A/N: A four-shot inspired by my insensate board revisions; a weekend down at Battersea; a visit to my Gran's at Clapham; fellow author, Osito_Panda; a Tumblr and Twitter prompt by fellow author, TheLittleRipper; a brief, toxic love affair; an entire bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut; and, most importantly—

R. McKinley's contemporary masterpiece: '8 Ways to Say I Love You.' If you haven't read this yet, there is a portion of your soul that has yet to be filled. It is arguably the most beautiful thing I've ever read. It's on ThoughtCatalog! Go there now. Yes. Yes.

Also, I absolutely love the song, 'Police Report' by the VelcroBrothers; its brevity speaks volumes, yeah? Listen to it ;)


Peripeteia

1. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night's clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.


Emily stumbles into the living room; fingers splayed, blindly groping the wall in hopes of miraculously flicking the light switch on. She grins a little when she succeeds, a giggle bubbling up her throat when she realizes Katie's already passed out on the couch. She realizes she's got nowhere to collapse on, a beat later, and her lips curl downward instead—she laughs again, a little louder this time, when she feels her facial muscles tauten into a frown.

In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't one of her finest ideas: getting shit-faced with Katie's new boyfriend and her string of cronies—they were never her friends, not really; they're all Katie's and she's okay with it, really—and on a school night to boot. She's sure she's had better ideas, ones that don't involve incurring massive, skull-shattering hangover-induced migraines in the morning.

But the evening had been worth it though; she feels her cheeks grow warm at the thought. True, they hadn't exactly shared a halfway decent conversation, never making it past the pleasantries and hesitant greetings before the air around them coalesced into palpable tension; and yes, maybe they didn't exactly have eye-contact; and okay, maybe, just maybe she spent the entire night avoiding her despite the fact that Emily made a conscious effort to keep her in sight at all times.

But, Emily thought cheerily, we definitely held hands for a bit, there. And she definitely looked at me. For a bit.

She grips the back of the couch for support and kicks off her heels, watching amusedly as they fly across the room in short, parabolic arcs before hitting the wall opposite with a heavy thud. She grimaces as she curls her toes; without a doubt there'll be blisters on her feet again by tomorrow morning. Katie sleeps like the dead on nights like these, oblivious to the fact that her mouth is wide open and her drool drips onto the throw pillow. If Emily had so chosen, she could've easily taken her sister down a peg or two: it would be far too easy to snap a photo and make it viral on the Internet.

She's sorely tempted, but she doesn't do it. Partly because she's too busy trying to ignore the growing ache throbbing at the base of her skull. Katie turns over, rolls onto her back and mumbles in her sleep. It sounds—suspiciously enough—like, 'Ems.' Emily turns back and glances at her sister. Katie's cracked open an eye and tries, futilely, to prop herself up on an elbow to speak to her. She fails however, and falls back onto the cushions, groaning loudly.

"Fucking shit," she hisses through clenched teeth, fingertips pressing deeply against her temples. "Fuck. Ems, mum called me an hour ago. Completely forgot about it. They've arrived at Gran's in Glasgow; she says you should call her. She's got something important to say. Fuck knows what it is though."

Katie's slurring so badly, it's a miracle Emily understands her at all. But she does, and nods mutely in lieu of a proper reply. She doesn't trust herself to speak either. Katie lolls back onto the couch and curls her legs towards her body, snuggling into the cushions. "Don't wait up for James, yeah?" she mutters sleepily. "He's staying at his little wanker-friend's place tonight. Greg, George, Godwin—Christ, what's the bloody knob's name again?"

"Gordon," Emily croaks. She's fairly sure it's Gordon. "Gordon McPherson."

"Whatever," Katie waves a dismissive hand and rolls over, pressing her forehead against the back of the couch. "Call mum before you go to bed, or she'll have my fucking head, bitch." It's the last thing Katie says for awhile; Emily murmurs back a, 'Good night,' simply because it's Katie's way of saying so. It's been years since they've said something so familial, so domestic, to each other.

