Work Text:
1.
Amina twitched awake, just as she was slipping sideways against her pillows, eyelids and fingers heavy. Playing unplugged in her room always made her sleepy. Blinking hard and breathing in deep, she sat up a bit straighter and found Saira slumped at the foot of the bed, guitar across her lap and notebook open at her knee.
Amina jostled her guitar a little more than strictly necessary, hitting a few open strings just loud enough that Saira jolted out of her doze more gently than if Amina had called to her or, worse, touched her.
“Shit, sorry,” Saira muttered and rubbed her eyes. Her hair flopped back on the undercut side until she automatically fixed it with a twitch of her head.
“It’s fine,” Amina said with a yawn. She rolled her neck and shoulders to work out the kinks from hunching over her guitar, then falling asleep wrong. “Do you want to call it a night or finish the song?”
“Nah, we can’t stop now.” Saira hitched her feet tighter beneath her. “We’ve almost got the bridge worked out. Come on, see if this makes sense.” She gestured for Amina to come closer to see the notebook.
It was mostly barely legible scribbles. Saira had taught herself to play, so she didn’t read or write music the way Amina had been trained to. Still, the parts to a punk song were pretty straightforward, no matter how they were written out.
Leaning closer, she caught Saira’s unwashed scent – sweat, flannel, and notes of metallic tang. Butcher blood. Her hair could use a scrub. And the shadows beneath her eyes completed the story. Saira needed to take better care of herself.
Amina felt a moment of such tenderness, she nearly pressed a hand to her heart.
But first, they needed to rock out very quietly and not wake up her parents. Not that they’d be angry. Her mum and dad would probably demand a full plugged-in performance, and Saira would get that wet look in her eyes like she was a child again and experiencing love and acceptance in a way never granted to her before. Amina couldn’t face that look again so soon after their first sleepover.
“You ready? S’give it a go, yeah?” Saira looked up at her, speaking around the pick tucked in the corner of her mouth.
“Sorry, yes. Ready.”
*
Her fingers pleasantly sore from an evening of practice, Amina blew on them before slipping Fabio into his case.
Saira yawned hugely and leaned over the side of the bed to return her guitar to its case, as well. This seemed like more effort than she could manage, though, and the neck was still hanging out when she grumbled, “Fuck it,” and flopped along the length of Amina’s bed, her eyes closed.
Amina left her there and slipped out to the loo to brush her teeth and wash her face, quite sure she’d find Saira out cold when she returned.
And she did. Saira’d stretched out on her stomach, her head not quite on the pillows and the fingers of her right hand dangling by the neck of her guitar. Even in Amina’s room, in Amina’s bed, Saira looked lonesome.
While she sometimes wished her parents could be a little less involved in her day-to-day life, Amina couldn’t imagine living alone the way Saira did. Not just because she’d be nervous about break-ins and potentially large insects whose welfare she’d be responsible for, but… the loneliness of it. The quiet of a meal eaten without family around her.
Not that Amina considered Saira’s family to be worth much, shutting her out as they did. Saira might be punished for all eternity for her choices, but that certainly didn’t mean her family should abandon her in this life. Quite the opposite.
Amina lifted her chin as she paused there in her bedroom doorway. Saira did have a family. Perhaps a truer one than her first. Who else but family would have stuck with Amina through her stage-fright puking and freeze-ups—her blank-eyed terror?
Indeed, Saira might not be the only one in need of offered love and acceptance.
Amina crossed her bedroom on quick, quiet feet and circled around to the far side of her bed. Not wanting to wake Saira, she left the blankets where they were and lay down carefully beside her.
“I’d like it if you stayed the night,” she murmured to Saira’s back, knowing Saira needed the explicit invitation, that she never wanted to impose. “Make sure you stay for breakfast, too, before work tomorrow.”
With another yawn, Amina reached up and switched off her bedside light, leaving only the orange slant of the streetlamps across the carpet. She froze, waiting to see if Saira would awaken at the abrupt darkness. But she breathed deeper in sleep, a sound barely this side of a snore.
Amina curled toward her just a little and dropped off almost as quick as her light.
*
It was still dark when she opened her eyes to find Saira regarding her with the unblinking stare she seemed to prefer to all other ways of looking at a person.
They’d both sunk to the middle of Amina’s bed—whether because it was the old saggy mattress she’d had since childhood or because the night had grown cool, and the warmth of another body close by had drawn them in. Amina held very still.
