Work Text:
EBB
Fiona shoves the card back into the envelope and holds it at arm's length from her body as if it’s diseased.
“Ew, gross,” she says, face turning in disgust.
“What is it?” I lean over from where I sit at the edge of my bed, Magickal Words notes lying open in my lap. Fiona and I had been quizzing each other for the upcoming test when the bird knocked at the window—an elegant crow, just like the Pitches always send.
Fiona gags and tosses the letter towards me. I catch it and pull out a glossy card printed with a photo of a smiling Natasha Pitch and Malcolm Grimm. Save the Date declares the card at the top.
And of course it’s Natasha.
It’s always Natasha.
Ever since first-year, I’ve gotten well-acquainted with Fiona and her one-sided rivalry. In Fiona’s mind, Natasha’s been ruining everything for Fiona for Fiona’s entire life.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, sliding the image of the happy couple back into the envelope. I know what Fiona thinks is wrong, but I’ll ask her away. Giving Fiona space to complain is an important part of maintaining our relationship as roommates.
“She’s just so—” Fiona groans and cuts off her sentence, flopping down on the bed and throwing an arm over her face. I set my notes to the side.
I reach for her and take both of her hands in mind. I pull her back up.
She follows.
She listens.
Fifth-year has been a challenge. We’ve had to lean on each other more after everything.
After Nico.
I’d worried she wouldn’t trust me as much—after that night. When I ran to her and told her what Nico had become. Told her how I could have stopped him but I didn’t.
I don’t think it’s all that wrong. I know I should.
But there’s a lot that I should think is wrong. Something about Fiona’s face and how it looks right now—sunlight from the stained glass windows washing it in a kaleidoscope of colors.
“Of course she’d get married now,” Fiona grumbles. “She’s been engaged forever, but now that she's going to be headmistress next year she wants to have all her ducks in a row.” Fiona leans forward, resting her forehead on my shoulder as she groans. “Ugh, I'm going to have to be a bridesmaid, aren’t I? I don’t want to be a bridesmaid.”
“Why do you care so much about her getting married?”
Fiona makes a face. “I don’t know.”
Fiona’s annoyed at everything her sister does, but this seems like something more. I wait for her to continue.
“I don’t want to hear about how in love my sister is. That’s so gross.” Fiona sticks out her tongue again. “Plus Pitches aren’t supposed to fall in love.”
Pitches aren’t supposed to.
My heart aches every time I hear Fiona say those words. Sometimes they come laced with derision—“Pitches aren’t supposed to fucking swear,” Fiona says with her sailor’s mouth. Other times with rebellion—“Pitches aren’t supposed to wear clothes like this.”
And sometimes, when Fiona says those words, she sounds so terribly broken.
“Pitches aren’t supposed to be who they want to be,” Fiona says one night after the lights were out. “I’m just playing my part.”
“It’s just weird…” Fiona continues. “Natasha never does anything because of emotions or whatever. I didn’t know she was capable of love. I thought she’d do everything our parents wanted forever, but then she declared her engagement to a farmer.”
“Yeah?” I ask, prompting her.
“My parents told her not to,” Fiona said. “Natasha Pitch doesn’t go against her parents. Pitches marry to further the family line, not because they want to.”
Oh, and there it is.
I laugh. “You wanted it to be you, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“You wanted to be the first Pitch to get married for love,” I say in a sing-song tone.
“No,” Fiona says, but she blushes a bit.
Fiona and I don’t talk like this much—about love or crushes. She never brings it up, and I’m too afraid too. I only mentioned it once when I was certain she’d had a crush on Nico. She’d laughed at me then, told me there was no way she’d like Nico.
I was grateful for that.
I don’t know what I’d have done if she did—if Fiona had fallen in love with Nico, and I had to watch from the sidelines, wondering if it’d been different if I was a boy. Wondering if I’d ever feel something like that.
Like I said.
I want things I’m not supposed to want.
Things I know are wrong.
I look at the letter again. Natasha and Malcolm smiling at the camera. I know Fiona isn’t, but I’m happy for them. Natasha doesn’t disobey her parents often—if Fiona is to be believed—so I’m glad she did it when it mattered.
Did the wrong thing for love.
I can’t imagine myself ever on a card like that.
I look back at Fiona. She’s still off-center—I haven’t brought her all back yet, haven’t found the sticking point.
“What do you want?” I ask. It’s a dangerous question. Fiona’s wants are dynamite. They always have been. Destructive and explosive, but I’d set them all off.
Burn the world down.
“I just—” Fiona starts. Then she shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
Fiona shakes her head again and I don’t push.
That’s me.
Never pushing.
Not yet.
I have to save my pushes with Fiona. Keep them effective. I move for my notes again—Fiona holds out a hand to stop me.
“You should be my date to the wedding.” Fiona’s words tumble out.
“What?”
I turn back. Fiona’s cheeks are pink again. I try not to read into it.
“I mean—” she starts. “Like a plus one. You should come with me. That way it’s not so woefully boring.”
“Would your sister be happy with that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow in the way Fiona taught me.
Fiona shrugs. “Who cares? We can wear matching dresses.”
“You’ll be in a bridesmaid dress.”
“Then I’ll sneak you one too.”
“I can’t do that. It’d ruin the wedding.”
“I don’t care.”
“Your sister will.”
Fiona wrinkles her nose. Her face is cute. I want to kiss it.
I know I shouldn’t. But I want.
“Will you?” she asks again. “Come with me to the wedding?”