Emily staggers into the kitchen, swaying on her feet unsteadily. She pauses beside the phone for a bit, hands clutching the edge of the countertop so tightly, her knuckles turn white. She wills the world to stop spinning, for the twin-phones before her to blur back into one. It takes a while, but soon, the world is right-side up again. She takes a breath and presses the button on the machine, waiting for the inevitable beep after the click, indicating a message. It blinks twice—two fucking messages, she sighs tiredly—and she sags against the counter, head on her hands, not entirely pleased at the prospect of listening to her mother's voice before bed.

"Emily!" her mother's voice is laced with ill-disguised excitement; she can't repress the shiver that runs down her spine when she remembers the reason why they decided to fly back to Glasgow in the first place: a romantic getaway sans honeymoon. Fucking anniversaries.

She listens to a full four-and-a-half-minutes worth of senseless prattle about the joys of country living, her father's accidental discovery of a whiskey distillery beside a cemetery, and the horribly, depressingly, tragic tale of an old biddy who died yesterday.

"She was only sixty-four, love! What is an aneurism anyway?"

She nearly falls asleep—she nods at her mother's words blearily, briefly forgetting she can't be seen anyway. Her mother concludes the message with a sermon: she needs the bills paid by tomorrow morning, and no, Katie can't be bothered to do them because she's having a spa day. Her mother mumbles a breathless I love you before hastily hanging upand she doesn't want to think about why her mother would have any reason to be breathless at all, even if she is on her fucking annual anniversary trip.

She's so sleepy she's tempted to unplug the machine to stop it from doling another message, but it blinks and beeps before she lifts a finger to do so. She sighs heavily and runs a palm down her cheek slowly, relishing the feel of her own skin.

"Emily!"

She freezes and jolts to full awareness. She knows that voice; would recognize it, even if she was held at gunpoint and asked to listen to a muffled recording of it back-masked. Her breath catches in her throat, her pulse thunders hard under the skin of her neck. She suddenly feels hot all of a sudden; the buzz is better than alcohol.

"Emily! Hi. You got a moment? 'Course you do. You're fucking listening to me right now, aren't you? So, don't stop."

She had no intention of doing so, whatsoever.

"Listen—"

She is. Oh, she is.

"You know how Monica Anwhistle brought vodka to Jonathan—" Emily can hear the hesitation in her voice, can see her brows creased together in thought, can imagine her frustration as she struggles to remember an elusive memory. "—Jonathan Har—Jonathan Grif—Jonathan Isr—Oh, Jesus, fuck it. Jonathan's housewarming party, three years back? We played spin-the-bottle in the basement, d'you remember?"

She laughs quite suddenly, because she does remember. Katie lost a thong that night, and she had to sacrifice her favorite cardigan to salvage whatever was left of her sister's dignity.

"We were halfway through the game when it landed on you. Oliver fucking Davies' turn, then. D'you remember?"

She does. She closes her eyes briefly to bring the memory closer, however unpleasant it was. She remembers what it felt like—the right pressure, wrong pair of lips.

"He was so fucking ecstatic. Perverted bastard had a fucking twin fetish; dream come true, the wanker. I thought you'd say no—" there's scrambling on the other end of the line, a sort of shuffling. Silence for a few seconds, and then, "—D'you know I looked for him after the party? I fucking did! Hunted the tosser down, y'know? Found him groping Monica in the upstairs toilet, his hand shoved up her skirt. I smashed a bottle of cooler on his head, can't remember a time I ever got that fucking mad again. Because you deserve better, you know? Emily, you fucking deserve better. So much better."

She draws the machine a little closer and leans down. Leans down until her nose touches the cold plastic. She closes her eyes.

"Ems—" someone grabs the phone from the other end and starts garbling into it. Somebody laughs, the bass from the music thumping heavily in the background. A few seconds later, the slurring resumes.

"—Christ! Oh, shit. SHIT. Um, wait—FUCK! Oh. OH. Okay. There. Emily?" Emily nods softly, her nose sliding against the plastic. "Ems?" a little softer than before. Emily's heart starts beating a frenetic rhythm.

"Ems, I don't know why I was so fucking mad at him that night!" Laughter on the other end, loud and long and clear—and adorable, she thinks briefly. "But you'd be mad too, right? If a complete, top-shelf tosser started dissing like a fucking bastard? Jesus, please. Monica fucking Anwhistle to Emily Fitch—there's no bloody contest, is there?"

