.
.
One blink and Sara vanishes out into the hallway, her sequin and ruffle-tiered skirt no longer hiked up her thigh. She's nothing more than a green-glittering phantom lingering behind Mila's eyelids.
Mila races over to the noise of shocked, obscenely loud laughter, tossing her stale beer into one of the men's faces and not pausing to savor the moment. Outside of the dance floor, there's a set of stairs leading out of the interior hallway. Bright white in florescent bulbs and twinkling, pretty string-lights. Each step has a row of four license-plates nailed on it. Different regions and countries.
The night air feels cool and blows howling against her sweaty, flushed cheeks. Mila pushes wide the door, escaping out of the fancy European club without being followed and adjusting her turquoise-and-white striped tube top. Otabek saw it too — he would take care of any further problems, she's sure.
Pale moonbeams reflect upon the ocean like thickened, churning shards of glass, tunneled in the mist and blackness. Down the beach, she spots Sara by the lapping water, illuminated by her cellphone. A multitude of platinum-braided necklaces with accents like cherries and beads dangling from Sara's throat. Most of Sara's dark peach lipstick smeared messily all over her mouth and chin.
"… How's your brother?" Mila asks, joining her, noticing that Sara is concentrating on her texts.
"Mickey wants to come out here and get me…" Sara peers up, offering a slow and sad smile to Mila. Her velvety, black hair drifting over Sara's thin features. "I told him… you were putting me to bed."
"That's probably a good idea, Sara."
Even if the female skating competition has ended, Mila doesn't think allowing Sara to drink more tequila shots would be a great idea. Now would be the time to rest on the hotel bed and drink a lot of water. There's a flight at nine in the morning and the hangover alone will render Sara completely useless.
Mila's fingers wrap around Sara's upper arm, keeping her upright. "Fuck… all of them," she tells Mila, those large, violet eyes glaring. "Fuck all of them in there. But fuck that… stronzo."
Said stronzo and his pals were looking for a good time, and Sara rarely goes quiet while intoxicated. She flirts excessively and throws herself at strangers for hugs and kisses and validation. It is exactly how Sara found herself with her miniskirt being lifted by some guy's hands and exposing her matching, green-glittering thong. Him and his friends wolf-whistled at her brown, muscular thighs and then gaped at the rest of her, backing off and yelling and sneering. Calling Sara harsh, ugly names.
Mila remembers that Sara has not fully gotten her surgery as a transgender woman. It shouldn't matter.
"I know," Mila whispers dully, tugging on Sara's hand, leading her off the beach.
They don't make it far, as Sara suddenly digs her bare toes into the fine, pearly sand, clumsily tripping. She dumps her weight onto Mila's front and giggles, nuzzling noses, dragging down Mila's hand in hers. Mila feels her brain disconnect as her own palm rubs against the hardening, hot mound between Sara's legs.
"Mmmn…" she hums out, thrusting her hips lazily between them. "Mmila…"
God, this… this is fucked. It's probably the alcohol, but Mila has secretly wished for years that Sara would notice the pining. The longing gazes. That Sara being her a closest friend is only a step away from being a lover to Mila. It doesn't matter how Sara's body looks. Dick, pussy, surgery scars… she just wants Sara.
Sara's breasts heave against hers. Mila swallows, closing her eyes and gathering her wits, pulling their hands apart. "You're drunk," she says softly, helping a bleary-eyed Sara walk by holding onto her waist.
"M'not…"
"Yeah, you are." Sara's pout faintly touches to Mila's chapped lips, when Mila bravely attempts a short, sweet kiss. Sara returns it, meekly and wet with her tongue sliding over Mila's upper lip. Hell. "You are drunk…and wonderful… and nobody deserves you," Mila declares, grinning shyly and hugging Sara's waist tighter.
"… I do." Sara hesitates by the concrete walkway, towards the highway, grasping onto Mila's forearm. "I do deserve th'you deserve me," she mumbles, looking adorably serious about this jumbled thought.
Mila's laughter rises, falls to the ocean's crystalline-black waves.
.
.
YOI isn't mine. HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! IT IS ME,,, A TRANS,,,,, POSTING A TRANS FIC. This goes back to my headcanon of Sara being trans and a lesbian and I wanted something focusing on Mila this time being a supportive and romantic friend. I think it's important to face reality for trans people even in fiction. But of course make a happy/hopeful ending! We deserve that! Thank you for reading this and any comments/thoughts are deeply appreciated! Today's official Femslash February is "White" and the challenge prompt I ended up with is "Not Giving Up On Love" which is perfect for Valentine's! Aaaaah!