Chapter Text
Lydia isn’t stupid. Prickly? Yes. Territorial? Sure. Too arrogant and self-centred to ever attract a nice boy? Only if you listen to her mother. Lydia knows her shortcomings; she’s been making lists of her flaws and picking them apart as dramatic exercises ever since she was twelve. Of all the threads in the little bundle of insecurities she keeps nestled in her breast pocket and labels her pathos, stupid has never been one of them.
In fact, for everything she doesn’t like about herself (even the parts she’s too scared to put a name to, the ones that whisper just behind her ears when she stares too long at Susan’s legs, when she wakes from already-fading dreams damp with sweat and shame), she can name a fair few strengths. She’s ambitious, and careful, and talented, and careful, and eloquent, and careful, careful, careful. She’s been double-checking her work, double-checking herself, watching her back for as long as she can remember and it has been working. She’s never told a lie that contradicted another, never dropped character around company, never let anyone see anything other than the theatre’s teenage siren. Each scale in her mermaid’s tale is meticulously crafted and glistening pink and blue.
This is the stupidest thing Lydia’s done in a long time.
“I could show you.”
It comes out casually enough, though she can’t help the half-step she takes forward into Cynthia’s space. She almost believes herself, too, when she tells her stage kisses are meaningless, like kissing a wall. Like kissing a man.
And it is partly that - that sense of complete assurance that Cynthia really doesn’t have anything to worry about. Stage kisses are nothing. Most kisses are nothing. Lydia’s had countless stage kisses, and countless more all-the-world’s-a-stage-kisses. They’re easy. There’s definitely an element of genuine desire to provide comfort to a new actor, especially as Cynthia’s blustering protestations fade and the genuine angst comes through on her face.
Maybe she’s projecting, a little. Her first kiss with a boy was onstage, too, and she’d been plenty rattled by it. It was the first performance of summer-stock, the day after Martha had started giving her the cold shoulder. It was her first leading role, and her first time feeling like she was acting even while being herself. Onstage, playing a character who was playing a character. He was mediocre, as they all were. She remembers chapped lips and the breeze on the outdoor dais. She remembers her makeup smearing as his hand gripped her cheek. She remembers wondering if Martha was watching from behind the curtains. She never found out.
Cynthia’s eyes are big, and her voice is wavering, and she’s this little boyish girl with a swagger and a funny haircut that makes Lydia wonder if she’s ever ever tried to be anything other than completely herself before. She isn’t very good at it, at any rate. Not yet. Lydia can help with that - this is about helping.
It’s also at least partly about protecting the play, and the reputation of the drama club with it. Watching Cynthia and Buddy stumble around each other, line by stilted line, had been painful - and not just because she burned with the knowledge that she could do a much better job than either of them. It was clumsy, and amateurish, and not something she wanted her name associated with. So, as much as the little jealous creature that lives in the space where her nails meet her palms wants to let Cynthia flounder, it simply wouldn’t do.
Besides, Cynthia hadn’t even wanted the Juliet role in the first place - she seemed to have genuinely believed she’d had a shot at Mercutio. Lydia could have told her it was never going to happen - girls don’t get to play boys’ roles, not on stage nor in real life. It isn’t Cynthia’s fault that she’s only now learning the bitter truth. The least Lydia can do is make the transition to reality as smooth as possible.
But if she were to be honest she’d have to admit it’s all much less about these fairly credible excuses and much more about an aching in her bones to reach out and touch this strange girl standing before her dressed as a bug. There’s a question in her fingertips that she can’t ask with words. Do you, do you, do you? Are you, are you, are you?
It’s also the fact that when Cynthia says “I’ve never done that before” Lydia’s pretty sure she doesn’t just mean on stage, more that she’s never kissed anyone at all , and that sends a roaring sort of hunger surging through her in a way she isn’t sure how to deal with. She looks at Cynthia’s lips, lips that have never been kissed, and can feel a yearning to claim that honour for herself. It sits in her mouth, like she’s chewing on nothing.
