Waves Know Shores

by quincindentaldreams

Tegan and Sara struggle to come to terms with the unavoidable. A telling of trials and tribulations throughout a career that's just as constricting as the connection shared between them. Will they find a way to keep their heads above water, or is the pull truly unforgiving?

1. One

It's freezing this time of year in Portland, not as bad as Calgary or Montreal, but definitely cold enough to make me wish I took a blow dryer to my hair before stepping out into the frigid morning breeze. I huff a cloud of hot breath into the icy air, juggling a steaming cup of coffee and my keys, while trying to shove my Blackberry and wallet into their rightful pockets and lock the front door. It's times like these I wish I could drive. The twenty minute walk is sure to kill me, and if I wasn't so terrified of looking like a moron, I would have hitched a ride on Emy's bike when she left earlier to meet Tegan for coffee.

I all but demanded that Emy stay with Tegan and I while recording this album, not in the general mood to deal with Tegan's emotions once she gets the chance to process her feelings after listening to the cynical and cryptic songs I've written about her. While sending recordings to each other over the last year, I've barely had much of a response back to my songs. The texts were never any longer than: "sounds good", "write a bridge" or "use the Gretsch, not the Les Paul". I haven't even seen her since she arrived in Portland, being that Emy and I were already in bed when she flew in from Los Angeles. I didn't get a response from her when I messaged her telling of Emy's extended stay, either. I assume that means she doesn't give a shit.

From what I can hear in the songs she's sent me, she's still heartbroken from the blow out fight we had after touring for So Jealous, when she found out I was seeing our art director Emy, which I fully expected. I'd only seen Tegan's face so heartbroken one other time—the day I left her and our house to move to Quebec. Even Mum was angry at me, though she doesn't know why we fought, she knows it was bad. Making it three people in the 'fuck Sara' club, including myself.

Synchronicity kicks in and my mother's ring tone goes off from the phone that I just finished stuffing into my pocket.

"Fucking hell," I mutter, exhausted from the key getting jammed in the door and only having two hands to get myself situated. I sit my coffee down on the porch rail, fishing my phone out of my hoodie.

"Good morning, Mum." I pause to catch my breath and rip the key out of the door knob.

"Hey Sara, are you girls finally moved in?" I can't tell if she's talking about me and Emy or me and Tegan.

"Emy and I got in 'round 6 yesterday, yeah. I'm not sure when Tegan flew in, but she's definitely here. She left the kitchen a fucking mess this morning." I fuss, finally making my way onto the street. God, I hope it doesn't rain when I'm coming home tonight. I don't have the money for a cab.

"Sara. . ." Mum's voice falls with disapproval. "You two are nearly 27 years old. She's your sister. . . you two used to love each other."

"I'm aware, Mum. Trust me, I'm fully aware." I sigh with her.

"Just take care of yourself, Sara. Take care of Tegan. You guys need each other."

"Mum, don't-"

"I'm serious, Sara. I don't want to hear any reports about you two fighting. Try listening to each other instead of arguing. I love you. Give Tegan and Emy my love. Don't drink a lot of alcohol. Get enough sleep." Mum lists her orders, one after another, without taking a breath. Then adds, "Remember what I said. I'll talk to you later, sweetheart!"

I huff and push my sunglasses up so I can rub my eyes. "Bye, Mum. I love you too." I respond to silence on the end of the line.

The walk to the studio is soothing, but not soothing enough to calm my anxiety. I haven't seen Tegan in a year—what if she shaved her head again?

What if she completely avoids talking to me?

What if she doesn't love me anymore?

I feel the bile rise in my stomach at the thought of that. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm supposed to be over this. Completely fucking over this. I'm so angry at the world.

Two knocks on the green door of the studio-slash-house and Emy's opening it for me, with that massive adorable smile. I brush my feet on the doormat and set my bag down, moving to give her a quick kiss. I can't see over Emy's shoulder to know if Tegan is sitting on the couch or not, but I hear Chris's voice coming from the right of me in what I assume to be the kitchen.