They were curled toward each other like parentheses or commas. “Don’t go,” she said impulsively.
“I wasn’t.” Saira’s voice was thick with sleep.
“If you’re cold, we can get under the blankets.”
Saira glanced down between them. “I didn’t change after work before I came to yours.”
“That’s why you wear an apron,” Amina said with a half shrug. In the dark, she could see Saira lift one brow in skepticism. “And that’s what laundry soap is for. I can wash them tomorrow.”
“My nasty jeans?” Saira said, clearly still half asleep.
“No, the sheets.” Amina hesitated. Did Saira have easy access to laundry? “Or I could—”
“All right, yeah, I’m freezing,” Saira interrupted and reached up to yank down the duvet.
They scrambled underneath, and it was probably only Amina who felt the giddy joy of a friendship growing and blooming and escaping its boundaries. Saira was far too serious to experience such things, she felt sure.
Still, when they tugged the duvet up around their ears, Saira didn’t turn away, didn’t burry her face in the pillow and drop right back to sleep. Her knee touched Amina’s, and she examined Amina’s face like—like she couldn’t quite be sure this was real.
You brought me into myself, Amina wanted to say. I’ll look out for you. I’ll be your family.
And even though Saira had helped her to be brave, she bit the words back, worried Saira would squirm away in discomfort like she had with Abdullah.
…Not that this was anything like what she had with Abdullah.
“Thanks for letting me crash,” Saira murmured, her voice close and quiet with the duvet mostly covering her face. Amina liked how big and loud and bold Saira’s voice so often was out in front of Lady Parts, but she quite liked this, too.
“Any time,” Amina said. “My parents adore you. I think they wish you were theirs, honestly. The punk daughter they never had, instead of stuffy old Amina—” Saira’s rough palm cut her off, tightly covering her mouth.
“They have a punk daughter, so shut it.”
After a moment of silence, during which Saira did not remove her hand, Amina stuck out the tip of her tongue and tasted the salt in the crease of her palm before Saira squawked and yanked it away. Trying to cackle quietly, Amina fended off Saira’s bony fingers with her elbows but couldn’t avoid them entirely. Saira went right for the ribs with all the skill of a child who’d grown up being ruthlessly tickled by her older sister.
And with the grip strength of a butcher and a guitar player.
It was a brief, joyous battle, and Amina happily lost. She was also glad to be wrong about Saira’s aversion to silliness.
2.
Guitar case slung over her shoulder, Saira used it to make herself bigger, to make it easier to push through the crowd after their set. When she spotted Taifa making her way over, waving and grinning, Saira grabbed Amina, too, for good measure.
“Hide me,” she muttered into Amina’s ear, holding tight to her arm.
Amina darted a look around the bar like a startled small animal scenting the air before she realized the situation. “Ah,” she said. “Too late.”
“Then save me. I don’t want to talk to her tonight.”
“You haven’t wanted to talk to her since she introduced herself—Hi, Taifa! It’s so nice to—Oh.”
Barely acknowledging Amina, Taifa reached between them to wedge her arm in and give Saira an unwelcome hug. “You were so amazing, Saira! Oh my gosh, so inspiring, I just want to pick your brain forever until I can write songs just like you, wouldn’t that be great? Do you have a place to stay tonight? I’ve got friends in the area; you’re welcome to crash with me.”
Saira kept hold of Amina’s arm no matter how awkward it became. “No, thank you,” she managed. “We have to, um, go, actually. Right, Amina? Isn’t your mum…?” She trailed off hopefully, and after a long moment, Amina came through.
Her eyebrows lifted nearly to her headscarf. “Yes, my mum…” She darted her eyes to the left, then the right. Amina came through, but she was still often late and also a fuck-awful liar. “…my mum has IBS and doesn’t like to rely on a stranger’s plumbing. So, unfortunately, because she may have to, we also have to run!”
Saira couldn’t help the smirk that threatened to spread into a smile, so she hid it against Amina’s shoulder as Amina led her with confidence toward the van.
Once shut inside, Saira exhaled a sigh of relief and slung her guitar into the corner. “Thanks,” she said gruffly. Then, when Amina didn’t reply, she turned to find her seated on the side bench, head tilted to the right, and her enormous dark eyes narrowed. “What.”
Amina shrugged without changing her expression. “Nothing, it’s just. For someone who wants so very much to be a successful musician, you don’t seem to grasp that this means the people who come to our shows and listen to our music out in the world will be—well, a significant proportion will be fans. And they’ll want to connect with you.”
