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Violet Chachki was a fortress—all barbed wire and sequins, a queen who’d rather die than show a chink in her armor. So when the flu sank its claws into her after a grueling three-hour club set, she didn’t blink. She’d painted her face to perfection, strapped herself into a gown that weighed more than she did, and delivered a performance that left the crowd screaming. Now, slumped in the backseat of an Uber at 2 a.m., she was a ticking time bomb of denial, her body screaming what her mouth refused to admit.
“Goddamn, you slayed tonight,” Katya said from beside her, her voice hoarse from shouting over the music. She was a mess—mascara smudged, hair a blonde bird’s nest—but her grin was bright, infectious. “That split? Iconic. I thought the front row was gonna pass out.”
Violet smirked, flicking her wrist like it was nothing. “They usually do. It’s my face—they can’t handle the proximity.” Her voice was a rasp, sandpaper scraping her throat, and she swallowed hard, ignoring the fire that flared with it. Her head pounded, a relentless hammer against her temples, and her skin prickled with heat. She shifted, crossing her legs, and pretended the ache in her joints was just the sequins digging in.
Katya squinted at her, head tilting. “You sound like you gargled gravel. And you’re sweating more than I do after a double shift at the pole. You good?”
“I’m fabulous,” Violet shot back, her wit a reflex even as her vision blurred. “It’s just the car. This guy’s got the heat on like we’re in fucking Siberia.” She jabbed a finger at the driver, who didn’t react, and forced a laugh—a brittle thing that turned into a cough she couldn’t stifle. It ripped through her, sharp and wet, and she pressed a hand to her chest, willing it to stop.
Katya’s grin vanished. “Oh, hell no. That’s not a ‘fabulous’ cough, that’s a ‘call the exorcist’ cough.” She leaned closer, brushing Violet’s arm, and Violet flinched, the touch jolting her oversensitive skin.
“Back off, Zamolodchikova. I’m not your patient,” Violet snapped, but the words wobbled, and a shiver hit her, violent enough to make her teeth chatter. She hugged her arms around herself, nails digging into her elbows, and turned to the window, watching the city lights smear into streaks. She wasn’t sick. She didn’t get sick. She was untouchable.
The Uber dropped them at their shared Airbnb, a cramped loft with peeling paint and a dumpster view. Violet stumbled out, her heels catching on the curb, and Katya steadied her with a hand on her waist. “Easy, diva,” she said, her tone light but her grip firm. Violet swatted at her, missing, and staggered inside, her legs jelly beneath her.
The loft was dim, lit only by a flickering lamp, and Violet made it three steps before the world spun. Her knees buckled, and she caught herself on the couch’s arm, a groan slipping out. Pain clawed up her spine, a white-hot vice squeezing her lungs, and the fever was a beast, gnawing at her bones, setting her skin ablaze. She sank to the floor, curling in on herself, forehead pressed to her knees, panting through the haze.
“Violet—” Katya’s voice was sharp, all play gone. She dropped her bag and knelt beside her, hands hovering. “Fuck, you’re a furnace. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I’m fine,” Violet snarled, but it came out a whimper, and a cough seized her, brutal and unrelenting. It felt like her ribs were splintering, her throat shredding, and she gagged, tears stinging her eyes from the force. She swiped at her face, smearing makeup, and hissed, “I don’t need your pity party, Katya. Go—go smoke or something.”
Katya didn’t budge. “Yeah, no. You’re not wiggling out of this one, Chachki.” She slid an arm around Violet’s shoulders, pulling her close, and Violet resisted, shoving weakly at her chest. But Katya was stronger, relentless, and hauled her onto the couch, cradling her like she was glass about to shatter.
“Let go,” Violet rasped, but her hands clutched Katya’s shirt instead of pushing. The fever roared, a tidal wave of heat and ice, and her head lolled against Katya’s shoulder, too heavy to hold up. Pain pulsed through her—her skull, her chest, her every nerve—and beneath it, a raw, aching softness she’d buried deep.
Katya’s hands were everywhere—cupping her face, brushing back her damp hair, rubbing her arms through the chills. “Shh, I’ve got you,” she murmured, her voice a low hum against Violet’s ear. She pressed her lips to Violet’s forehead, lingering, and the coolness of her skin cut through the fire. “You don’t have to be a badass every second, you know. Not with me.”
Violet’s laugh was weak, bitter. “You sound like a Hallmark card.” But the words cracked, and her chest heaved—not from coughing, but from something breaking loose. Her eyes burned, her throat tightened, and a sob tore out, loud and messy. Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable, and she turned her face into Katya’s neck, hiding the wreckage.
