckles, low and amused, and envelopes Birdie’s hand in his, pulling her gently to her feet. His hand is almost like a paw, large and warm and strong.
He leads her out to the dance floor where numerous partners are already dancing. Brint’s rich brown skin flushes purple as he steps under the lights onto the quaint retro checkers of the floor, and the disco ball spinning high above sends sparks of light dancing across his face. He grins down at Birdie and the corners of his eyes crinkle. It’s a bright tune, but he places a hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder and leads her into a relaxed, swinging sway.
The laughter bubbles up out of Birdie. It’s late in the night and she convinced everyone to come along tonight - even Wynn gave in when she employed her best puppy dog eyes. They’re all drunk and they’re all happy . The lights are so pretty, and everyone here is so pretty, and Birdie doesn’t want this night to ever, ever end.
Brint gently maneuvers her between another couple waltzing and a pair of men jigging awkwardly. “Ms Birdie, I do believe you outshine every other woman on this dance floor,” he informs her, and Birdie giggles.
“Mr Brint, I do believe you’re the most chivalrous man in this bar,” she responds.
As the song comes to a close, Brint spins Birdie around and her stomach swoops as he drops her into a dip, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other cupping the back of her neck.
Before she can think better of it, Birdie reaches up and places both her hands on either side of Brint’s face, and pulls him down for a kiss. She feels his hands tighten against her body in surprise, but it’s only a moment before he relaxes, and she feels more than hears him laugh against her lips. He returns the kiss easily, wrapping his arm around her shoulders more securely, and in the background Birdie hears someone wolf-whistle. She thinks it might be Jacint.
Birdie pulls back with a smack and giggles at Brint’s expression, half surprise and half intent. He’s still holding her, and slowly pulls her back upright, in no hurry to part. “Ms Birdie, for what did I deserve the pleasure?” he asks lowly. Around them, she’s aware they’ve attracted an audience, but the happy bubble in her chest is too strong to pop.
“You always deserve a kiss, Mr Brint!” she exclaims, not particularly joking, and spins out of his arms. Their small gathering of rubberneckers parts as she flounces past, back to the table, and Brint follows at a much more measured rate. Sitting at the table, Azure is watching her with raised eyebrows. “What?” Birdie says.
“I didn’t say anything,” Azure says and Birdie throws her head back and laughs, Brint joining in as he rejoins the table as well. The night goes on as the couples on the floor swing round and round under the dancing lights.
—
Birdie is in hell, and her uterus is the devil.
She groans and flops onto her back, staring up at the ceiling from her position on the hardwood floor. Her legs curl up underneath herself as her uterus pangs again, and she wonders if punching herself in the stomach would make it feel better.
“What, like it’s hard?” Elle Woods says from the TV in the corner of the room.
The door creaks open, and black boots appear at the top of her vision, upside down and crusted with a fine layer of dust. “Hey Wynnie,” she says weakly, squirming onto her stomach. She looks up at Wynn standing in front of her. “Whatcha doin’?”
Wynn looks down at her, and swings the small linen bag in his hand. He drops it by Birdie’s head, narrowly missing her nose. She gives him a curious look and tugs it towards herself to peer inside. The bottom of the bag is littered with an impressive array of chocolates, and on top of those is a hot water bottle, tissues, and a box of paracetamol. There’s a miniature box of tequila tucked into the corner, and a note attached to the neck.
Birdie stares at the contents of the bag, and a tight knot appears in her chest.
Wynn scuffs his boot over the floorboards and folds his arms. “I have sisters,” he says.
Birdie picks up the bottle of tequila and turns it round in her palm. The little note says Sorry you feel like shit.
Birdie looks up at Wynn, and the glaze over her eyes is entirely the fault of her stupid hormones.
“It’s whatever,” Wynn says, gaze fixed on the floor. “I just thought it might help or something. Whatever.”
His shoulders creep high around his ears and he turns on his heel, boots squeaking on the floorboards, and goes to head out the door.
“Wynn,” Birdie says, voice thick.
She pushes herself up onto her elbows and then to her feet, and pads over the room in her fuzzy socks to stop in front of Wynn. She places her hand on Wynn’s shoulders and turns him around; he jerks back a little, looking alarmed. She giggles, a stuffy and blocked up giggle. He’s tall enough that she needs to get up on her tiptoes to kiss him, so she does, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek while he stays dead still, like it might make him imperceivable. Birdie pulls back, but she can’t stop herself from lunging in again to wrap her arms around him tightly, pressing her face into his shoulder.