Saira bristled, shrugging her shoulders up into a defensive hunch. Then she took a deep breath and let them drop. “I—you’re right. I know you’re right.”
Amina blinked wide-eyed, clearly surprised Saira would so readily admit such a thing.
Saira dropped into the seat at the far back of the van and sprawled her legs open, tipped her head against the rest. “Obviously I want people to listen to our music and love it, understand it and themselves, but I also want them to leave me the fuck alone. Like, this is supposed to be a one-way street.” She gestured forward with the straight edge of her hand.
“Our music goes out, and nothing gets back in?” Amina offered.
Saira lifted her head and pointed at her. “Yes, exactly.”
“But music is a conversation, isn’t it? It’s shared, and the people we share it with are changed by it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want them to tell me about it. I don’t want their feelings about it. I don’t want strangers’ feelings. My vulnerability goes out into the universe in song, and if someone tries to give me their own, I want to die.”
Amina’s lips pressed together, and she nodded once, probably turning that over in her scientist brain, collecting all the data of Saira, drawing closer to a conclusion. Saira immediately wanted to backtrack. I want yours, though. I always want yours.
Before she could say it, the van doors burst open, and the band piled in, Ayesha yelling at Ahsan to hurry up with the rest of her drums. Still, Amina made room for everyone by slipping out of her seat and squeezing next to Saira. “Don’t tell Mum about the IBS thing, please?” she noisily whispered.
Saira snorted a laugh. “The last thing I’d ever want is to have a conversation with your mum about her bowels.”
“Even less than you want to have a conversation with a fan about our music?” Amina asked, the whole right side of her body flush and warm alongside Saira.
Bisma squeezed into the far side of the seat with them. “Wondered where you two had disappeared to.” She already had her phone out to send after-show updates to her family. “Taifa said something about your IBS, Amina?”
“Oh, no. That’s not—”
Saira leaned over, her lips nearly touching Amina’s earlobe where it peaked out from beneath a fold of her scarf. “Oh, I much prefer this,” Saira said, and for whatever reason, Amina did not recover her train of thought.
*
Amina dropped off to sleep on the drive, her head pillowed on Saira’s shoulder in a way that would kill her neck when she woke up. With Ahsan in the front seat, Amina didn’t uncover her hair, even to sleep, and Saira didn’t try very hard to tamp down her annoyance that she couldn’t comb her fingers through it—no doubt sweaty and frizzing out of its knot at the nape of her neck.
She wanted to bury her nose there and breathe in her exact combination of fruity conditioner and music club funk.
Instead, she hooked her hoodie where it’d fallen on the van floor with her foot and reached down to grab it without disturbing Amina. She mostly succeeded. And when Amina stirred, Saira shoved the hoodie between her shoulder and Amina’s cheek for a pillow.
“Thanks,” Amina murmured and curled toward her, hooking one leg between Saira’s knees in her effort to get more comfortable.
“Sure,” Saira answered. Without meaning to, she met Ayesha’s sharply outlined gaze where she sprawled with Momtaz on the side seat.
She shut her eyes before Ayesha said anything.
3.
“You know, you don’t need to sleep on the floor.” Amina spoke into the gloom of her bedroom to the dejected lump that was Saira in a sleeping bag, curled away toward the wall. “We’ve established there’s room up here, and, I mean, we slept in much smaller spaces in the van, so I really don’t mind.”
Saira made a noise from the floor, half grunt, half growl, but she didn’t roll over or speak.
Since her eviction from her flat and its subsequent demolition, Saira had kept to her sleeping bag and camping mat on Amina’s bedroom floor. It felt like she was sitting herself in the corner. Punishing herself for not preventing this disaster.
Which, if anyone understood useless self-flagellation, it was Amina. If it’d been her flat and band practice space, and she’d willfully ignored the eviction notices until her home was literally bulldozed, she’d feel pretty terrible about herself as a functioning adult, too.
Not that she would ever say that to Saira.
Not that she’d ever lived on her own, anyway, so who was she to judge the relative level of Saira’s functioning adulthood? Amina had vowed to be Saira’s family, and only a bad friend would let her stew in her own embarrassment and misery for more than a few days.
Climbing out of bed, she crossed the room to where Saira lay curled up like an unhappy prawn and dropped down to sit cross-legged at her back on the floor.