Cynthia’s eyes widen, and for a second Lydia worries that she’s pushed things too far. “You mean here? Now?”
And those are both excellent points, because neither ‘here’ nor ‘now’ are situations she wants to get caught kissing a girl in, but they’re also not a no. Any sensible consideration for the safety of the situation is drowned out by the hammering in her chest, the thrumming in her shoulders. Her fingers clench and unclench, like they’re trying to physically feel the tension in the air. Her brain scrambles to come up with a reason to justify the urgency that’s shooting through her spine.
“The quicker you get something over with, the less of a deal it becomes in your mind.”
Except she wants to be a big deal in Cynthia’s mind, doesn’t want to be gotten over with like Martha got over her. She wants to plaster herself inside Cynthia’s brain and behind her eyes, wants that slightly frenzied gaze trained on her at every opportunity. She wants to put on a show for her; she wonders if Cynthia would like that.
She’d never really gotten the greaser look, before. Any fashion choice that made men look rougher and less clean was never going to do it for her. On the days her stomach was strongest, and she could just about convince herself she had the patience and endurance to last a lifetime with a husband, she always pictured him clean-shaven, mild-mannered, and buttoned up. She wants soft hands, a quiet voice and an air of respectability. Cynthia has none of those things. She’s callused from working on engines, loud and brash and excited in a way that twists at Lydia’s guts and makes her want to protect her from the world at the same time. She’s already garnered herself a reputation as a troublemaker only a couple of months into the school year. It really works for her. Admittedly, Lydia preferred the white tees and jeans to the literal ant costume Cynthia is currently wearing, but even that somehow suits her. It seems like she gets up every morning without giving a single thought to what anybody else thought of her.
“Okay.”
Oh.
Lydia hadn’t really expected this to work, in many ways. The worst-case scenario had been a slap, or Cynthia telling the whole school what Lydia had offered to do. The best-case had been laughing it off, maybe segueing into some pointers to make the scene a little more palatable. Sure, the treacherous voice that had briefly taken over and made the offer in the first place had hoped , but it's quite something else to realise that very shortly Cynthia is actually going to let her kiss her. Lydia takes a step back, motioning for Cynthia to take it away.
“Saints do not move, though grant, for prayers’ sake.”
At least it’s Shakespeare. Lydia can do Shakespeare in her sleep. Nothing about the vibration beneath her skin is comfortable, or familiar, but the lines that fall from Cynthia’s lips are ones she’s heard and read a thousand times before. In darker nights, evenings spent poring over pages and cursing Romeo and Juliet for having their love celebrated while hers stayed hidden, she’d read the words as passive. I won’t kiss you, but I’ll let you kiss me - how typical of a blushing beauty. How girlish, and coy, and how very heterosexual. It’s how she would play Juliet, if she ever got the chance.
It’s different, having the lines said to her. As Romeo, looking down into this Juliet’s eyes, they feel like a dare . It was dangerous, wasn’t it, for women to show desire back then? It still is, if the rumours spreading about poor Jane Facciano are anything to go by. The danger here is even more apparent - admitting to wanting to kiss the wrong girl won’t just result in a nasty reputation. It’s violence, and ostracization, and a criminal record that she’s risking. Cynthia’s risking it too. Maybe she knows that, feels the gravity of the situation. Lydia wonders if she’s read to the end yet, if she knows that Romeo and Juliet end up dead. Right now it feels like she might have some idea, her eyes full of awe and apprehension as she gazes up at Lydia. It’s not a dare, then. It’s a plea. Make the first move. Please. I can’t.
Lydia can. She’d never imagined playing Romeo before, still thinks that she’s more of a Juliet - the thought of Cynthia calling up to her on a balcony makes her blush a little bit. She’s never felt suave, or seductive, never had the brash confidence and overwhelmingly eager, easy love that Romeo is meant to embody. She hasn’t really let herself picture sweeping a woman off her feet, and she’s shocked by how badly she wants to do that for Cynthia.