Wynn is stiff as a board but he doesn’t shove Birdie away, which she counts as a win. “Please don’t make a big deal out of it,” he says, sounding very strained. He stands still for a moment more, and she can feel the hesitation in his body before a cautious hand comes up and pats on her on the back once, twice. Then he gently disentangles himself from her, steadfastly avoiding her eyes.
“Okay, okay, I’m done,” Birdie says, sniffing. “Thank you,” she says fervently.
Wynn shrugs.
They stand there in silence for a moment. Birdie’s eyes shine, and Wynn does everything he can to not look at her.
Eventually Wynn says very fast, “I’m leaving now bye,” and escapes out the door.
Birdie flumps to the floor, legs splayed in front of her, and her uterus growls in protest. She shoves her hand into the bag and pulls out a chocolate, ripping open the wrapper while her spare hand fumbles for the rewind button on the remote. She chomps a bite from the chocolate and presses play on Legally Blonde, and suddenly feels a lot better about the evening than she had before.
--
There’s an empty bottle of wine sitting on the coffee table, pieces of half eaten pizza scattered over the greasy box, and for once Azure feels loose enough to talk.
“It’s just so stupid,” she’s saying, and flops backward into the soft cushion of the couch. The wine in her glass sloshes dangerously close to the lip.
Birdie leans back into her shoulder comfortably, eyes closed. Her own wine glass sits empty on the coffee table. “So stupid,” she agrees.
“He’s so stupid,” Azure says.
“A real dickhead,” Birdie nods.
“It’s just. I thought...“ Azure stops and frowns, a little furrow appearing in the centre of her forehead like it sometimes does when she’s collecting her thoughts. “I thought maybe it wasn’t all in my head for once.”
Birdie makes a sympathetic little noise and turns her head so her cheek is resting against Azure’s collarbone and she can see her face. Her brown eyes are wide and sad. “Do you want me to fill his bed with dirt?” she offers.
Azure chuckles low under her breath. She resettles herself so she’s leaning more comfortably against the couch. “No. Honestly, I’m just - “ she begins, then cuts herself off as she realises what she was on the verge of blurting out loud. Her face floods with colour.
Birdie catches it of course. Her eyes spark with interest and she sits up, squirming around so she’s facing Azure, cross-legged, one knee resting on Azure’s thigh. “Just what?” she asks.
Azure is quiet for a long moment. She swallows. Then she says slowly, feeling her face burn with every word, “I’ve been feeling, euh… worked up. Lately.”
Birdie’s eyes pop open comically wide and her hands flail upward, almost knocking Azure in the chin. “You’ve been horny?” she exclaims. Azure winces and looks away, and her free hand goes to the beads always around her wrist, unable to bring herself to say it again. She already regrets everything.
Birdie laughs loudly, a cackle more than anything, but then stops quite suddenly. “Mademoiselle Azure,” she says, and her voice purrs over the z sound, “you don’t need men to fix that.”
Azure knows this of course. Azure has the experience to know this very intimately. It’s not her fault she managed to catch feelings for a very specific, charming, stupid man.
Birdie puts her hand on Azure’s wrist. “You could have just asked,” she continues, and blinks up at Azure from under her lashes in a way that makes Azure’s stomach do a funny little loop. Her smile, normally so bright and genuine, becomes sultry.
It is true that Birdie is - well, flirtatious. Or open in her affection. Azure isn’t sure if there is a difference. And she’s certainly never bothered to try and hide that she finds Azure attractive.
Birdie’s hand on Azure’s wrist feels like a firebrand, and Azure can feel her heart fluttering as she watches Birdie watch her. Azure thinks, and... it wouldn’t have to be serious. It could just be a fun release. Azure’s allowed to have fun. She doesn’t have to ruin everything with her overthinking. Birdie is very close, and warm, and smells like honey.
Azure leans forward and captures Birdie’s lips with her own, kissing her softly, but with purpose. She slides a hand over Birdie’s soft, bare shoulder and draws her in closer, and Birdie makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. She kisses back immediately, almost a little clumsy in her eagerness.
Azure uses her finger to tilt Birdie’s head to a better angle, so she can kiss her better. Her head feels a little fuzzy, and she can’t tell if it’s because of Birdie’s lips on her own, or the wine.
After a long moment Birdie pulls back, her breath coming in soft pants. Azure’s eyes flicker over her face.
“We should… go to bed,” Azure rasps eventually.
Birdie giggles. “Together?” she teases.
Azure laughs again, then hums. She can’t pretend it’s not tempting...
--
Birdie is bored. The house is empty, it’s too quiet, and Birdie is just bored.