Emily's heart stills, and it sinks. Lower, and lower, and lower, until she feels it settling at the bottom of her gut. It hurts: her insecurities resurface. Monica Anwhistle was drop-dead gorgeous. There really was no fucking contest. She'd won, hands down. College muse in her sophomore year; stuff of fucking legends.

"She's a stereotypical cliché, Emily. Oliver Davies is a complete knob. A total dicksplash. You're perfect. Monica Anwhistle can't hold a fucking candle to you. She's hot, I'll grant you that. But you're beautiful." Emily screws her eyes shut and tries to focus on breathing properly.

"Why he'd want to be with anyone else is beyond me. But then, that's an idiot for you, really." Emily leans closer, the voice is softer now. Gentler. More intimate. She imagines her pushing her way past people, staggering past the club's double doors to collapse against the brick wall outside.

"You want to know why I got so fucking mad that night, Ems? You want to know why I've hated him all these years?"

There's silence on the other end. It stretches uncomfortably long. Emily can still hear breathing, though. A few seconds later, she hears the tell-tale slosh of liquid slapping the insides of a glass bottle—vodka, she thinks bemusedly. She imagines the bottle tipping back, the liquid searing down her throat, the phone dangling limply at her side, temporarily forgotten.

"Because I fucking wanted—"

A sigh. She feels it with every fiber of being, and she sighs inaudibly back.

"—To kiss you."

There it is. Emily's eyes fly open, and she staggers back in shock. She picks the machine up and stares at it, incredulous. Her heart's pounding so hard in her chest, she's rendered breathless. There is no room for coherent thought; there is only the inexplicable bliss of that simple admission.

It is enough.

But, she's not yet finished, not quite. Emily knows this, because soon, she hears sniffling on the other end. She's crying, she realizes with a start. She lays the machine back on the counter and grips the edge of the granite with trembling fingers.

"—I'm sorry. I just—Ems, I—Fuck. Fuck. Emily—"

The message crackles with static and noise. She can imagine her tipping her head back against the wall, tears streaming down her face, the phone clutched tight in a hand numb with cold. Emily can hear footsteps and a loud crack; the phone slips from her fingers, she thinks. There are voices, raised voices and then the phone is most likely picked up again, but the static is so thick, Emily can only hear bits and pieces of her sentences.

Fragments.

"—There is so—I can't really say—Emily, you know I do—But, I can't—So many fucking—You can't ask it of—There's only—A lot then, you—You're—And you know—But I—Shit, then, if I can't, but it's fucking true, believe me—"

"I love you."

The message ends there, and the machine blinks again. Emily stares hard at it, immobile and silent. She lifts a finger to scratch at a spot on her chin and feels wetness instead—she realizes she's crying. She doesn't like it, though. Not really.

She ducks down swiftly and unplugs the machine from the wall. She winds the cord in her fist tightly and steps outside the kitchen door, and onto the front drive. She drops the machine, phone, cord and all, into the trash and slams the lid down harshly. Emily collapses against it a moment later and begins to cry, great heaving sobs. She crams a fist into her mouth to stifle the sound, careful not to wake Katie.

She's endured nearly everything Naomi's thrown her way—scathing looks and brash remarks, sarcastic quips and biting comments. And those eyes. Those infinitely cold eyes. She's sorry she ever thought they could ever hold anything else other than contempt for her. She chastises herself for being so delusional.

But of all the things she's put up with, this is one thing she won't take.

Because believing would be foolishness; because hoping would be masochistic and cruel. Infinitely cruel. And if it was a lie—

Emily takes a deep, shuddering breath and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, hard. Not tonight, she thinks. Not tonight.

Tomorrow, she'll have to think of a plausible alibi to explain the sudden absence of the phone, and the landline cord to boot. She digs the heel of her palms against her temples to stem the painful throbbing behind her ears.

That is, if she remembers tonight at all.


Caesura

2. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don't even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.


In times like these, Naomi forgets to breathe—forgets that the simple act of forcing air into her lungs is a homeostatic obligation of the body, an inexorable function of her visceral organs, and not an oppressive conspiratorial bid to deny her the pleasures of the moment; this moment, with Emily.

She can never say what it is, really, even when Cook presses her for vivid details in the middle of the night, a half-empty bottle of gin between them and a brow raised suggestively at her, because she doesn't understand it either. She can never bring herself to fully explain the why's-and-wherefores of loving Emily Fitch, and the sheer, inexplicable breathlessness that consumes her when she looks at her, can't understand why she evolves into a stuttering mute at the mere mention of the latter.