“Oh, baby,” Katya breathed, her arms tightening. She rocked them gently, one hand sliding to the back of Violet’s head, fingers tangling in her hair and stroking with a tenderness that made Violet’s heart ache. “Let it out. I’m here.”
Violet cried—ugly, wrenching sobs that shook her whole body, the sickness stripping her bare. She hated it, hated the weakness, the way her walls dissolved into salt and snot, but Katya didn’t flinch. She held her closer, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek, her hair—soft, steady, a rhythm Violet could cling to. “I’m so—fucking—tired,” Violet choked out, the confession spilling free between sobs. “I can’t… I can’t keep—”
“You don’t have to,” Katya cut in, fierce and soft. She pulled back just enough to meet Violet’s eyes, thumbs wiping the tears from her cheeks, smearing glitter and mascara into a warpaint mess. “You’re a fucking warrior, V, but even warriors rest. Let me carry it for a while.”
Violet nodded, too broken to argue, and collapsed back into Katya’s chest. That’s when Katya doubled down, her comfort unfolding like a lifeline Violet didn’t know she needed. She shifted them, stretching out on the couch and pulling Violet down with her, their bodies pressed flush—Violet’s fevered frame sinking into Katya’s warmth. Katya wrapped both arms around her, one hand slipping under Violet’s shirt to trace slow, deliberate circles on her lower back, skin to skin, the touch firm yet feather-light. Her fingers pressed into the tense muscles there, kneading away the knots with a patience Violet didn’t deserve.
“Breathe with me, okay?” Katya whispered, her lips brushing Violet’s ear. She took a deep, exaggerated breath, her chest rising against Violet’s, and exhaled slow, guiding her. Violet followed, shaky at first, her breaths hitching, but Katya didn’t rush her. She kept breathing, steady and sure, until Violet’s matched hers, the rhythm soothing the jagged edges of her pain.
Katya’s other hand slid up to Violet’s neck, fingers threading through her hair and massaging her scalp with gentle, circular strokes. She tugged lightly at the strands, then smoothed them down, her touch a hypnotic dance—firm enough to ground, soft enough to melt. “You’re safe,” she murmured, her voice a velvet hum, and she pressed a lingering kiss to Violet’s forehead, then another to the bridge of her nose, her breath warm and steady. “I’ve got you, princess. All of you.”
Violet leaned into it, hard. Her tears had slowed, leaving her raw and hollow, but Katya’s arms were a cradle, and she couldn’t pull away. She pressed her face deeper into Katya’s neck, lips grazing the pulse point there, inhaling the familiar mix of smoke, lavender, and sweat—a scent that was messy and alive and *Katya*. Her hands, trembling still, slid up Katya’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, anchoring herself. She didn’t just rest against her—she burrowed, her body molding to Katya’s curves, legs tangling tighter, as if letting go would unravel her completely.
Katya responded in kind, her comfort stretching out like a blanket over Violet’s wreckage. She shifted her hand from Violet’s back to her side, slipping under the hem again to trace the dip of her waist, her palm warm and rough against the clammy skin. She rubbed slow, soothing lines there, up and down, her thumb brushing the edge of Violet’s ribs with a tenderness that made Violet’s breath catch. “You feel that?” Katya whispered, her lips moving against Violet’s temple. “That’s me holding you together. You don’t have to do it alone.”
Violet whimpered—a small, broken sound she’d never admit to later—and pressed closer, her cheek sliding against Katya’s collarbone. Katya’s heartbeat thumped beneath her ear, a steady drum that drowned out the ache in her own chest, and she let it pull her under. Katya’s fingers kept moving—back to her hair, then down her spine, then up again, a restless, loving circuit. She hummed softly, some nonsense tune, her voice vibrating through them both, and tucked Violet’s head under her chin, cocooning her fully.
“Rest now,” Katya said, her tone thick with something fierce and protective. She kissed the crown of Violet’s head, then her brow again, lingering each time, her lips a soft seal against the fevered skin. Her hand settled at the small of Violet’s back, splaying wide, fingers pressing in just enough to say *I’m here, I’m not leaving*. “I’ll fight the world for you if I have to, but you’re done fighting tonight.”
Violet didn’t reply—couldn’t. The pain still gnawed at her, the fever still burned, but Katya’s touch was a tide, washing it down to a dull roar. She melted fully, her body slack against Katya’s, her hands loosening in Katya’s shirt only to slide around her waist, holding tight. She pressed her forehead to Katya’s chest, letting the tears dry against her skin, and for the first time in forever, she didn’t feel like she had to be anything but herself—cracked, aching, and safe.
Katya kept stroking her hair, her back, her sides, a ceaseless rhythm of care, until Violet’s breathing slowed, her shivers eased, and sleep crept in. “That’s my girl,” Katya whispered, so quiet it was almost lost, and held her through the dark.