She places a firm foot against the tree and pushes off, sending the hammock in a gentle swinging arc. It’s a nice spot Jacint’s got here: a little alcove dappled in shade and sunlight, a perfect little retreat for a hazy summer day like this one. Or at least, it would be if everything weren’t so bloody still.
She wonders what her therapist would say about her persistent, nagging need for company at all times. If she had a therapist.
A creak from behind her, their rusty old iron fence announcing a visitor, and Birdie jerks upright, almost toppling out of the hammock as she does so. Speak of the devil, it’s Jacint, making his way up towards the house.
“Jay-Jay!” Birdie exclaims.
Jacint strolls to a stop in front of her. “Canary,” he greets, tone easy. His lips turn up in amusement as he watches Birdie struggle to right herself in the hammock.
“Thank the gods you’re here, Jay-Jay,” Birdie says once she’s finally right way up once more. “How are all five of you gone at once? Don’t we have a roster for at least two of us to be here at all times? Isn’t that part of our contract of codependency?”
Jacint huffs a laugh and runs a hand over his stubbly cheeks. He clicks his tongue in thought. “Brint and Cerulean are running swimming lessons for the little anklebiters down at the pool,” he drawls, “and me‘n Shell’ve been flat out like a lizard drinking down at the library - gonna head back there in just a mo. Don’t have a clue where Wynn is, and I probably don’t want to find out.” He shrugs, and he seems genuinely sympathetic. “Looks like we’re all booked solid s’afternoon, Lark.”
Birdie groans out loud. “You’re going back to the stuffy old library?” she moans, and if it sounds like a death sentence, that’s because it is.
“Mhmm,” Jacint confirms, and ruffles Birdie’s hair as he passes her on his way through to the house. “Little sheila just wanted me to get some tucker and head straight back.”
Birdie flumps back into the hammock as the door swings closed behind him, pouting. She’s still in the same position when he re-emerges a couple of minutes later, a couple of sandwiches in one hand and a packet of chips held between his teeth. He shakes the chips at Birdie like a dog holding a bone, and drops them in her lap. Then he goes as if to pass her by, and before she thinks about it Birdie calls, “If you’re going to leave me lonely at least give me a snog goodbye!”
Jacint pauses. Birdie blinks, surprised at herself. She’s not sure where that came from, other than truly bone deep boredom and her persistent, lifelong tendency towards flippancy and pushing people’s buttons. Jacint is one of her favourite targets, because he always rises to the challenge. (Much unlike his mate Paris, who is not as funny as he thinks he is.)
Jacint swings around on his heel to look back at Birdie, head tilted and a smile tugging at his lips like he smells a game afoot. “Ya pulling my leg, Nightingale?” he asks.
Birdie shrugs, impetuous, and pulls herself to her feet. She steps forward so she’s standing in Jacint’s space, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Only if you’re too chicken,” she says. She wags her eyebrows at him.
Jacint tilts his head downward as he gives her a long, considering look, lips curved upward, his soft breath brushing over Birdie’s face. His eyes are sparking with mischief.
“Well, go on then,” Birdie challenges.
Jacint puts a hand on the side of her cheek and leans in, then pauses. His eyes skate over her face like he’s unsure. So Birdie pushes up on the balls of her feet the rest of the way and connects their lips, putting a hand to the back of Jacint’s neck so she can kiss him properly.
Jacint slides his hand up her forearm to grasp gently at her elbow as he returns the kiss, letting Birdie take charge as she pushes in and runs a hand over his jaw, feeling the prick of his stubble under her palm. When Birdie eventually pulls back, there’s a slow, quiet moment as she’s unable to look away from Jacint’s lovely pale eyes and he stares back just as intensely. Then Jacint whispers, “Reckon the neighbours are having a squiz?” and the moment is broken as she laughs and steps backward, feeling the fabric of the hammock at the back of her knees.
“They would be so lucky,” she retorts. She hums as she smacks her lips. “Well that was fun and you’re a fine kisser, Jay-Jay, but we must end this torrid affair now before I break your heart.”
“I’m sure you would,” Jacint says, in that tone that always makes Birdie a little taken aback with its level of sincerity. Jacint looks down at the sandwiches still in his hand and raises them at Birdie, like he’s saying what can you do. “I have a stressed engineering student to feed,” he says, and Birdie laughs and waves him away.
“I’ll pine for you every moment you’re away,” she calls at his back.
“Say that enough times and it’ll become real,” Jacint shouts back and flips off their nosy, judgemental neighbour, who was indeed taking a squiz out the window. “See you at home, Kookaburra!” he yells as he rounds the corner, and then he’s gone.
Birdie flops back into the hammock, and wonders who her next target should be.