And I didn’t know I needed to respond to that. Doesn't she know that the answer is yes?
In what world would I ever say no?
“Of course,” I tell her.
Yes.
Always.
———
FIONA
Just like I’d predicted the wedding is an overly stuffy affair. With Natasha’s untraditional husband choice, everything else had to be terribly old-fashioned. The officiant even read us prophecies and made Malcolm swear on magic that he’d love and protect her. It’s terribly antiquated, but it seems to make Mother and Father happy.
Well, as happy as they can be.
Natasha herself was a hell of a bridezilla, although is anyone really surprised?
I let one little Jesus fuck slip at the rehearsal dinner, and she threatened to uninvite Ebb if I couldn’t keep my uncouth mouth under control. God, I’m not ready to have her in charge of my school.
But the ceremony is over now and the cake is good, and no matter how traditional the wedding is, the after-party is always free game. Singing and dancing, and more food.
I’m glad Ebb’s here. We’re sitting at the end of a long table; my feet are on the tablecloth. Mother and Father left as soon as modern music (horror of all horrors) started playing, otherwise, Mother’d be pulling me by the ear to get me to stop it.
As it is, it’s Ebb who tugs on my arm.
“Fiona, you’ll stain it.”
I listen to her, and my black boots hit the floor. (I’d traded my heels for them as soon as I could. It may be my sister’s wedding, but I’m still punk.)
I turn towards Ebb, whose green dress doesn’t match my red, but the colors still look good together. Her blonde hair is back in an elaborate plait, and a gold necklace shines on her neck. She gives me a small smile.
“We should dance.”
She stands up and holds out a hand for me.
I take it, but I groan, making a total show of getting up, but I can’t hide the grin taking over my face.
Of course, I can’t.
It’s Ebb.
We dance for about three songs. I know how to ballroom dance, but I wouldn’t be caught dead doing it, so instead we shake and groove and laugh.
Ebb spins so fast she almost trips, and I catch her by the waist. I like having her close. She looks good in green, I think.
When the songs get slower, I pull Ebb to the side.
“Should we see if there’s any of that cake left?”
“Okay.”
EBB
Fiona pulls me under the table.
“Why?” I laugh, following her.
“My sister can’t find us under here,” she says, passing me one of the cake pieces. She shoves half of the other in her mouth.
“I don’t think she’s looking for you.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Fiona says. She’s got frosting on her nose. I want to tell her to wipe it off, but that’s like some scene from a rom-com, and it feels too close.
I take a bite of my cake.
This whole night feels too close.
Too close to something.
Or too close to nothing.
I’m licking frosting off my lips, but I want her. I want to have her. To hold her.
To stand in front of a room and swear on magic that I’ll keep her.
But I can’t.
It’s not right.
Just like Nico wasn’t right. Isn’t right. He’s not dead, despite what they make me say. Despite the funeral we held, despite the way they make me talk about him.
Only Fiona lets me use the present tense. Only Fiona knows that I still talk to him sometimes, in that way that gives me plausible deniability, like talking to the wind. Like hearing him on the breeze.
“Oh,” Fiona says, looking at me, frosting still on the tip of her nose. “You’ve got a little something… there.”
And, it’s strangely fitting, as I wipe the wrong side of my mouth, and then too high on the correct one, and I swear I’m not trying to do this, but Fiona leans in to help me.
“Right there,” Fiona says, brushing off the offending cake crumb with her thumb. She leaves her hand on the side of my cheek.
And we’re so close underneath this table that I fear I might kiss her.
I don’t want to.
I can’t.
Or I won’t.
I shouldn’t.
But it’s all I can think about as Fiona leaves her hand resting on my face, her brown eyes gazing into mine. And we’re all alone under this table and it’s not hard to imagine it. Imagine leaning just a little bit closer, taking one leap into the impossible chasm.
And it’s moments like this that I’m so aware of the previous balance between mind and body. Just one choice—one signal from my brain—and I’d be moving. So close, yet I choose to stay still. Frozen in place. But I could kiss her.
I might do it.
But before I can bring myself to, Fiona leans in.
And then she kisses me.
FIONA
I don’t know what I’m doing.
Not really.
I never do.
I pretend I do, but I’m making it up as I go along. And I don’t think things through. I don’t ruminate. I feel, quickly and passionately and I move on.
Usually, that just means I get angry.
Yell without meaning it.
Throw rocks into glass houses.
But apparently, I also kiss my best friend. Under a table. At my sister’s wedding. The world is a funny place, I think.
Ebb’s lips taste sweet. Like vanilla frosting and summer sunshine. Her face is soft under my hand—malleable—and she lets me press into her. A puzzle piece slotting in place.
When I pull back, I find more frosting has appeared on Ebb’s face.
“Where did that come from?” I mutter, wiping it off with my thumb again.
“Your nose,” Ebb says quietly—nonsensically. I don’t pay attention to it.
“Was that—?” I start. “Did you—?”
I don’t know how to say it. I can’t ask the question because I’m scared of the answer. I’m terrified that Ebb will say she didn’t like it. That she doesn’t want it.
That it’s wrong.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she reaches across, taking my hand into her.
“Did you mean it?” she asks, voice soft and earnest in the way only Ebb can be.
She’s able to make me do anything with that voice. Be anything.
“Of course I did,” I say. Because I do.
Ebb grins and she knocks her forehead into mine. “Then prove it.”
And so I kiss her again.
And again.
And again.