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“Girl, really – when was the last time we did something fun?”
“Uh – maybe yesterday? Watching that hilariously bad movie?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. And you know it. Like, crazy fun.”
“Crazy fun …”
“Yeah. The kind of fun people would find you weird for.”
“I don’t know – uh. Do you … Do you have an idea?”
“I wish I had one.”
“Okay, then. Well … Hear me out. Maybe there is something we could do.”
Alya turns to her, eyebrow raised, and listens.
It’s cold outside. The kind of cold a few glasses of Hugo can drive away, a kind of cold that makes you think back to times when you could cuddle up with someone dear to you. A memory that stings, a thought that hurts, and Marinette is breathing against her scarf, having wrapped it tightly around her neck. Cold evenings she could never share while snow floated down onto the streets – it would be almost heart-wrenching if it wasn’t so pathetic. Every step causes a new crunching sound, and when she looks at Alya, determination has colored her face, a cheeky smile accompanied by gleaming eyes.
“Can’t believe you suggested that,” she says.
“Can’t believe it either,” Marinette returns.
And she really can’t. They didn’t drink enough to make her sway and stumble over her words. She’s just on the verge of losing all her inhibitions, just balancing the line of not caring anymore about anything, just ready to let the past be past.
It’s cold, and reality sinks in – sometimes, the loneliest nights start with the desire to escape it all.
It’s cold, but Alya reaches for her hand, intertwines their fingers, and her warmth sips through Marinette’s whole being until she smiles underneath her scarf, hidden from sight. Yet Alya must know her well enough, every tiniest twitch on her face, seeing emotions with ease, no matter how well they are hiding.
“Then let’s do it, bestie,” Alya says.
It’s crazy and stupid. Snow is making traffic slow down, and Marinette holds onto Alya’s hand so hard it must hurt. When she threatens to slip on ice, Alya is here to catch her with a steady stance, laughing at the way Marinette clumsily tries to find balance again. Marinette pouts, but never in real annoyance. With her free hand, Alya looks at her phone, determining the route they’re taking, leaving the main street and entering small alleyways. Almost no one passes her by; it’s a district of Paris they usually never visit, farther away from their apartments than Marinette would have thought. A silent corner of the city, and nothing but darkness accompanies them as snow keeps falling, catching in Alya’s hair. Reddish from the streetlights, wild curls forming in the humidity. She looks pretty in her wildness, an aura of danger and nonchalance while she is still holding Marinette’s hand, someone to follow, someone to hold on to.
Marinette isn’t drunk. Maybe she should be. Being drunk can make the world brighter, but the memory still lingers. What a stupid thing love is, twisting hearts like that. When she squeezes Alya’s hand, Alya looks up from her phone, sending her a grin.
“Can’t believe you remembered that convo we had.”
“Look,” Marinette replies. “It was weird enough to be memorable.”
“We weren’t even drunk that evening.”
“Yeah, that’s just it.”
“I bet Nino – well. I wouldn’t have told him anyway.”
Almost weird what kind of meaning names can carry, and Marinette squeezes again. “He wouldn’t have understood,” she says, and quips, “because he isn’t as cool and oh so accepting as he wants us to believe.”
“True that.” But Alya doesn’t sound as convinced as she should, and Marinette stays silent after all.
Snow crunches beneath their shoes. It’s dark and cold. Their stupid idea leads them to a building among many, something inconspicuous. Red letters tell them that they’ve arrived at the right place though, obscenely advertising what awaits them inside. Laughter bubbles in Marinette’s throat, but doesn’t escape; insecurities nag at her, and holding Alya’s hand all the while, she waits for words to form on her tongue.
So they stand in front of the building. Nobody here to see them nor to judge them, and yet Marinette shifts a bit. Just so it doesn’t look like they’re contemplating entering; they’re doubting themselves, not wanting to do it after all, thinking of it as the stupid idea it really is – maybe. She thought that Hugo can bring enough courage to not care about anything, but she suddenly cares so much that it’s laughable, and a look at Alya’s face is enough to make the corner of her mouth twitch once again.
“So,” Alya says. “Our destination.”
Marinette nods slowly, her hand still in Alya’s. “Why again are we doing this?”
“I don’t know. Because men are stupid.”
“Do you like girls now?”
Alya shrugs. “Does it matter? Maybe I do. I never tried.”
Marinette’s face turns warm, but she still presses out a laugh. “You aren’t flirting with me, are you?”
“I’m always flirting with you, bestie.” It sounds like a whimsical attempt at escaping awkwardness too, so Marinette laughs once more, a hard and unforgiving sound.
“That’s flattering.” She pauses. “It’s gonna cost a lot of money.”
Alya puffs out a breath. “A lot of money to see something we can see at home. In a mirror.”
