.
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She sings to herself sometimes –– hums. A tune which continuously echoes in her mind, and she smiles and sighs and hums, and gradually the chains ripping open her wrists begin to loosen. Patience. A gift she's discovered recently. She is patient with her body as it slowly heals, and she is patient with the constant knocking of her past. At night, she stays awake, thinking about the damp cell walls, the stench of hatred and defeat. The screams and laughter of her inmates, the faces of women she'll never see again.
It's three in the morning. The rain is fierce, and the air is dark and silent. She hums, hums a tune she's so familiar with, glances at her alarm clock, back to the ceiling. A bizarre sensation rattles through her: since her release, her freedom has been stolen. Now, the bars have set into the ground. Now, she's human again, struggling to balance on the rope of right and wrong; society, civilisation, people –– they are different. They are good, decent creatures which she cannot relate to.
Because she isn't a good, decent creature anymore. She never was.
Piper can't adjust. She shops for food, has a job selling books; she maintains an apartment all to herself. She's an adult, a person. And, despite her luxury, she misses the Hell she crawled out from. She misses the war of fists, the paranoia, the exhaustive fight for dominance. She misses the face of scarred, damaged women, and she misses the allies, the smiles, the plague of crime and hidden corruption.
There's someone at the door.
She pulls on her robe, and the rain continues to dance outside, tap tap tap, like a million footsteps, racing for salvation. At this time in the morning, she does not expect visitors. She never expects visitors. She doesn't have visitors. No one is welcome. Her old life abandoned, Piper is unfamiliar with visitors. But, despite this, she doesn't endure fear, doesn't endure surprise. She endures nothing but a warmth, a flood of heat, a rage of passion desperate to burst from her already trembling form.
It's been nearly a week, and Piper has waited.
They are forbidden to touch. A silent agreement they made together once their bleeding shoulders were relieved from their long, cruel, heavy sentence. They are forbidden to talk. An understanding they formed together. They cannot talk, they cannot touch, they cannot meet like this. For both of them, they should stay away, give each other distance. Start again.
But, Alex has always been her exception. Alex has always been her inevitable. Alex has always been.
Piper smiles. Steps back. She falls into Alex's arms, and they kiss, softly, long. Terrified of causing the other to bruise and break. Their hesitance is unnatural; they have never been hesitant and, yet, Piper cannot stand, she can't see, hear. Her skin is engraved by Alex's fingertips, her flesh bitten and kissed by the very woman who took Piper's hands and dipped them in blood. Alex's soft palms caress her, scale up the curve of her bare waist, push against her spine, and she pauses momentarily. They stop kissing –– they dare themselves to stop, and Piper looks at her in awe, curiosity, dread, fear. And Alex thinks, she hasn't changed a bit.
Because she knows that face, that wave of innocence and glee. It's how she first knew Piper. The day she met her. The graduate, the blonde, sweet girl who everyone adored. She knows that look, that smile, that glimmer in her eyes which Alex so effortlessly tore away.
... but Alex is different. She's older, she's aged, and she's exhausted.
Her face is pale, pink rings under her emerald eyes, and her lips are slightly chapped. Piper doesn't see much life left, doesn't see much hope, she doesn't see much of anything. But there is something –– something small. There's this defeat, this surrender. This unfathomable relief to be held by the only woman who matters to her. Her eyes hide a dark, unforgiving past which she is desperate to run away from. She does not find solace in her new apartment, she does not find solace outside the prison, she does not find solace in this temporary waste she has to call a life.
She has never looked more beautiful, though. Never more perfect, more alive. Piper can touch her, kiss her, and the touches and kisses she receives in return are not rehearsed with other women. It's all real; there are no secrets, no guilt and hatred and anger. Not only has Alex been stripped from her dignity, but also her pride. She doesn't hold back anymore. She's seventeen again –– nervous, a little awkward. The aggression is no longer a necessary element; it's vanished. She doesn't have to fight –– her armour is battered, dented, and she's finally thrown it aside. Piper is given what she has wanted for decades.
Her.
Just Alex.
No extra baggage, no drugs, no deceit, no control, no terror.
Just her.
The rain pours harder. Loud as it crashes against the walls, windows, the roof. Alex's jacket is soaked, and it falls to the floor. The heat from Piper is a chilling embrace, and her fingers, like flames, dancing, burn her already wounded body. They know where to touch each other; they know too well. Except, they don't have to rush, don't have to peer over their shoulder in fear of being caught. They don't hide. They are abandoned, unwanted, no longer acknowledged as people. It's come to the point where only Alex exists in Piper's mind, only Alex counts. Nothing else matters, no one else matters. There's only her, and them.
Another kiss.
Soft.
Piper tumbles; Alex follows.
