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It was in the wash of dim lighting, between the dust orbiting the steam in the muggy air, that Harrow suddenly met Gideon’s gaze. Her chin was dipped, brow casting a shadow on her pointed features, and her eyelids were heavy. Uncharacteristically so, considering her usual taught-strung nature—always possessed with unrest and urgency. It was at this moment that Gideon, three whiskeys deep and yet still only moderately inebriated, became aware of the widening hush that had fallen over the bar as the bass of the music lulled to a close. A clarity glowed like a light inside of Gideon, transfixed by the tiny girl opposite her staring daggers, frozen in time. Harrow—her Harrow, was drunk.
And while this clarity seeped into her consciousness, Gideon felt herself crack a smile, nearly beyond her control, as Harrow moved with a somewhat dizzy conviction to whisper in her ear. Lithe fingers climbed up her jaw, clammy with a fiery heat on her fingertips.
“Gideon…” she hummed on an exhale. A half hearted laugh. “My pretty girl.”
Hot, dewy hands were now grazing the nape of Gideon’s neck, up into her hair and weaving through her scalp, and she felt the words strike her like a cement truck to the chest. Her smile fumbled, breath caught in her throat like the slam of a door. Harrow made a sort of low toned sound, not quite a laugh, more like a faltering noise of contentedness, but Gideon could hardly hear it. She’d already sunk beyond the floor, floating beneath the surface of the Earth, leaving the chatter of the bar room smothered.
Harrow’s sigh suddenly raised Gideon from her stupor, and she quickly remembered to close her mouth. Her eyes darted to meet Harrow’s, who had descended back to her rightful place on the booth, pressed into the corner of the room.
“You’re drunk,” Gideon blurted, finally catching her breath.
Harrow hummed distantly with a long, lazy blink. She reached for the straw of her drink and rested her cheek on the palm of her hand, slumped leisurely, as she gave a stir to the nearly empty cocktail that had been reduced to a pile of ice and a wilted slice of lime.
For a moment, Gideon continued to sit in astonished silence, baffled by two things. The first, that Harrow was actually drunk, which shouldn’t have been that surprising considering that at her size, it probably didn’t take much, but Harrow never got drunk. It was a miracle enough that she had actually allowed Gideon to drag her to a bar in the first place, because according to Harrow it was a confounded waste of time, money, and energy to make small talk with plastered strangers and get sick on syrupy, medicinal-tasting liquid.
It wasn’t like Harrow had never drank before. Gideon kept a collection of what she called “baby drinks” in the back of their fridge—sparkling seltzers that tasted like water and depressing notes of fruits—just for when they had company over and Gideon liked to play bartender, insisting Harrow join the crowd. Harrow would always comply begrudgingly and say some pointed comment about humoring Gideon’s detestable college habits, and then silently sip her sad sugarless fruit water out of a glass that Gideon had so lovingly decorated with a cherry and miniature umbrella, glued to her side on the couch.
The second, and more colossal shock to Gideon, was the words that Harrow had just uttered in her ear. Pretty. Gideon swallowed dryly, then made a hasty move to knock back the rest of her whiskey in one painful go.
“You, uh…” Gideon began, sucking an inhale through her teeth and readjusting herself on the booth, “Feeling ok, Harrow?”
Harrow glanced up at Gideon as if awoken from a trance, hypnotized by the ring of condensation pooling around her glass. Gideon watched the cogs turn inside her head, presumably at a record-slow pace for Harrow, before giving a nod. It was a shy attempt at composure that might have fooled Gideon earlier, if it weren’t for the glaringly obvious evidence that Harrow was in fact completely and totally shitfaced right now.
Gideon strained to fathom how Harrow had even managed to get this drunk, because it seemed like two seconds ago Harrow was hissing a complaint about the music and threatening Gideon’s life while she teased her to come dance. Maybe a margarita was a bad choice for Harrow’s first real drink. Admittedly, tequila will do weird things to you, but it didn’t seem that strong when Gideon had tasted it for approval before bringing it back to their booth and deeming it worthy of Harrow’s liking. She did end up having two, after all.
What is that, Harrow had muttered when Gideon returned from the bar, two drinks in hand and grinning stupidly. It’s got salt on the rim, my dreary wallflower, it’s calling your name.
Gideon scooted a little closer to Harrow, mustering up her own equanimity. “Let’s get you something to eat, ok? Sound good?” Because if there was one thing Gideon had learned the hard way, it was to always eat before and after getting wasted to fend off a hangover. And there was no way in hell she’d get the chance to bring Harrow back out to drink with her if she woke up half dead and puking her guts out. She found herself absentmindedly fiddling with Harrow’s hair as she said this, tucking the loose strands behind an excessively pierced and meticulously decorated ear before lending a thumb to Harrow’s bottom lip where the dark lipstick had smeared just a little. As if this action would somehow conjure a sober Harrow back to possess her now frighteningly unpredictable body.