"Is that my favorite Quin?" He laughs, making it hard to contain my giddiness at the fact that Chris Walla is producing our record.

"Oh fuck off, Chris!" Her voice.

I'm simultaneously anxious and calm all at once. She's in the kitchen too, not following Chris when he comes around the corner to hug me. I see Angela's camera filming me for the video chapters we've decided to record and release with the albums. I remember to put on my mask—something that I still have trouble doing whenever I'm around Tegan and other people. My thoughts turn dark, reminding me of how sick I am and how shitty this life I've been born into is.

Then she's rounding the corner and for the first time in a year I feel safe. I feel at ease. I feel okay. For the first goddamn time. How fucked up is that? How fucked up am I?

Chris lets go of me, but Emy's hand is still resting on the small of my back and suddenly I'm overwhelmed. The air is too hot, even though the door is open, allowing winter to come in. There's too many people around me and she's looking at me, blank faced.

"Tegan this is Sara, Sara meet Tegan." Chris jokes, making everyone laugh and get back to their business.

I don't laugh, choosing instead to swallow down my guilt and self hatred. I try to ignore the magnet pulling us together. The way her eyebrows are low on her face tells me nothing, they're so void of any emotion. Except hurt. She realizes the look on my face is one I give before a panic attack, thanks to our life we've spent together. Emy doesn't even recognize it, she never will, no one will ever see me the way Tegan does and I damn myself because of that. Suddenly she's there and I watch as her right arm swings over my shoulder, Emy's arm is pulling away to make room for Tegan, and now she's hugging me. To calm me down. To keep people from asking why Sara's having a panic attack two seconds after she seemed fine. And there it is, her smell. In an instant, I am every bit content and disgusted with myself. It takes about three seconds for me to pull away from her—I'll drown if I stay.

I pry myself out of the hug like the selfish monster that I am, turning my face away from her and shrugging out of the embrace. I mean who else greedily uses someone for their comfort then rejects it? I peek at her face as I walk towards the kitchen, and no one else would be able to visibly see the way Tegan feels right now but because of that goddamn twin thing, it doesn't go unnoticed and it doesn't go unfelt. We feel it as one.

Hurt.

All Tegan ever does is feel fucking hurt thanks to my fumbling hands and my careless actions. The disappointment flashes in her eyes for a mere second, a slow blink, but in my head it lasts for hours.

I need a valium. A drink. A cigarette. A joint. A normal fucking life would be nice.

Two hours later and we're in the basement, getting ready to record vocals for one of Tegan's songs—Are You Ten Years Ago. I don't remember listening to this one. Did she not send me an mp3 of it to me? Fuck. Do I remember listening to one with this title?

Chris presses a button in the sound booth, I'm on the couch behind him, watching Tegan step to the microphone and clear her throat. Another button is pressed and a drum track comes on and I lift my brows in confusion. A drum track? She's about to sing to a beat?

Her eyes are closed and I watch, two fingers pressed to my chin as I listen to the intro—I am taken I am yours, I'm up and doing circles. I am taken, I am yours. I'm up and doing circles.

As the first verse falls in, my heart drops to my stomach and breaks into a million little pieces. God, I knew she would do this. I saw it coming. I caused it and I knew from listening to the mp3's that every one of her songs on this album were ever so discreetly written about me, but it puts her heartbreak into another perspective when I'm listening to it. It's raw and haunting, telling too. Telling to me. Telling me how badly the hole in her chest hurts, and how badly she's needing the one who caused it to stitch it up and mend it again.

She's grabbing at her headphones to belt out the chorus again, using her left hand to pull her shirt away from her chest. I cross my legs. Will I be able to sit through this every day without killing myself?

I notice Emy walk into the room and sit next to me, also noticing Angela's massive video camera pointed to Tegan and not me. Good. The room is closing in again. I need water and fresh air.

"I'm gonna step out for a second and get some air on the porch. Come get me when Chris says it's my turn to record backing vocals." She smiles and nods, enjoying the process of watching us record. On my way out, I steal one of Chris's menthols and his lighter from the living room coffee table, hoping a cigarette will get me through the rest of the day.