Lips brush. Piper holds her face in her hands, whispers her name; her consent, her willingness to take her hand again, step right back into Hell. And she's trembling, clinging to her arms, nails digging into her skin as Alex takes her. They breathe, moan, whisper so many ridiculous, careless nothings. They erase the monsters that creep in the back of their minds, they erase the toxic words, slaps, yells. They erase everything cruel and bitter between them, and start again. They try.
Try.
Neither cease until they are sore, breathless; they don't cease until the sun rises and Alex has to leave.
A fracture. Alex shatters the cycle, leans over, brushes a strand of hair from Piper's eyes, curls it around her ear. Piper is motionless, but watches her, waiting, and they are completely open to one another. Vulnerable and fragile, two lost souls on the search for nothing. Alex kisses her cheek, then just below her earlobe, and reminds her what she is. Who she is. She reminds Piper she loves her, and there's a second when Piper sees that smirk, that smugness, that pride and reluctance to fight a battle she never wanted to face.
Piper can't find her words. So she kisses her, she holds her, she shows her.
The minutes pass. Alex dresses, and leaves the apartment without a word. The rain stops falling.
Next time, Piper will come to her.
.
.
.
Four days.
They make love wrapped in white sheets, bodies pressed together, hands squeezing, pulling. And by the end, Piper is crying.
There's no reason why. She just cries. Alex has triggered hundreds of emotions, and Piper is drowning. It's good to cry. It's healthy to cry. But she doesn't speak, she doesn't have any words left. She sits in Alex's laps, allows herself to be cradled, and she wipes her face with the sheets. It's okay to cry. To let it all come pouring out. It has to, eventually.
But the cycle repeats. Neither have the courage to say another word.
Piper's tears fall into their kisses.
A river flowing with haunting memories, hideous thoughts.
.
.
.
They don't request what they truly desire.
Once, Alex lingers in the morning. They shower together, cleanse themselves.
Sometimes, they kiss. But they don't talk. They don't have the freedom to; they're incapable. Ruined.
Torn.
Alex's mouth is hot; her tongue is sharp and wanting.
Piper exclaims, and everything collapses around her.
.
.
.
A Monday. They meet by chance.
Have coffee.
So simple. Normal.
They say little. Of course. Piper is just happy to watch her, to make sure Alex doesn't go anywhere. She desperately holds her gaze, searches for answers, for anything. But Alex has nothing to offer. Whatever she once had has been taken from her. Stolen. It's Piper who has to make a decision, a choice, but she can't do it.
Alex. Piper knows her best; intimately. She knows Alex better than she knows herself.
It's torture.
Everything is there. Every tiny detail.
The bullying, the exclusion, the disappointment of her father, the nightmares of the cartel, the abandonment of her mother, and Piper's betrayal.
Piper wants to make her forget it all. They're both surprised when Piper reaches over, grabs Alex's hand which rests on the table. They stop breathing, stare at the damage. Piper swallows. Blinks. Then, Alex stirs, slowly slips her hand away, but carefully touches her wrist. Confirming it's not personal, it's not Piper who's the problem here. It's never been Piper. Piper has never been the catalyst, the disease.
The prison has mutilated Alex's nature.
Both have tricked themselves into believing they prefer to live alone, away from one another. Horrified at the thought of hurting the other again, so fucking horrified.
Alex pauses. Their eyes meet. Piper feels weak, and she sighs.
There's so much to say.
Too little time.
.
.
.
She starts humming again.
A sweet, light tune.
The mug slips from her hand. Shatters.
Piper feels cold.
The song is familiar. One of her favourites.
Each lyric a crash to her skull, a pinch to her heart.
Verse-moi, verse-moi l'ivresse
Réponds à ma tendresse
Réponds à ma tendresse
Ahh, verse-moi l'ivresse.
A constant melody.
Reminding her.
I can't find the words to say
I belong to you.
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Three months.
It takes Piper three months to find her voice again. To recover. To heal.
It takes Piper three months to adapt.
Alex is dressed in nothing but a t-shirt, texting on her phone. Work. Casual work. Nothing suspicious. Just normal work, and it's bizarre, and lovely, and atrocious to witness her working.
But Piper treasures that moment, watching her type. Watching her humanity peek through.
Alex looks at her. Stops. She'll be leaving in less than twenty minutes. Following the usual routine. Doing what they both assume is best.
Piper comes forward. Kisses her lips. Bare, naked, and vulnerable.
She pulls back, runs her fingers through Alex's hair. Sees every little detail, every little piece. The mischief, solicitude, agony. Deceptive confidence, glorified lordship, the crooked smile, and smooth façade. The lies, pleas, and cruel vengeance.
The seventeen year old. Alex, before the cartel, before her father. Before. Uncertain, awkward, curious, and thirsty for rebellion.
But it's all her.
Finally, Piper finds her voice.
'Stay.'
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