Before she could offer any kind of assurance that they would sort this situation out, Saira spun around in her sleeping bag and flopped her arm across Amina’s lap, hooking her by the waist. Saira tugged herself closer and simultaneously turned Amina so they fit more snugly together.
“I’m so fucking furious with myself,” she said, her face now pressed to Amina’s lower back.
Not sure what part of her she should touch, Amina carefully rested one hand on Saira’s hip where she lay curled around her. “It will be all right. You’ll find the right flat.”
“I don’t care about that—I care about the practice space!” Saira’s voice wobbled with emotion.
“Oh—of course. We’ll find one of those, too.” Wanting to comfort her but not able to twist herself around, Amina pet Saira’s hip with gentle strokes of her palm.
“Where? That shithole was the only place I could afford big enough to live in and have band practice. I’ll never find another flat like that.”
“Well—” Amina cast about for what to say. Her new job in the lab was a steady gig and paid decent money. Living with her parents, she was banking all of it. Saira hadn’t had that luxury since she left home, no more than a child.
“Either I find a man who will support my career—” she said with utter loathing in her voice, “—or our ticket sales start making us loads more money, and I don’t see—”
“Or you could find a roommate,” Amina suggested gently.
“Ugh.” Saira rolled onto her back and draped her arm across her eyes. “I’m thirty years old; I don’t want to live with a stranger.”
“Your roommate could be one of us.” Amina thought this was obvious, but Saira could be stubborn as a sullen teenager when it came to this kind of thing. Trusting. Accepting. Asking.
She scoffed. “I’m thirty years old. I’m not gonna impose on anybody’s family like that.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “We have to record our album. Maybe if sales are good, and with my old job back, then I can save up enough. But that could take ages, and in the meantime, I’m on your fucking floor.”
Amina waited a moment to be sure she was finished. “I meant that maybe we could get a flat together.”
Saira finally looked at her, hands sliding down to cup her jaw. “What about Ayesha and Momtaz? What about Bisma? What about your thing for Ahsan? What about finding a husband?”
Laughing before she could stop herself, Amina meant to put a calming hand on Saira’s elbow, but with Saira’s hands still on her face, she missed in the dark, and instead her fingers landed on Saira’s ribs, and her breath stuttered to a stop. Saira regarded her, not in her usual, unsettling way, but with that old fear.
Amina forced herself to breathe, and in doing so, her fingers clenched in Saira’s sleep shirt. “You—um, you sound like me,” she managed. “When I’m circling the drain in a spiral of my own creation.”
“You’re a functioning adult; I should try to sound like you more often.” The corner of Saira’s mouth twitched up in a half-hearted smirk.
Amina wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s—” She took another deep inhale. “But to answer your questions, let’s see… I think you and Ayesha would murder each other in under a week if you tried living together.” Saira snorted a laugh, and did not disagree. “Taz has her grandmum to look after. Bisma will be fine. She’ll love having a place she can go when she needs a break. Ahsan already made it very clear he doesn’t feel that way about me. And I—I have a career and a band and friends who love me. A husband is less of a priority than it’s been in recent months.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Years.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears, which was silly. It was only a suggestion. Only an idea. Only Saira. Why did it feel like a marriage proposal? Why was Saira looking at her like she’d offered a marriage proposal?
“So you’re saying, you and I could get a flat.”
Amina’s fingers still had a tight grip on Saira’s shirt, so she made herself release it and smooth out the wrinkled fabric. Which meant she was petting Saira’s ribs, just under her breasts. She made herself stop that, too. “I think, yes, that’s what I’m saying we could do. If you wanted.”
Lowering her hands from her face, Saira fumbled awkwardly until she gripped Amina’s in her own.
With that fearful, wonderful, unsteady smile, Saira pushed herself up and pressed a hard kiss to Amina’s brow. She sank her free hand into Amina’s hair, and they held each other for a long moment.
That seemed like a yes.
4.
They flopped side-by-side across the width of Amina’s bed, head to toe, so that when Saira looked over, she saw Amina’s feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. Turning her gaze to the ceiling, she tried to let the white paint fill her mind with white noise, but it didn’t work. Too much other noise.
First, she’d torpedoed their relationship with Taz to work with the new manager, sign with the label, and record the album. Then she torpedoed Lady Parts’ chances of ever doing any of that again by leaking the original recordings the day of their record release.
It had been a busy couple of months, but then, she’d had years to perfect this talent. What else could she destroy? Maybe Second Wife’s career while she was good and warmed up? No, they still had Taz looking out for them. And Taifa knew what she was doing. They still had a future.