Harrow shrugged compliantly. Another sluggish blink. “Mkay, Nav.”
Gideon proffered a hand to Harrow as they exited the booth, who was expectedly unbalanced now on her feet. Harrow opted, however, for Gideon’s entire arm, clutching herself to a bicep and leaning her full modest weight onto Gideon’s side. For a moment, Gideon considered making some snide comment, but ultimately her concern for this uncharacteristically clingy Harrow shut her up.
It wasn’t until Gideon had closed the tab and exited to the street that she broke the silence that had fallen between them. It was late now, they’d showed up to the spot close to midnight anyways because Harrow was always, always working late at the lab. The air was crisp and a little windy now, which made Gideon swiftly thankful for Harrow’s temperate body attached at her hip.
“There’s a diner over here that closes late on Fridays. It’s just a couple blocks,” Gideon began, her usual enthusiasm muffled with nerves. “I know you’re not really a burger person but they have other stuff too…” she trailed off, glancing at Harrow’s head, who had her cheek pressed to Gideon’s shoulder now, arms wound tightly around her upper arm. Harrow only nodded in response, content with this proposition. She saw the hot breath leave her mouth in puffs of steam, slow and steady. Something inside Gideon stirred. Maybe she was more buzzed than she thought.
The diner was pretty empty, they scored a spot by the jukebox and Gideon ordered a shit load of carb heavy food while Harrow stayed nestled onto Gideon, unprotesting. Maybe it was the alcohol, or perhaps with a tinge of protectiveness, that Gideon extended her arm to rest on Harrow’s shoulders, pulling her in a little tighter.
“Hey.” Gideon’s face was now in strikingly close proximity to Harrow’s. “You holding up over there?”
Without warning, Harrow let out a soft noise. She shifted beside Gideon, pressing her nose into the collar of Gideon’s shirt and inhaling deeply.
“You smell good,” she slurred.
A beat passed. Gideon flushed. “Are you—” She took a desperate glance around the room like a cry for help. “Harrow. Are you smelling me?”
And now Gideon was certainly in some sort of state of psychosis, or maybe in a dream, because she was convinced she heard Harrow giggle. It was faint, but Gideon couldn’t have missed it, a light and melodic sound against Gideon’s chest.
“You are such a lightweight,” was all Gideon could manage in response, feeling a swarm of heat at her cheeks.
Harrow was unfazed. “It’s different.” She now pressed her forehead to the square of Gideon’s jaw, lips just barely grazing the hairs on Gideon’s neck. “The smell.” Even in her drunken state, and frankly far less than right in the head, Harrow still managed to be so dorkishly observant, quietly inspecting Gideon like some enthralling specimen.
Gideon was by some miracle, or maybe by a subconscious effort that she would examine later with a much more sober mind, completely still. Unable to resist. The low hum of the retro music combined with the clink of kitchen sounds had seemed to retreat from her, and her senses tunneled to the sound of Harrow’s steady breathing on her neck and the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders against Gideon’s arm.
“The deodorant’s the same, Harrow. The one you said only douchebags wear.”
Maybe Harrow didn’t hear her. She wouldn’t put it past a sober Harrow to just tune her out. But this was uncharted territory, and Harrow remained non responding in her focus. Several long seconds passed until she let out a sound of conclusion.
“Gel. It’s the hair gel.”
“You are a creep.” It was Gideon’s turn to laugh now. Only Harrow would notice a weird thing like that. “Very endearing, you aberrant lush.”
Gideon was thankful for Harrow’s atypical lack of protest when their food arrived, as it didn’t take too much convincing to get her to eat something in hopes of sobering her up a little. And whatever Harrow didn’t finish, as per usual, Gideon devoured. The two of them ate together in a comfortable silence, Harrow’s body still generously pressed to Gideon’s side, not the way she did at parties like an anxious, antisocial child clinging to her in desperation to avoid interaction, but like she just wanted to belong there. Gideon couldn’t deny that she found herself savoring the moment.
The two arrived home shortly after. Harrow seemed to return back to herself a little while they braved the cold again to wait for a bus back to their apartment, her usual bird-like alertness replacing her once muddled body language, but had no words of complaint about the evening. Gideon felt a bittersweet mix of relief and something else as she let her mind wander, closely studying the scuffed flooring of the dilapidated bus interior. The two had wandered back to the stairs of their apartment building and into the comfortable warmth of their apartment building, Gideon stumbling a little in the dark to find a light switch.
