Chapter Text
Sheila Broflovski cared more for her sons than she did anything in the world. She’d moved far from Jersey when she’d learned about Kyle, in the vain hope that he wouldn’t be burdened by the Jersey lifestyle. She’d done everything she could to ensure Ike was loved and cared for, despite his Canadian roots.
She would be damned if anyone dared to lay a finger on her boys.
And she loved deeply. More deeply than anyone could possibly fathom, even herself.
There was a fine line between a spark and a star, of course. Sparks were laughing, bright bits of flame that flickered and flew among the shadows. But they fizzled out just as quickly as they were set alight.
Stars burned for lifetimes. They shone as beacons in the night sky, always there to guide one lost to the dark. Stars were warm things that brought life into all they oversaw, things that made others happy to see when all hope seemed to be swallowed by the abyss.
Sheila had been a star all her life. She’d thought she’d found another when she’d met Gerald, but he was just a spark that burned longer than the others. He was a wonderful man that cared for their boys and her, but she’d never felt… whole . She’d never felt that life carried by a star until…
Until she’d met Sharon Marsh.
Their boys, Stan and Kyle, had been best friends for as long as they could remember. So, of course, Sheila had been close with Sharon for as long as she could remember. And by God, could she ever remember.
She’d remember their nights together out in their backyard, sitting on folding lawn chairs while the boys would play elsewhere. She’d remember the way that she felt that her eyes would linger just a moment too long on her friend’s lips after a sip of her drink. The way that she would go shopping for makeup and absentmindedly brush over a lipstick the same shade that Sharon would use. This looks nice , Sheila would think.
Sharon was wonderful, in every sense of the word. There were nights where they would get together for drinks every so often and talk about their lives before marriage, before their children. It was a weekly tradition at this point, though they’d seemed to have a few too many as of late as well.
Something funny had been said, one fateful night. Sheila didn’t remember what, nor did she care. The only thing she cared for was the reaction it elicited.
Her laughter. Oh One above, her laughter .
Sharon’s bubbly giggles were the most joyful sounds she’d ever heard, the sound of it akin to windchimes against a gentle ocean. It ignited sparks within her chest, the likes of which she’d never felt before. But Sheila knew well enough from years of experience that alcohol was an inhibitor of her judgement, and she knew to catch a thought before it went too far.
No matter how bright a spark seems to burn, it’ll never be a star.
And so she had ignored the spark, because despite the naive hope that it could burn for longer, it would never be what she wanted. What she needed.
But then, despite all of her willful ignorance, the spark relit. Over and over again. Every single time that her friend laughed, every time she would take a shuddering breath with tears of joy in her eyes, that spark in her chest would explode right back into being.
Reignition was something Sheila had never even considered—there were stars that blazed eternally, and there were sparks that died before they could begin to burn. Sparks that relight themselves… those were completely alien in every sense of the word.
And Sheila didn’t know how to understand it. So she chalked it up to the alcohol playing with her sensibilities and making it feel as though the sparks were reborn. Reality loomed, and she declared all of it to be wishful thinking and phantom sensations.
She ignored it even when it took her breath away, even when their eyes would meet for the briefest of moments and it seemed as though the stars were falling into place. Even when she would lay awake at night beside her husband and would long for what she once felt… she always came up instead with the memory of Sharon. But that was nothing more than a close bond between friends; Sharon was another woman. Of course her friendship would feel… different… than her marriage.
It could never be more than it was. Never.
Evenings turned to weeks, and weeks into months, and every time she would ignore it.
Her thoughts started to become more insistent. What were once innocent casual brushes between hands and lingering gazes became filling the quiet moments in her mind with the memories of Sharon. Of her beauty. Her hair, which she insisted was short purely for convenience, that complimented her face so well, highlighting those stunning cheekbones and breath-taking jaw structure. Soon, their evenings of drinking and easy conversations were the highlight of her weeks, and yet the turmoil in her mind forbade her from fully enjoying it. Glass after glass was downed in an attempt to clear her mind, and for a while it did, just a little bit quieter when she stared into the honey-golden glow of Sharon’s eyes.
And then it started loosening her mind, but by then she was too far gone.
She should have never had that last glass. No, she never should have had any at all.