Beside her, Amina let out an enormous sigh.
Here it was. Saira braced for impact.
“Oh, I’m so glad we did that. Aren’t you?” Amina’s voice had that dreamy quality it got when she smiled, so Saira lurched up onto one elbow to confirm whether she was, in fact, smiling.
Indeed.
“Did what, exactly?”
Amina floated one arm up and swirled her hand. “All of it. Every part.”
Saira snorted her incredulity. “Even the clothing sponsorship? That was a fucking disaster.”
She giggled. “You’re right; that was terrible. Everything else, though. Amazing. Ten out of ten.”
“Are you mad? We’ve lost everything. Breach of contract. Blacklisted. Burned bridges.”
Now Amina propped herself up to regard Saira. “Yes, what other B-words can we come up with to describe our situation?” Her mouth quirked to the side in thought. “Let’s see. Brave. Brittany. Better off.” She smiled. “Best friends.”
Saira’s throat nearly closed off with emotion. She examined Amina’s expression, but it was honest as ever. She could never hide her feelings, so this wasn’t an attempt to make Saira feel better.
“I can see you mean that,” she said finally.
“Of course I mean it.” Amina sat the rest of the way up and reached for Saira’s hand to pull her upright as well.
“If you’re so certain, what comes next? Where do we go after this?”
Amina shrugged. “Maybe we should consult the manifesto.”
Saira exhaled a sharp, bitter laugh. “Haven’t you figured out yet that I’m totally full of shit?” She dragged a hand through her hair and yanked it to the side. “I had all these principles. All these rules. And I compromised every one of them—chucked them out the window at the first sign of a record deal. Did any of that even matter to me or was it all image?”
Amina folded her legs in front of her and undid the pins holding her headscarf in place. She let the fabric unwind and fall into her lap before tugging her hair free of its knot. “I know what I think—”
“And that is?” Saira interrupted sharply.
“—but maybe you should ask yourself again what you want out of Lady Parts. What does success look like for you?”
“You go first,” Saira insisted. “I’m sick to death of myself right now.”
Shaking her hair out and combing her fingers through it, Amina didn’t meet Saira’s eyes as she spoke. “I want to write songs and rehearse and play shows with the band. However we can keep doing that, that’s what I want. Not because I think our music is important, and the world needs to hear it, but because I love it, and I love you.” She hesitated. “All of you.”
A sweet flood of heat suffused Saira’s entire body at these words, sweat breaking out along her hairline. She cleared her throat and gave a jerky, awkward nod. “In the studio, once they started messing with our songs, then when they cut ‘Glass Ceiling’ without telling us, I had this vision. I saw the future of the band, what it’d be like promoting the album and—it was terrifying.”
“What did you see?” Amina asked quietly.
“It’s a double-bind. A no-win scenario. Either we sell the music that the label thinks people want to buy, and we do exactly what they say, and we’re erased from our own sound—or it’s the hustle every fucking day in service to the algorithm. You know how hard Taz worked to build a presence on social media. It’s exhausting, and I think I hate it just as much as the label telling us what to do. But was it any better before? When I said ‘No social media, no sponsorships, no selling out?’” Saira gave an angry shrug. “I don’t know if it’s possible to make the music we want and share it in a way that’s meaningful. Not screaming into the void, but not dressing up like dolls for a bunch of assholes from the label.”
Amina nodded. “I don’t particularly like either of those options. But what do you want? Do you want your art to be your career? The thing that you have to sell if you want to survive? Or do you see another way?”
“What do you think? Do you see one?”
Amina reached over to her nightstand for her hairbrush. “I like my job. I like algae.” She said it shyly. “I’m happy to do that by day and shred on nights and weekends. And if we get a flat together, it can be our life, just the way we want it. But I can’t tell if that would be enough for you.”
Saira fiddled with the loose strings around the holes in her jeans. “I don’t know if it would,” she said honestly. “I don’t think I like the butcher shop quite as much as you like your lab.” Amina’s brows knitted together in worry, and Saira took a deep breath. “But that might be okay, if it means we don’t ever have to do any of the bullshit again.”
“Our villain era,” Amina said with a small smile.
“Yeah. In this capitalist hellscape, it seems the only way to be successful on our terms is to support ourselves using the master’s tools. At least during business hours.”
“And with Taz’s help.”
Saira covered her face. “Ugh. We don’t deserve her. I don’t.”