I leave the studio right at nine, an hour early, muttering something about a headache and kissing Emy on the way out. We usually start to wind down around nine and gather in the living room to discuss tomorrow's game plan. I chose to dodge it, knowing it would open the door to Tegan saying more than two words to me. Not wanting to deal with her comments on my weight loss or the fact that I need to be more cheerful while filming. I also got the panicking news that Emy will have to fly back to Montreal in two days due to a last minute deadline. Although I love her work ethic, I feel like I'm suffocating. Without Emy at the house, I have no excuse to avoid Tegan and the inevitable.

I use the spare dollar bills I found in my bag to get a cab back to the house, not wanting to walk in the pouring rain and opting out of the bus while I'm alone in an unfamiliar city. I need a glass of whiskey, a bath, and a nap. I give the address to the driver and buckle in, pulling my hoodie tighter around my waist and leaning my head against the cool hard glass of the cab. He's pulling up to the house in less than five minutes, snatching the ones out of my hand for the fare. I shuffle my way out of the cab and up the stairs, tears leaking out of my eyes at my life and what I've done to myself. I find myself in the kitchen, crying and searching for the bottle of scotch Emy bought for me yesterday. I screw the cap off and take a large swig. Fuck the glass, I'll drink from the bottle tonight.

Just as the warmth settles into the pit of my tummy, I hear the front door open. My head hangs as I set the bottle down on the counter, praying that it's Emy and not Tegan. Or at least Emy and Tegan. I watch as a lone tear hits the black granite countertop.

"Oh, you're here." I hear her voice from behind me. Another tear on the countertop. Day one and my resolve is already out of the fucking window. I don't respond, silently begging that she'll leave me alone.

"Angela and Emy are going to get some beer for us after they finish creating the set for the Forest Fones. We're going to film the 'Are You Ten Years Ago' episode tonight in the basement."

Basement? I was unaware this place had a basement. I also thought we were going to start filming tomorrow. I reach for the bottle again and bring it to my lips, taking an even bigger swig before turning around to face her. My fingers fumble to screw the cap on.

"Okay," I mumble, finally looking up at her through my lashes. She's taken her jacket off by the door I assume, leaving her in just a plain grey sweater. I see a white t-shirt underneath the v-neck collar. I see too much of her skin for my sanity to function properly.

"Are you sure that you want to be drunk when we're filming?" Her eyes fall in disapproval, picking at something underneath her nails.

I sigh, already over this conversation. "I'm not getting drunk. I'm having a drink."

Her eyes meet mine, as if she instantaneously knows that I'm lying. Which she probably does. Which only makes me angrier, sick of knowing that someone knows me as much as I know myself.

"You don't drink scotch just to have a drink, Sara." I sigh again. "I've met someone," she says quickly, quietly, still fumbling with her fingers. Breaking me down with three measly words, I feel my knees buckle, uncontrollably.

The hole in my chest grows an inch, and I feel it ripping and tearing as it burns like the paper of a cigarette. It's an indescribable sadness, the feeling you get in your chest when you see a car wreck. Like watching your house burn down. Completely and utterly indescribable. My gaze is clouded over, the dam about to break as I lift the bottle up to my lips again. I force the strong liquor down in one, two, three gulps before she's in my face and taking the bottle away. She backs up to her original place before she silently puts the cap back on.

I'm back in the same panicked headspace from when we were nineteen and she's in my room, broken down in the midst of a panic attack on the floor, after telling me about the way she felt for me and getting rejected. I was sure she was going to die that night as I stood there motionless, watching her gasp for the air that wasn't in her lungs. Fear had frozen me, fear has frozen me. For the third time today, I feel like dying.

"She and I aren't seeing each other, though." She near whispers, I see sadness cross her face as she tells me her situation. The hole grows back half an inch in my chest, like watching a tornado on the news as it lifts back up into the sky, ending the destruction.

