Work Text:
Match and Pencil sit in Pencil’s room at the Ticonderoga estate; cold autumn air comes in through the opened balcony doors, and romantic candlelights illuminate their faces in an alluring yellow light alongside the dim moonlight streaming into the room. Pencil caresses the edge of Match’s jaw with one hand and places the other on the nape of Match’s neck, leaning closer to kiss Match another time—deeper and longer, as if Pencil’s lips haven’t already been marked by Match’s iconic red Hermés lipstick. Pencil’s skirt rises up and shows off the top of her white stockings with the lace hem, and a sliver of her exposed thighs. Match’s blouse is unbuttoned slightly, showing off just a little bit of cleavage—it’s scandalous, but so is losing her virginity to Pencil in the back of a limousine only a week prior.
Match bites Pencil’s lip, then she goes on to nip at Pencil’s cheek; at her jaw; at her neck. Pencil pulls away to stare into Match’s onyx eyes (closer to a sparkling gold when it catches the light of the candle’s flames) for barely half a moment before inching closer to Match’s face again. Pencil slips her tongue into Match’s panting lips, and now Match isn’t so silent anymore.
“Pencil,” Match starts to say, pushing her lips away from Pencil’s. Her dark skin has a sheen to it from perspiration, causing tiny droplets of sweat to roll down her forehead in small rivulets. Match’s dyed red curls frame her face and her anxious, uncomfortable eyes—Pencil once thought it’s impossible to think two thoughts at one time, yet simultaneously she thinks Match looks practically heavenly in this scene, and that her newfound tension looked rather ugly.
Pencil only hums in response, waiting for Match to continue. She attempts to lean in for another kiss, though Match doesn't reciprocate the action. Pencil tilts her head like a curious dog, unfamiliar to the feeling of not getting exactly what she wants whenever she wants it.
“Why do you, like, still keep Needle around? Aren’t you satisfied yet—like, now I’m here, and, honestly, I’d be a much better partner than her, so, why?” Pencil half expects Match’s eyes to dart around the room, as if her opinion isn’t absolute or something like that. But, no, Match’s attention is completely focused on Pencil, and it unnerves her.
“It’s a business deal, Matchy-Match. You know how my mom is like. Needle’s family is looking to invest into her fashion line, and if they think I’m still dating their daughter, then it might be another factor that convinces them to back the Ticonderoga brand.” Pencil whispers in a low tone. “Trust me, I’d rather be with my best friend—you.”
“Then, I want you to say something to me. Here’s a hint, it’s three words, and, like, eight letters.” Match says, uncharacteristically serious. It’s odd: Match is usually more laid back, more willing to put up with Pencil and her bad attitude—making this one moment of independence so jarring when compared to the Match of a few minutes before. Not that their relationship has some sort of power imbalance… Pencil sees Match as her equal, even if she’s a bit lazy and unmotivated.
That’s it, Pencil realizes. Match usually isn’t this motivated for an answer. But, like, why is she persistent now?
“I…” Pencil knows what Match is asking her to say. It’s obvious. Pencil isn’t a stranger to saying it either, since she’s had enough boyfriends (and her fair share of girlfriends, too) to know when to slip in the words “I love you,” into the conversation. Pencil’s said it multiple times to Needle, and it came off easily—hell, it rolled off the tongue. Yet, this time, it’s so hard for her voice to comply with her brain’s orders, because instead of actually speaking like it had done for Pencil’s entire life, her tongue stands numb and heavy in her mouth, unwilling to let any noise other than a grating choking sound out.
Pencil claws at her hair, desperate for something to fidget with, something to distract herself from the war waging in her brain. As she twirls a lock of her blonde hair hard enough to pull a few strands out, she thinks of a reply. She wants to say it, needs to say it, but she can’t. The great Pencil Ticonderoga, daughter to Graphite Ticonderoga, the most influential fashion designer in Manhattan, is bested by some words in the English dictionary. How pathetic is that? In the end, she chooses to pick the low hanging fruit as her response to Match’s request. It’s better than being a stuttering mess over eight letters.
“...Why do you want that? I—like, isn’t it a bit early?” Pencil says eventually.
Match’s already narrow smile thinned. “Maybe, Pence Pence. But—” She pauses, a pregnant pause. Pencil assumes Match’s just as unsure as she is. “—but, like, I don’t really know. I just want you to say it. Say it, and, like, I’ll kiss you.”
“I—I…” Pencil tries again, leveling her gaze to meet Match’s eyes. And, lo and behold, her attempt is a failure. Yet again. Pencil lowers her eyes to the white of the satin sheets, and half-heartedly pretends it’s the white of Match’s scleras. She can’t bear to look at Match right now.
Pencil stops to think for a second. About why this time is different. She can think of a multitude of different parts of the answer—her mom had always jumped from husband to husband, so maybe she’s inherited commitment issues instead of the family company. Or, perhaps that Pencil doesn’t want to end what they have right now, because by saying something so romantic like “I love you,” they’d be crossing into dangerous, unknown territory. Maybe Needle has some involvement. Maybe Pencil’s grown fonder of Needle than she has for Match. However, all of these claims get disproven in some way: she’s had no problem committing to relationships in the past, Pencil actually wants to have a romantic relationship with Match, instead of the relationship built off of lust that they have now, and Pencil doesn’t care for Needle like that. So, how is Match so familiar, yet so novel at the same time?
“Say it to me first, Matchy Match. Then, I’d be able to say it back, you know?” she deflects for the second time, and it feels weird coming out of her mouth, because the Ticonderoga family is not evasive like this.
“Yeah, like, of course. Okay.” Match takes a deep breath in, and Pencil watches her chest visibly inflate then deflate. “I…” She trails off, and almost makes it to the second letter, but her words fall too short.
“You can’t say it either.” Pencil notes. “Is there something wrong with us?”
“I don’t know, Pencil. At first, like, I thought you really were in love with Needle, since you couldn’t say it. But, I can’t say it either, and I know the only person I’d like to have is you.” Match rambles, voice cracking at “know”. A frustrated tear threatens to spill from her tear ducts, and it pools into a clean little droplet at the corner of her onyx-to-golden eyes. “We’re not meant for that. It’s so clear now.”
“But, I don't want that,” is what Pencil almost says before she bites her tongue. Instead, she nods sagely like she understands a damn word of what Match just said. Instead, she goes back to holding Match in her arms, finding the perfect nook to rest her fingers. Except, it doesn't feel perfect.
Internally, Pencil screams, this is wrong, because I—and, somehow, even in her thoughts, she cannot say it. So, externally, Pencil bites the figurative bullet.