In their usual routine, Harrow winced at the fluorescent lights and retreated to click on a dimly lit lamp and hastily flicked off the overhead lighting. It was always a two-step process.
The two of them shared a one bedroom apartment they had semi-converted into a two bedroom situation. Gideon occupied the living room with a daybed, while Harrow took the actual bedroom. It was only fair, considering that Harrow covered the majority of the rent and used to live here by herself before, although somewhat unenthusiastically at first, allowing Gideon to move in. While in university together, Gideon opted to live on campus each semester meanwhile Harrow tried to be as far from campus social life as possible and could afford a decent sized place of her own. But it didn’t take long before Gideon was crashing on her couch nearly every other night as they grew increasingly inseparable, and it just made sense for her to move in after the two graduated.
Gideon flopped onto her futon and took a deep inhale, bringing an arm over her eyes and realizing quite instantaneously how tired she felt. Harrow followed with light footsteps until she stood unwittingly beside her in a hushed examination.
“You’re quiet, Gideon.”
Gideon lifted her arm a little to eye Harrow’s face. She surveyed Gideon with a careful interest, eyelids no longer looking so leaden. Her lipstick was gone now, softening her face a little, the shadow of dark colors that normally decorated her eyes faded. Gideon just simply made a gesture to beckon Harrow a little closer, words escaping her.
Harrow caught on to the signal and climbed onto the small cushion of space beside Gideon, and in the way she occasionally did, only in the privacy of their room at night, she placed her head on Gideon’s chest. Gingerly, she moved an arm around Gideon’s waist, thumbing a little at the hem of her shirt, and slipping a hand onto Gideon’s bare skin.
Sharing beds was an old habit of theirs, but it was becoming more frequent as of late. It began a year ago, when Harrow was deep in the trenches of writing her senior thesis for not one but two majors and her sleeping schedule had been reduced to passing out at her desk for increments of meager hours, sometimes even minutes. The stress, coupled with a nasty addiction to disgustingly black coffee, had caused Harrow to enter an era of alarmingly stubborn insomnia, well beyond her thesis was finished. It was with exasperated desperation one day when she begged Gideon to come to bed with her. It was a mystery to Gideon how she came to this conclusion as the solution to her problem, but lo and behold, it totally worked. Harrow slept like a baby that night.
Without really thinking, Gideon raised her other hand to play with Harrow’s hair, tousling fingers through her crop of raven curls. They stayed like that for what had seemed to Gideon like a long time, and she wondered briefly if they would fall asleep like this, still in their clothes and tangled into each other on the futon.
“You were something else tonight, Nonagesimus,” Gideon finally spoke.
She felt Harrow chew the inside of her cheek for a beat of silence before replying a curt, “Hardly.”
Gideon laughed at this. “Oh c’mon Harrow. You were totally sloshed just a few hours ago.”
She could practically feel the way she knew Harrow was rolling her eyes. “Patronize me all you want Gideon, but I assure you my composure was maintained for the entire evening.”
“Maintained? You were slurring your words after just two measly drinks. I practically had to carry you out of there.”
“That is a horrendous exaggeration.”
“The bartender shot me a look like I was your caretaker by the time you stumbled out of the place.”
Harrow scoffed, but it was with no real malice. “My caretaker? You are nothing more than my overgrown sidekick with the mind of a fraternity boy who I have the utter misfortune of sharing a lease with.”
And before Gideon could really consider the act, she found herself saying, “Aw, and I thought I was your pretty girl?”
Harrow completely froze at this, silent, realization pummeling her like an avalanche. Gideon couldn’t even really revel in getting the last word, because as soon as the words left her she was wanting to strangle herself for even bringing it up. It was just too easy. She couldn’t resist.
The two flushed in an awkward unison.
Finally, admitting defeat, Harrow buried her face in Gideon’s chest and let out a sort of strangled groan of embarrassment. Relieved, and nearly satisfied, all Gideon could do was laugh. And once she started laughing, she found herself suddenly delirious, and couldn’t stop laughing. Harrow, who had seemingly passed away on top of Gideon, had been reduced to a limp, mortified corpse.
Gideon was wiping tears from her eyes when Harrow roused herself, bravely facing Gideon’s eyes, eyebrows knitted together in an expression that looked like a mix of anguish, shame, and desperate self-command.
“Nav. I want to go to sleep and never speak of this again.”
Gideon smiled fondly. She could agree to that. No promises though. “Fair enough, my repentant admirer.”
And it was with an unspoken agreement that Gideon followed Harrow to her bedroom, half a step behind her.