I've never in my life felt as far away from her as I do at the moment. I stay silent and watch her. I couldn't speak to her if I tried. The hurt I held on my face must have left me, traveling down through my body and out of my feet onto the floor, only to move into her and through her veins, into her face, the face we share. Unlike me, she has never had the restraint to keep tears at bay. I find myself wanting to reach for her, instantly reminded of the look she held as she watched me leave the house we shared. I wonder how many times I've disappointed her in my lifetime. I wonder if she remembers them all or if each new happening is a brand new form of torture for her.

It takes a second for me to understand where her disappointment is coming from, she saw how relieved I was when she told me they weren't seeing each other. I didn't mean to let that show. The first tear falls from her eyelids and hits the floor.

"You're the most selfish person I've ever known." It's a whisper. "You leave me, you tell me how sick we are- how sick I am. As if I'm fucking blind, like I don't see what I do to you." She's in my face now. "You leave me, and you get what? Jealous? That I've met someone?" The waterworks flow freely. "Well congratulations," her gaze falls to my feet and back up to my eyes, searing into me like hot coal. We're face to face now, noses nearly touching when she spits, "She doesn't want me either, you two should get along great."

"You have no clue about anything, Tegan."

My lips snap at her, fed up over her projecting and pretending like leaving her was the easiest thing in the world for me to do. As if she isn't the only one in the world I think I'll ever be able to love as much as I do. She made the decision to not speak to me after I left. I didn't choose that. I would've never chosen that for us.

"Fuck you." She turns around, like I'm going to allow her to leave the second I start defending myself after she started this bullshit in the first place. I reach out and jerk her arm to turn her back around to face me. I feel the heat in my face. I feel the heat beneath my belt at the sight of her lip curling and cussing at me.

"No fuck you, Tegan. I-"

And without warning there's a warm pressure on my lips, and she's kissing me and my head is reeling, spinning out of control at the taste and smell of an addiction I thought I had curbed. And before I know it, my back is slamming into the countertop and she's right there with me, she's there and she's on top of me. And my hands are simultaneously grasping at strong shoulders, tangling in soft brown strands. Suddenly, I feel my jeans become undone in one quick motion, before I could even comprehend what she's doing to stop her, her hand slips under the material to find a hot pool of validation. I'm lit up on pins and needles, guilty for what I know she has found and guilty for the satisfaction in her eyes as her jaw clenches.

It's the first time she's ever touched me, and the war in my head is paused at this, ready to let her continue. But she doesn't continue, those hazel eyes like mine grow darker with a sadness I just can't put my finger on as she retracts her hand back to her side and looks into my eyes—my entire soul. I can feel the blush and heat spread down my neck to my chest. I am thankful for the hoodie to cover the pink tint.

"You can lie to me and the world for the rest of your life, Sara. I can't stop that. But it must be so depressing for you to know that you can't lie to yourself." She whispers, leaving me unable to speak and turning around to leave me in the kitchen once more. Before she steps out, her face turns and eyes stare distantly towards the floor.

"I don't want to argue with you while we're here, I'm so sick-" her voice breaks, "of us being unhappy with each other. We have to share this house for the next month and then we'll be on tour for a year, so we might as well try to act like the happy sisters we are. When I leave this room, I'm going to pretend like none of this ever happened between us. I'm going to pretend like I don't love you since that's what you want. . .since it's so easy for you." She turns her face from me to keep me from seeing her cry, before turning back towards me and exposing her red, swollen eyes from the tears. It's all too much to process. I feel like I'm drowning at the thought of her not loving me anymore, and yet there's also the sick sense of relief at the shot of a normal life with someone, no matter how much I have to pretend that I love anyone other than her.

I watch her leave and head to her bedroom as I hear the door open, Emy and Angela's voices and laughter spreading throughout the entire house. My hands dart to my opened jean button, barely closing it before Emy rounds the corner into the kitchen, arms carrying two six packs. She notices my swollen eyes and the dried tears on my cheeks.