“I don’t strip in front of a mirror.”
“You never masturbated in front of a mirror?”
“This is going in a weird direction,” Marinette notes, hand still in Alya’s, cheeks reddening. “I think I won’t answer.”
Alya’s grin is cheeky. “What did I tell you, girl? Things are only weird when you make them weird.” She glances at the building again. “What’s the big deal anyway? You could just put on some porn instead, and there you go. Same experience.”
Marinette follows her gaze. Only a building among many. Inside, she has no idea what awaits her. Or where the real allure lays. Stripping, naked bodies separated by glass. Not to be touched, but to be watched. Thinking about it like this, Alya is right – it’s comical. Marinette has no idea about the prices. How much is a body worth? One you can’t even touch, something impersonal and detached, something to wrench you out of your boredom?
Five euros per hour?
More?
How much would her body be worth? How much was her body worth? Some hours of an arm being wrapped around her waist, of sweet nothings being whispered into her ear? Some hours of leather-clad finger running up and down her upper body, catching every reaction of hers?
She should have charged enough to break him apart, and she was stupid enough to feel as if memories like those are priceless.
She feels her fingers cramp around Alya’s. She presses out another laugh.
“We’re not gonna do it, right?”
Alya glances at her. Turns back to the building again. “Waste of money. We should get drunk instead.”
A breath that tumbles through Marinette’s throat, catching in air that freezes to a white cloud. It’s so stupid, but she’s still holding Alya’s hands. The world around her is cold and beckons her closer with freezing looks, with impersonal gestures, with bodies and words, but nothing matters as long as Alya gives her a smile, melting any iciness from her heart.
“Right,” Marinette agrees. “Drunk. Drunk sounds good.”
She wonders what she misses. What kind of satisfaction watching foreign bodies can bring. There’s not warmth, no intimate touches. There’s no whispered voice as night breaks down over them. There are no green eyes devouring her alive, spitting her out, leaving her shivering and hoping. Nothing is lost in there – nothing is gained. It’s the kind of emptiness Alya must understand, the kind of emptiness they step away from while sharing avowals, confirming over and over what kind of stupid ideas a broken heart leads to.
“Maybe Nino wanted to go there too,” Alya says. “Maybe he got bored of … it.”
Of me, and it’s so stupid and so true that Marinette’s heart clenches. “Or maybe he’s a dumbass who doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
“That too,” Alya agrees, and laughs, and throws her head back, and snowflakes melt on heated skin, dry in the corners of her eyes.
No stranger’s body can replace it, though – something unreachable. A feeling so deep it cuts into souls. Marinette doesn’t look at shadows, because shadows might return her looks. Gleaming green, a kind of night sipping into every last daydream. A stranger’s body, no matter how well-formed, no matter how attractive, couldn’t have been the same. A waste of money, and it’s so much better to waste money on numbing minds instead.
So they keep walking. Hand in hand. Clouds above them, no moonlight between falling snowflakes. One catches in Marinette’s eyelashes, and she blinks it away hastily, her sight becoming blurry and the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Do you want him back?” she asks, because love truly is laughable in the end.
“No,” Alya answers immediately. Maybe it’s a lie. Maybe it isn’t. Marinette can’t tell anymore.
“Even if he came begging?”
“I would enjoy the show, at least.” A side glance. No smile. “And if … you know, if it happened to you?”
“Fat chance.”
“Maybe he’s just afraid.”
“Maybe men are stupid and there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Oh, men are stupid. No doubt.”
“So stupid.” Marinette swallows. “And cruel.”
Alya stays silent for a moment, squeezes Marinette’s hand. Her nails are long and painted and press into Marinette’s skin for a moment too long. “People are cruel,” she eventually professes. “People can be so cruel.”
Maybe that’s just it. People can be so cruel. The search for warmth leads them to the coldest places. People are pathetic and cruel, hold on to feelings too much, let their hearts be broken. People think too little, get disappointed, get toyed with. People can be so cruel.
So she releases a tiny laugh. “We’re kind of pathetic, huh?”
“We are. Whining after some stupid men as if it’s the end of the world. We should have gone in there and paid to watch people strip and be sexy just for us.” Alya’s voice carries a cynical undertone, but eventually, she turns to Marinette again. “But see. At least I have you.”
Marinette can’t help but smile.
There’s a Christmas market not far away from them. The smell of food reaches them from far away, most of it greasy and heavy. Even at an hour as late as this one, the square is full of people. Marinette has trouble even knowing where to go, but Alya’s hand is still in hers and leads her through the crowd relentlessly, one step after the other. She doesn’t stop, showing her determination until she can order a mulled wine at one of the stands, and it’s the first time they have to let go of each other, the warmth of the drink replacing the feeling of Alya’s fingers pressing against Marinette’s.