“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.”
It hits a little close to home. How many times, when she was younger and more naive, had she prayed to a God that hated her to let her kiss a girl? Is this the effect of it, a fake kiss in a preppy party, her partner practising for the real thing with a man? It’s better, she supposes, having the excuse. Nobody can prove that she’s sick, or a deviant - she’s just an actor.
This might be the most honest Lydia’s ever been. In past romance scenes, the ones with men both onstage and off, she planned out every move to the letter. She’d studied other people, in plays and in school corridors, watched how girls acted with boys they liked. Watched how they kissed. She’d rehearsed her approach - both hands around his neck, let herself be dipped a little, let his hands grab at her hips. Now, her body moves of its own accord, gravitating towards Cynthia without her brain needing to direct.
She takes Cynthia’s hand, feels the calluses for herself, strokes over the skin at the back where the oil and machinery can’t reach. It’s almost too soft, too sweet, leaves too gaping a hole in her chest, so she moves to tangle her fingers gently in the hair at the nape of her neck. It’s a little longer than most of the men she’s kissed, but not all. It’s similar in texture, too, like Cynthia has about the same hair-care routine as a teenage boy. The angle is the main difference - Cynthia’s shorter than her. It’s so much more natural, resting her hands here without having to reach up. Martha had been about her height - she’s never kissed someone shorter than her before. That same hunger that burned when she realised this was Cynthia’s first kiss rumbles up again.
She only just has time to see Cynthia’s eyes flutter shut before hers do the same and she leans in.
The physical act of touching their lips together is the same as it has always been, but everything else feels different. Cynthia’s lips are softer, more pliable, less sure. Lydia isn’t thinking about the next line, isn’t counting beats until she gets to pull back, isn’t monitoring her body language to make sure she stays in character. Instead, she’s fighting an urge to pull, to bring everything closer to her, open up her chest and take this moment inside it. She wants to clutch Cynthia’s hand tighter, guide her arms back and around her, place her hands on her hips where so many guys grope without asking. She wants to be groped, wants to grope back. She wants to step forward, press herself flush against Cynthia, feel the warmth of her body. She wants to kiss harder, wants to taste her lips, wants to lick and bite and see what noises Cynthia might make when she does. She just wants, in a hot, desperate, gasping way. She’s brimming with it.
Instead, the kiss is chaste. She’s gentle, and careful, and not too quick. If it were real, it would be a pretty fine first kiss for Cynthia, she thinks to herself. But it isn’t. When she pulls back, Cynthia’s eyes are saucers.
“Wow. So that’s acting!”
No, this is acting. “Yeah.”
“It felt so real.” You have no idea.
Finally, self-preservation and common sense wrest back control. She feels more alive than she’s felt in a long time, but she also just kissed a girl in a semi-public place and now that girl is looking to her like she holds the answers to the universe. This isn’t a world to introduce someone to. This was selfish of her. Cynthia could have gone years, maybe a lifetime without ever knowing the fearful wanting that lives in Lydia. Lydia could have gone a lifetime without ever having to look at another beautiful woman’s face and know that rejection was just around the corner. There is no way that this doesn’t end in tears, except one:
“That’s - that’s why people love it.”
Make it fake. Make it safe.
“I get it now. Wait, does this mean I’m a thespian?”
It’s a little funny, the genuine concern on Cynthia’s face at that realisation. Lydia knows the last thing Cynthia wants to be associated with is theatre, that she only joined the club out of some kind of disciplinary action from the school. She probably is really quite alarmed at the idea that she might enjoy acting, might have a place among the drama kids when she’s so clearly gunning to be a T-Bird. It’s also desperately sad. Either Cynthia is a thespian, and didn’t feel any of what Lydia just felt, or she isn’t. Chemistry is hard to fake, even with costumes and makeup and a backing orchestra. The electricity that’s running between them feels real, and if so, then Cynthia will never get to stop acting again.
Either Lydia is alone, or she isn’t. She isn’t sure which option is worse.