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All Deluxe clothing is made of the same synth-stuff, originally designed for the military — pristine, pale, won’t hold a wrinkle or a stain. It’s a little gross if it isn’t sent to the washers regularly, but it usually doesn’t need anything more than to be brushed off once in a while, really. Julie’s heard some of her dad’s men boasting about how long they’ve gone without washing themselves or their uniforms out in the field. She always rolled her eyes at them, adults acting like kids, but.
She can’t deny that it’s fun, sometimes, to get a little dirt on that paleness, a little Motorcity smeared across the Deluxe, right across that column-and-K Kane logo that follows them everywhere in the city.
Julie’s sitting right in Claire’s lap, all up in her business, and the thighs of her jeans are sticky-greasy from working under 9 Lives all morning. When she nudges a knee up against the dip of Claire’s waist, she leaves a dull streak. Claire’s always been ticklish, and she squirms at that, and pushes forward and wedges a hand in Julie’s hair, flush up against her skull.
“You’re kinda grody today, girl,” Claire says, a laugh shivering in her voice. She pulls her hand back a little, and it catches in a tangle.
“Yeah, and don’t think I can’t tell you’re jealous.” Julie taps her foot against the outside of Claire’s knee, probably leaving a crescent of grey-brown dirt, courtesy of the stomping around the Burners all did in Jacob’s nursery earlier. “You should get yourself some Motorcity duds, then you’ll be able to get all messy with the rest of us.”
“Listen to you, Motorcity duds,” Claire says; “you think you are so cool.” And she leans up and licks the tip of Julie’s nose, no shyness between the two of them.
“I am so cool!”
Claire snorts a laugh and tilts the both of them back, bringing Julie down on top of her on the sofa. Julie’s hair swings down and leaves them both half in shade; Claire pulls gently at one section, matted in a way that’s a little too gross even for Julie. Julie sits up to twist her hair into a rope and tosses it behind her back; then she goes for Claire’s. Out of its neat geometric bun, it expands, a black and purple cloud around Claire’s face.
“Do you know how hard it’s going to be to redo that without a proper mirror down here,” Claire complains, but she reaches to tug off Julie’s vest all the same. She drops it onto the floor, where it is definitely going to get adopted by a family of dust bunnies, if not stepped on at some point. Julie retaliates by sliding her hands up Claire’s torso, dirt and grease leaving long smears up the blue-and-white of Claire’s clothes. She runs a palm, flat, up where Claire’s ribs meet, through the valley gravity creates between Claire’s breasts. Claire pulls at Julie’s back, hands grasping in her t-shirt, and Julie runs her thumb back and forth, back and forth, till Claire stretches her neck up to bite at Julie’s lip.
There’s dirt under Julie’s nails, worked in where it’ll take forever to get out — she should really start using gloves when she messes with 9 Lives’ engine block, but if she did that, Julie wouldn’t get to do what she’s doing now, which is: nudging the edges of her fingers against the bottom seam of Claire’s shoulder piece, slipping them under, to rub against Claire’s smooth warm skin, to scrape lightly against her collarbone. The cloth bulges where her hand runs under it, stretching tight, conforming to their shapes: a feeling the both of them are well used to. Claire lets her own hands fall to sit at Julie’s waist, pokes her fingers under Julie’s shirt, which rucks up, easy. No synth-stuff more complicated than polyester in Julie’s outfit, and when Claire pushes it up, it stays.
Claire raises one of her knees to bump Julie forward; Julie falls a little bit, catches herself against the sofa with the hand not currently getting acquainted with the underside of Claire’s top. The rope of her hair swings back between them, and Claire lifts a hand from Julie’s hip to wrap around it. She uses it to reel Julie in those last few inches necessary for a kiss.
She pushes Julie away after just a minute, though, and wrinkles her nose up at her.
“I don’t mind you getting Motorcity mud on, like, your clothing or in your hair or whatever, Julie, but once you start tasting like motor oil, we are going to have a problem.”
Julie huffs out a laugh, sides quivering under Claire’s hand. She rubs a thumb against the seam of Claire’s top, fond. “Little miss priss,” she says. “Some dirt’s good for the immune system, you know.”
“Little miss totally grody,” Claire gripes. But she nudges her cheek against Julie’s, where there’s a smudge of dark grease from a mis-aimed swipe with a rag, and smears it in further, on both their faces.
Julie kicks lightly against Claire’s calf. “Hope you brought a spare outfit in that purse of yours.”
“One for me, and one for you. And a bar of soap.”
“That’s why you’re my best girl,” Julie says. “Never unprepared.” Her grin right now is totally undignified. She’s okay with that.
“You know it,” says Claire, and rolls them both off the sofa and onto the floor. Julie squeaks when she hits the ground, breath gone in a puff. Her discarded vest is a solid lump under her shoulder blades.
Down here in Motorcity, the light’s either dim or lurid blinking colours; here there are particles of dusts caught in the beams, and the huge lamp chained to the ceiling behind them lights up Claire’s hair, picking out the purple, turning it bright violet, haloing her in neon.
Julie’s generally of the opinion that Claire is the prettiest person she knows, but she’s never prettier than when she’s down here, knees grey with dirt, black grease marks on her shoulders in the shape of Julie’s hands.
Julie raises a hand and presses a thumb into the grease on Claire’s cheek. She smears it some more, sliding along Claire’s cheekbone, hitching in her movement a little when Claire shifts on top of her.
“What’re you waiting for, miss priss?” she asks, and her mouth curves up, perfectly happy, when Claire reaches down to meet her halfway.