Cook finds her perplexity endearing—and humorous—at the same time. It irritates her. "Look 'ere," he stage-whispers conspiratorially. "Sometimes you don't need words, yeah? Sometimes they get in the way. Make you look like a downright presumptuous prick, and no one really likes a fucker. She's got your knickers in a twist, let's leave it at that." He lifts the bottle to his lips and swallows an entire mouthful.

He grimaces and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "What do I say, then?" she very nearly snarls; she's not feeling so good tonight, and the alcohol's beginning to sear through her veins. It's doing nothing to help her temper. Cook glances at her amusedly, "Nothing. She knows, princess. She's a smart one, your bird."

She freezes then, and pales. Cook drinks another mouthful, pretends not to notice.


She realizes then, that she lives for moments like these. Emily sighs into her mouth, fingers threading tightly through her hair. She lets her forehead rest on the cool skin of Emily's shoulder and presses a kiss there. Emily begins to say something, her voice soft and insistent, but she can't quite hear properly.

Who can hear anything over the pounding of their heart, really?

"Fuck!" she cries, throwing the textbook across the room. It hits the dresser with a dull thunk and flutters open, the spine cracking to accommodate the odd asymmetry of an open book, glossy pages folded and creased. A warm breeze blows through the open window and rustles the pages feebly. She bites back another irritated curse and settles for a scowl.

Sociology and politics was one thing, economics—on the other hand—was another. She can't understand what equilibrium has to do with anything, why the demand and supply curves needed to meet at a coincidental point in the graph to verify the schedule. She rips another page off her notebook and starts scribbling again with renewed vigor. Fucking floor price, she thinks.

The government acts as the consumer to purchase the surplus; in contrast, the price ceiling serves another function, in that the government becomes the supplier—

She crumples it tightly in her fist and throws it across the room, feeling a little pleased with her aim when it lands next to the textbook. She runs a hand through her hair, de-tangling snarls along the way. Quite suddenly, she finds herself craving a cigarette. She jumps off the bed and pulls open the top drawer of her bedside table; she fumbles about for a bit until her fingers find a tin case. She shakes it out on the bed and frowns when all it contains is a single rolled spliff.

Still, it's something, she thinks gratingly. She places it between her lips carefully and flicks her thumb over the lighter's ignition. She takes a deep, satisfied pull on it and collapses backward on the bed.

That's more fucking like it.


Emily finds her an hour later, completely stoned, the spliff dangling from a corner of her mouth. They stare at each other unblinkingly until Naomi cracks a deliciously languorous smile and stretches out a hand towards her in invitation. Emily smiles back slowly, hesitantly, and twines their fingers. Naomi grins lopsidedly and tugs on her hand until she stumbles forward and lands on her knees on the mattress. She kicks off her flats and shrugs off her parka, letting it drop to the floor. Naomi scoots over and pulls, rearranges herself until Emily's settled against her comfortably, her head tucked into the crook of her neck, an arm wrapped tightly about her waist.

"You promised you'd lay off until exams were done." She doesn't miss the disappointment lacing Emily's tone and sighs, theatrically. "Hopeless case, Ems. I've been making graphs all day—they just don't fucking fit. Can't fucking understand."

They're quiet for awhile, relishing the sound of each other's breathing. Naomi puffs little smoke rings, takes care not to blow down directly into Emily's face. "Right, then," Emily says decidedly and sits up. She takes the spliff from Naomi and takes a pull before stubbing it out against the headboard.

"Up you get," she grins, pulling Naomi to her feet. Naomi looks at her nonplussed, "What the fuck, Emily?" She watches as her lover saunters across the room and retrieves the fallen textbook, mouth falling open in horror when she sees the page Emily's dog-eared for convenience.

"You can't be fucking serious."

"No one in the world can teach you better, and you know it."


Three hours later, Naomi can distinguish the difference in surplus-shortage supply curves. She's overtly pleased with herself for finally understanding, but she's even prouder of Emily who sat across from her on the carpet for a solid three hours, drawing graph after graph until she could grasp the importance of labeling the miniscule dots E1 and 2 with confident finality.