"Sara, what happened?" The six packs are in the refrigerator and her arms are around me before I have a chance to explain myself and evade the situation.

"Nothing, just had a little argument with Tegan before you guys got here is all." I let my head rest on her chest for a while as she soothingly moves her hands up and down my back. Emy stands a good three or four inches above me, so when she hugs me, it's comforting but overwhelming. I don't usually enjoy being touched unless I initiate that I want it first, which is not rare, but not frequent either.

"You guys need to stop arguing. What was it for this time?" I pull away from her, wanting this conversation to discontinue.

"It's nothing, Emy. Same things we always fight about. You know how it is with her. What's the plan with Forest Fones?"

She shakes her head, disappointed, but accustomed to the fact that I barely talk about Tegan or the disagreements Tegan and I have.

"Angela is downstairs right now setting up the recording equipment and the set. You guys will just discuss what you did throughout the day and I've made a list of people we can call on every video chapter, your friends and family, including backups in case someone doesn't answer."

I nod my head; hopefully our fans will enjoy this and all of the work that goes into pulling this off. I love the way Emy works artistically. I love the way her brain thinks. I would have never been able to come up with this stuff.

"Well, let's get to it."

I follow Emy to a door near the back porch that leads to the basement stairs, pretending I totally knew that it was there. I enter into the main room where there are two seats with Tegan and I's names on them. Between the seats sits a green box with squares of fake grass on it, and a cardboard cutout of an old school dial phone. Behind that set up is a bunch of cardboard evergreen trees that Emy has taped together for a backdrop against the black sheet she's hung against the wall. Angela's fixing her camera to the tripod when I see Tegan come down the stairs behind us with a beer in hand and a smile on her face, her left hand is wrapped around the Blackberry that's attached to her ear.

Tegan only gives her crooked smile when she's flirting.

"Yeah, that works. I'll take the bus to come get you. . .you said your plane lands at seven?" She nods her head, concentrating.

Wait a second. She's coming here on Friday? Two days after Emy flies out?

I clench my jaw and bite down the jealousy—the overwhelming feeling to snatch the phone out of Tegan's hand and tell the bitch she's speaking to that she will never be good enough for Tegan. Honestly, no one ever will. But at the same time I know that I can't do that. I shouldn't, and I'm hopeful. I don't know what Tegan meant when she said that this woman didn't want her either; I didn't have time to ask. I'm hopeful though, I want Tegan to be happy, and I wish she understood as much as I do that being with me just cannot and will not ever bring her true happiness. She needs someone to give her a normal relationship, a normal life, a family. I just won't ever be able to do such a thing. As much as my heart will forever be broken, I want Tegan to be happy.

"Okay, that sounds great. I'll pick you up then. We're about to start recording so I'll message you later unless you're asleep. Bye, LB."

LB. Interesting.

She ends the call, pocketing her cell and glancing at me, expecting me to be hurt. Instead I smile encouragingly at her.

"Was that Lindsey?" Emy asks from the ground where she's laying on her tummy, securing the trees to the floor. Tegan takes a swig of her beer and nods. Wait, Emy knows this girl?

"Yeah, she's flying in Friday."

"Dammit." Emy's biting the skin on her lip, checking one last time to make sure that the set is held up well. "I hate that I'm going to miss her. I'm flying back to Montreal on Wednesday. Dallas needs their album artwork done two weeks early and I haven't even started on it. How is she though, Teegs? Still playing hard to get?"

Tegan's eyebrows lift up as she groans, getting into the chair with her name marked on it. "You know it, they always do."

Her eyes flicker to me for a split second and I nearly choke on the beer Emy handed me, crossing my legs as I sit next to Tegan. Emy gives me a strange look.

"There's no way she's straight. I'm sorry, but there's just no way. I would have thought she was at least bisexual."

"Ugh, I don't know. She's so confusing. I think she's even confused with herself. Like, we message each other throughout the entire day and even talk to each other at night. And when I was in LA for the summer, she let me stay on her couch so I didn't have to buy a hotel room. It's eating me up inside." Her fingers run through the fringe on her forehead.