The wine tastes heavy and aromatic, settles in her stomach, warms her from inside. Around them, people keep chattering. Marinette remembers Alya and Nino in front of her, strolling along hand in hand, laughing about things Marinette couldn’t understand. A sight that truly made her jealous, a little world for the two of them.
People can be so cruel.
“Maybe I should have invited Nino to a peep show,” Alya says, then laughs a throaty laugh. “Maybe that would have truly made him stay.”
Marinette wrinkles her forehead. “It’s kind of absurd, isn’t it? Six years, and then … And then he’s just gone.”
She regrets her words a second afterwards. Because Alya’s smile falls, and she stares into her cup pensively. Around them, people keep laughing and talking, surrounded by colorful lights, coated in the smell of freshly baked sweets and heavy incense.
“Yeah,” Alya answers. “If you think about it like that, it’s absurd.”
Marinette bites her lip. Looks away. Sometimes she wishes it could be like that for her too – being left alone. Never think about the cruelty she was put under ever again. Forget about a handsome face in a matter of seconds instead of seeing it again and again, day after day without being able to tell him all about the anger bubbling inside her.
But she lives a different reality, and she doesn’t know if it’s for better or worse.
“It’s absurd,” Alya says, “that we talk about love like it’s the most profound thing in the world, and the moment a relationship is over, we’re alone again. It’s absurd that something so important could be that fragile.”
It really is absurd. Marinette keeps looking at her drink. “Love can’t be that great if it’s that fragile.”
“Right. That’s what I’m saying.”
“You know who always stays, though?”
Alya sends her a questioning look. Finally, Marinette can return it.
“Well …” With a faint smile, Marinette gestures between them.
It seems to take a second until Alya understands, and when she does, she returns Marinette’s smile. “True. True that. There’s someone who wouldn’t walk away, huh?”
Marinette doesn’t know if Alya is making fun of her, so she shrugs. “Well, no. I wouldn’t.”
“Someone who’s always there. You aren’t wrong.” Still smiling, Alya comes closer, pressing a kiss to Marinette’s cheek. Her lips are cold, contrasting the building heat in Marinette’s face, but Marinette doesn’t move away. “My one true love.”
Definitely making fun of her. Marinette snorts. “Okay, you don’t have to put it that way.”
“What? It’s true.” Something about Alya’s smile really is as soft and genuine as her tone implies. “My better half. Seriously. Maybe I’ve had the person to spend my life with right next to me all along.”
“Because friendship is better than any relationship?” It should have been a doubtful quip, but Alya’s soft smile doesn’t lessen.
“Friendship is the best relationship, girl. Who else could I rant to about anything?”
Marinette resists the urge to duck her head.
“Who else could I do the stupidest things with, including almost paying to see some girls stripping?”
Marinette laughs quietly.
“Who else would forgive me any mistake? Gives me the space I need? Is there for me when I need someone?”
Marinette gestures at Alya, and in return, Alya chuckles.
“See, mutual love,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. “Much safer mutual love.”
“Without the sex, though.”
Another laugh gets stuck in Alya’s throat, and Marinette almost flushes underneath her own brazen comment until Alya replies, amused. “Sex makes things complicated. Even though there’s nothing better than talking to you about weird sex.”
“Like the one time you and Nino –”
“Don’t mention it. Or do you want me to revisit memories of you and Luka? Like the one night he thought it was a good idea to –”
“No! No. Don’t you dare. That wasn’t even ‘weird, but kinda hot’. It was plain weird.”
“See? And who else could I make fun of stupid men with? Right.” Alya gives her a grin. “Maybe it’s just better this way. Just you and me against the world, bestie.”
Somehow familiar words. Somehow true – it makes things so complicated, and the best things are kept like this, having grown steadily, feeling natural, feeling like home – because no matter what happens, there is at least one person to keep this promise.
Marinette loops her arm around Alya’s. Leans against her shoulder. “Love you,” she whispers.
“Love you too,” Alya says, and kisses Marinette’s temple.
They get home drunk. Marinette manages to knock over one of Alya’s standing lamps, and Alya finds it so funny that she collapses to the floor while laughing, and it’s so ridiculous that Marinette can’t stop laughing too.
“I can’t believe it,” Alya wheezes. “We’re messes.”
It funnier than it should be, and Marinette puffs out another giggle as she stares at the ceiling. “Hot ones.”
“Fucking hot ones. Some sexy messes.”
“Fuck everyone who dares leave us.”
“Fuck everyone but you.”
Marinette turns her head. Alya is grinning at her. She has never looked sadder. She has never looked prettier.
“Everyone but you,” Marinette agrees, and takes Alya’s hand.