She knows she should be listening (she already feels guilty for taking her eyes off the notebook, but even so), but she's given Emily her undivided attention for three straight hours, and she can't find it in herself to not look at something infinitely more interesting.

Her mouth falls open a little when she chances a glance: Emily's taken to worrying her lower lip between her teeth, her brows furrowed in concentration. Her cheeks are flushed a warm pink, and her fingers proceed to dismantle the double-ended highlighter, from cap to ink-capsule. She doesn't appear to notice when the capsule bursts and spills bright neon orange all over her palms; she chooses, at that inappropriate moment, to scratch along her brow. Naomi watches wide-eyed as her hands leave bright neon streaks across her forehead.

She chokes back a laugh, and fails.

Emily breaks free from her reverie and glances up at her curiously; Naomi notes the stark contrast in colors (the highlighter and the red of her hair. Fucking hilarious) and bursts into laughter. She collapses into a hysterical fit of giggles, and Emily finds her frown deepening by the minute.

"You still taking the piss, Naoms?" she asks, a little testily. Naomi struggles to speak, splutters instead. "Ems—Oh, Ems—!" she jabs a finger at her forehead and laughs even harder. Emily swipes the back of her hand along her brow and glances, incredulous, at the stain she finds there. The orange spreads instead, staining her other brow as well. Naomi heaves herself upright again and stares at her instead.

Emily sighs a while later, "I've made it a whole lot worse, I think. I can feel it. It's beginning to itch. Shit." She reaches up to soothe the uncomfortable pricking, but Naomi's fingers wrap around her wrist.

"No," Naomi whispers, awed. "You're beautiful, Ems." And she is. Christ, she really is. Emily peers at her through her curtain of hair and smiles shyly. They meet halfway—

Naomi kisses her gently, hands coming up to tangle in her hair, bringing her closer. Emily presses against her harder, desperate for contact, nearly climbing into her lap in her eagerness. Very carefully, she traces along Naomi's bottom lip with a tongue. Naomi pulls back a bit and kisses her harder, mouth opening against hers. She feels hands slipping under her top, sliding across her stomach, up her ribs, nails scratching against her back. She shudders, breathless. Without warning, she wraps her arms about Emily's thighs and lifts her. Emily squeaks in surprise and laughs as Naomi struggles to get to her feet.

It is the longest six seconds of her life, but she manages to get Emily onto the bed.

She realizes the effort is worth it.


She presses her lips to Emily's frantically, effectively silencing her screams. She swallows the sound and screws her eyes tightly: Emily's nails are scratching long furrows against her back, and it is, indubitably, painful. But, this is the moment she lives for—and so she pulls back and watches. She curls her arm around Emily's waist and waits until she finally stops arching off the bed before lowering her gently onto the sheets. Her hair fans out like fire against the pillows, and her eyes are half-lidded in tearful ecstasy.

She's never seen anything more beautiful. She leans back down and kisses her, open-mouthed, but gently. Emily smiles into the kiss, and—

"Jesus! Oh, fuck—" she feels her walls tighten around Emily's fingers, and, and, and, and—"Emily! Oh, oh, Christ, Ems."

She comes so hard she sees stars, her shoulder nicking Emily's lip. She tries to apologize, but all coherent thought leaves her. Emily pulls her down for a kiss and she feels tears prick her eyes.

It slips down her cheeks and into the corners of her lips when she whispers an honest confession into Emily's mouth.

"I love you. Jesus, I fucking love you."

Emily pulls back and presses her forehead against hers, gently running the tip of her nose along her jaw and back. "Yeah?" she chuckles softly, nipping the skin at the base of her throat.

Naomi represses a shudder, tries—and fails—to stop herself from being aroused, again. "Yeah," she whispers, tangling their fingers together. "I kind of fucking adore you. Crazy, really. God knows why." Emily laughs, really laughs, and pulls her tighter, closer.

"Because I am irrefutably perfect, obviously."

Naomi rolls her eyes and lets it slide, settles instead for pressing her face against Emily's warm neck and smiles. She knows its true, but still:

"Whatever."


A/N: Thank you, TheLittleRipper, for the personal prompt. I'm really enjoying this. Hope you all are too!

Leave me a little something? I'll love you if you do, you know. ;)

- Guppy