"Just keep trying, Tee." Angela smiles, "I'm sure she's just making sure that she's ready to be with a woman. Are you guys ready?"

Tegan nods her head and I study her face, noticing her left eye drooping from the stress of us and the stress of this entire recording process. I give her a reassuring smile when she looks at me before Angela counts down to three.

Emotionless.

I watch my feet as we walk from the bar back towards the house, finding it hard to put one foot in front of another. Ted, our guitarist, wraps his hand protectively around my shoulders, knowing how drunk I am and ready to catch me when I stumble, knowing that it'll happen eventually. I decided to go out and drink tonight and invite the boys with me, not wanting to deal with the fact that Emy left two days ago and Tegan's probably back from the airport with Lindsey. I hope they're asleep—I'd rather not meet Lindsey after the copious amounts of gin and tonic I've had tonight.

I burp loudly at the thought, making the boys laugh and Ted pat me on the back.

"Jesus, Sara. Who would've thought that you could drink like that?" Chris says loudly, lighting a cigarette. I take it out of his mouth and put it into mine, laughing loudly at the comment. He lights another one, accepting the fact that his is gone forever. I stumble, feeling Ted's arms tighten around my shoulders. I appreciate the boys for walking me home.

My mind goes back to Tegan, and I'm used to it. It's a war in my head. I want Tegan to be happy with someone else, but the fact of the matter is—I don't want to fucking see it. I don't want to see her with someone else. It hurts something so deep inside of me, burning the hole in my chest until it's unrecognizable in size. I think I could probably live the rest of my life knowing that she was happy with someone, while never seeing her with the one who is making her happy. I don't know, I'm too drunk to analyze this and I haven't even met Lindsey yet. Maybe I'll like the woman.

I feel the nausea in my stomach that only alcohol can cause—fuck, have I really drank that much? I can't even remember how many shots and drinks I ordered. Who paid for my tab?

I put out my cigarette as Ted gets me up the steps of the front porch and Chris opens the door for me. I feel the sweat on top of my forehead from the anxiety and nausea. I hear rock music coming from the TV before I cross the threshold into the living room, seeing Tegan and the strange woman staring at the TV with toy guitars hanging from their necks and beers at their feet. They're playing Rock Band on Tegan's Wii that she brought from home. Lindsey turns my way with a brightening smile, not shy in the slightest. I flick my eyes at Tegan, who's longingly looking at Lindsey and me, drunken excitement in her eyes at the thought of her two main women finally meeting each other.

I look back at Lindsey, she's beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful, with light brown hair similar to ours and a perfect smile that could easily put you on your ass.

At the thought of this beautiful woman touching my sister, I feel my throat constrict and I book it out of the door to the porch railing, retching up the burning contents of my stomach as tears well at the feeling of throwing up. God, I fucking hate throwing up.

"Sara!" I hear Tegan scream, but I'm too drunk to lift my head or respond when her hand comes into contact with my back, rubbing up and down. I see the black spots in my vision from the dehydration, signaling to my brain that I'm about to pass out.

Tegan has me in her arms before my body goes limp, I'm somewhere halfway between consciousness and unconsciousness, feeling her hook one arm under my knees and lift me up bridal style. I really shouldn't have had so many drinks.

"Chris, can you open the door to her bedroom? Who let her drink so much? Did she eat before you guys went out?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up again." I whimper at the nausea and push my head against Tegan's hoodie.

Ted falters to explain as I'm placed down on the bed, feeling Tegan's hand move my hair off of my sweaty forehead, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. I don't open my eyes, choosing to keep them shut against the pillow and speak up to save Ted and Chris from Tegan's worried questions, knowing she's going to blame them for my irresponsibility.

"I'm twenty-seven. . .I don't need anyone to monitor my drinking, Tee." I grumble. I can feel her roll her eyes.