Amina’s hand came to rest gently on her leg. “You deserve all the things you want, Saira. I hope one day you’ll see that.” She was flushed, her gaze darting here and away, even as she said such wonderful things.
The warmth of Amina’s bedroom, the comfort of Amina’s knee pressed along hers, their guitars leaning together by the window—Saira already had so much. With that, came the terror of losing it. She wasn’t sure she could ever have the one without the other. “D’you want to start looking for a flat this weekend?”
By god, she’d try, though.
+1
It was so beautiful.
Well, no. It was actually quite stark and ugly. But it was their’s.
Well, no. It was the landlord’s. But their names were on the lease, the keys in their hands, the door shut and locked behind them. Amina spun in place, thought of all the color they would bring to the flat’s white walls, all the noise they’d make, and clasped her hands together over her heart.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, unable to help herself.
Lugging a large black plastic bag into her bedroom, Saira scoffed. But she didn’t quit grinning, either. With all of her belongings in storage, she was ready to move in the moment they’d signed the lease, so, with the help of the band van, they’d brought it all right over.
Amina didn’t quite know what she’d bring from her parent’s house yet, whether she should leave her childhood bedroom as it was, or take what she wanted and invite her parents to turn it into a guest room. It was impossible to know how long this arrangement with Saira would last. At the moment, it was only Saira’s things here. And a glorious garage in back they were going to soundproof and turn into a practice space at their earliest convenience.
They would likely do that before Amina bothered moving her bed. It’s not like she couldn’t sleep with Saira for a few nights, but they really needed to break in their new rehearsal space as soon as possible. The flat was small and a bit shitty. The garage was *chef’s kiss*.
Despite its size, they’d both decided to prioritize a small practice space here inside the flat where the two of them could sit and work out songs together. Who needed a kitchen table, anyway, when it was cozier to eat at the sofa and coffee table? Amina gazed lovingly upon their guitar cases leaned side-by-side against the wall, their adorable little practice amps just in front, waiting to be plugged in. She darted forward to adjust the amps so they angled toward each other, like friends.
When she was satisfied, she straightened to find Saira leaning in her bedroom doorway, a smile curling at the corner of her lips. Amina couldn’t help the small sound of joy that escaped her mouth as she crossed their tiny living room and swept Saira into a hug.
“We did it,” she said. “I know you’ve lived on your own already, and you’re just glad to be back in your own space, but I’ve never done this before, and I—”
“I’ve never done this before, either,” Saira said, her breath and her voice warm against Amina’s neck.
Amina drew back, though Saira kept hold of her, hands clasped at her elbows. “What do you mean? Of course, you have.”
“I mean—” Saira’s gaze shifted to the side and up, away. “I’ve never lived with someone I—with someone as important to me. As you are.”
“Oh.” Amina’s heart did that thing where it heated and flooded her chest with such tenderness, she ached.
“I’m not gonna fuck this up, Amina, I swear.”
“Well, no, I’ll be monitoring the bills and communication with the landlord so we don’t miss anything.”
Saira exhaled a sharp laugh.
“It will be a group effort,” Amina said. She meant to kiss Saira’s brow. To seal their promise to each other. But Saira tilted her head at just the wrong angle at the wrong moment and, instead, the kiss landed next to her nose, in the small space between her cheek and her mouth. “Sorry,” Amina said automatically.
“No, I’m—” Saira regarded her in that way, searching and intense. Not unlike when she’d first identified Amina as Lady Parts’ future lead guitarist. Only she wasn’t across the community room at a youth recital, or across the counter at the butcher shop. She had hold of Amina, and Amina had hold of her, and this was—they were—
Saira hadn’t blinked in a while.
Maybe It hadn’t been the wrong angle or the wrong moment.
“I think I am gonna fuck it up, actually,” Saira murmured and tilted her chin just a little farther down.
Amina felt the kiss, though she didn’t remember closing her eyes. It was a gentle touch of parted lips and breath, a soft sound in Saira’s throat. It was her own fingers drifting up Saira’s arm to her shoulder, the side of her neck, her jaw, and finally the soft bristle of the hair behind her ear. It was, perhaps, the most alarming thing to ever happen to her.
But, no, that was silly. She played lead guitar in a punk band. She’d recorded an album with a famous producer, which she owned on vinyl. She’d moved out of her house, unwed. With her parents’ full support and blessing, but still.
All alarming. All spectacular. She was in her villain era.
She opened her eyes.