. * .
Sharon Marsh was a rational woman. She had always behaved as a child, she got good grades, she paid attention to social issues, and later in life she prioritized her and her children’s futures.
She was rational. Usually.
These feelings? These feelings were anything but.
It started with just a casual joke, a sort of what-if? after one too many drinks, a comment laughed off in its absurdity.
“How funny would it be if our boys were actually brothers?”
The other woman had laughed. It was a beautiful thing, a soft but hearty sound from the core of her being, a stunning paradox within itself.
“I think they’d enjoy the company, at least.”
And they’d left it at that, Sharon never dwelling upon the strange sensation that rose within her chest. But she’d ignored it, because life was perfect, and the sound of her friend’s laughter was just further demonstrating the fact. It didn’t matter if merely a night later, she was yearning to hear it again. It didn’t matter.
Until it happened again. Just the same, a few drinks too many, the topic had come up in conversation:
“Have you ever done anything scandalous? This includes your college years!”
“Scandalous? Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know—given a tip to a bartender by putting it in your bra and making them grab it, maybe?”
“Oh my goodness, Sharon! Have you done that?!” She had laughed, again, heartily.
Ignoring the feeling that once more rose in her chest, Sharon had flushed. “No! Well, yes! Just one time though. And it was a woman I tipped, anyways!”
Her friend’s eyebrow had risen, so artfully, as though her face was carved from the ocean itself, deep and fluid and withholding mysteries she may never discover. “A woman? Well, I suppose that certainly is different.”
The conversation had switched again, the boys running into the kitchen and distracting them both with their boisterous shenanigans. It left Sharon little time to delve into the tone that Sheila had used when she said “ different ”. Because she hadn’t said it negatively, and Sharon would sooner believe she was made of mustard than accept that Sheila was hateful of gay people.
From there, it turned into something of a… distraction. She was curious, after all. Sheila had spoken with such a particular significance, as though she were familiar or even… fond. So it became a mission of Sharon’s to get to the root of it. She began brushing up against Sheila more frequently, bumping their knees below the table, allowing their fingertips to meet just seconds longer than necessary when passing anything.
She began inviting her over more often. It wasn’t even always to drink, though she so desperately wished for the loosening of the tongue that came with alcohol. But, no, that would be rude, and despite all that she considered herself to be a rational woman, this game of hers began to become fun .
Sharon started to anticipate the spare moments where she could glance at Sheila and drink in her beauty. She really was such a beautiful woman, with hair as rich and as red as wood lilies, a nose so defined the Greek Gods would be jealous, a face so round and supple that you could see its softness every time she spoke. Her eyelashes brushed her cheek ever so slightly when her eyes scrunched up in laughter, and her lips shone with their subtle gloss when her mouth moved in mirth. Sheila had a tiny freckle, just perfectly in the outer corner of her left eye. When Sharon first discovered it, she wasn’t paying too much attention, and she caught a glimpse of the freckle, and found herself wanting to touch it, just to see if it were real, and not a speck of makeup. But, no, that goes beyond the boundaries of casual friendship, even after having a few drinks.
Little by little, her observance just became second nature. Laying in bed, beside her husband, Sharon would find her mind wandering, trying to retrace every part of her friend’s face, lest she lose any detail. Distantly, in the recesses of her mind, she realized this wasn’t typical “friend” behaviour, at least in her experiences. But this was different. It just was.
Slowly, she got bolder. Those small grazes, those short seconds of contact on arms turned into placing a hand on her arm when giving Sheila a new drink. When Sheila got too rambunctious, if there ever were such a thing, and her hair came loose, Sharon would place it gently back in place.
There was one time, where Sheila had very obviously had too much to drink. She was slurring her words, eyes drooping with every blink, and her laughter just too loud. (It could never be too loud. Sharon could listen to that laugh for every second for the rest of her life, and it would never be enough.) Out of just common sense, Sharon had taken her friend home, holding her steady with her right hand and steering with her left. Sheila’s heady breath had filled the vehicle as she chattered, and still Sharon couldn’t find it in herself to care. The game was all but forgotten at this point, when Sheila had suddenly straightened, and shattered her composure:
“I… Goodness, Sharon, I… really never want us to end.”