"Yeah, because that's obviously gotten you far." She spits, clearly aggravated. I'm suddenly remembering why I drank so much, wanting to separate myself and my consciousness from her and the fact that I'm losing her. The fact that I've lost her. I open my eyes and take in her face, leaning against her arm next to me on the bed. She studies my face also.

"Tegan, you can get the fuck out if you're going to be rude." I close my eyes again as a new wave of nausea makes the room spin. I feel so sick from so many different things, hating myself for wishing she wouldn't leave this bed, wishing she could slide in beside me and take care of me the way she did when we were younger.

"Can you guys give us a moment? I'll be right out in a sec, LB." She nods reassuringly. I move my eyes to the bedroom doorway where Lindsey stands, looking worried and shocked at the way we're speaking to each other.

Instantly, I am lit from head to toe with embarrassment. What a great way to introduce yourself—you're quite the dreamboat.

The shame causes the bile to rise again, and Tegan notices the look in my eyes and my breathing change, shooting up to grab the bedside trash can and put it under my chin as I vomit up more burning alcohol. Her hands smooth back my hair as I empty the contents of my stomach.

"Okay, yep, that's our cue to leave. Goodnight girls, it was nice to meet you, Lindsey." I hear Ted speak. I feel second-hand embarrassment from the way Tegan spoke to the guys, reminding myself to apologize to them tomorrow for her behavior because I know she won't. She'll never apologize for being protective of me.

"I'll walk you guys out," I hear Lindsey's small voice speak up, a smile in her voice as she closes the door behind them, leaving Tegan and I alone.

I can feel myself sobering up, but I'm not completely there yet. I groan and look into Tegan's eyes as the door shuts, wishing I could explain myself but I lack the ability to know what I'm feeling at the moment, so I know I can't say it. I feel her hand take mine into its grasp, thumb running softly over my own clammy hand.

"You need to be more careful, Sare." She whispers. As if a switch goes off again at her words, I am pissed and want nothing more to do with her. Disgusted by the fact that her girlfriend is here. Disgusted by the fact that she seems happy without me, as if she can't feel the magnet, as if loving me is a dim feeling. Is this what it's like for her to see me with Emy? Does loving me get a little less easy every time I break her heart?

The internal war wages on forever, never giving up. It feels like the endless energizer bunny, like a bipolar internal switch that makes me simultaneously want her and want nothing to do with her, all at once. Why, though? I ask myself as I study her, tears leaking out from my eyes and onto the pillow. Why can't we just be normal sisters? Why do I feel like my need for her is so sick?

"I know," she whispers, looking at me like she knows how it feels.

And we'll always be like this, I truly don't think the push and pull will ever go away. God knows I could never stop loving her, I've tried.

"I love you," I whisper back, flinching at the way it sounds so foreign on my tongue. Flinching at the fact that saying it is what I imagine a heroin addict feels as he shoots up for the first time in a while, body numb and mouth watering.

I watch her visibly shudder, absorbing the words I rarely say as if she'll never hear them again. I feel myself drifting off to sleep in her presence, too drunk to take my clothes off and too drunk to care about getting under the covers or asking Tegan to stay. The last thing I feel as sleep pulls me under is her lips, soft and subtle, kissing my forehead above my eyebrow.

"I know," she repeats again, before I feel her weight lift off of the bed, leaving the warm spot to cool in her absence.

Tegan

I walk in the sushi restaurant next to Sara, behind Lindsey and Angela. We've just finished another day of recording and it took a fight to get Angela to put the camera down to enjoy dinner with us without having her lens in our face the entire time. Lindsey also requested that she not be on film, not wanting to be subject to the scrutiny of our overzealous fans once the movie was put out into the world—I respect that. Especially since we aren't even official yet.

Official, Tegan? God, you're nearly twenty-eight years old, stop talking like a teen.

As if it really matters in the end, anyways. As if I even have a heart to give away to anyone, girlfriend or not. It's not mine to have or to own. Sara has those rights and she always has, always will too.

I pull out a chair for me and sit across from Sara with Lindsey next to me on my right. They've seemed to be getting along well, although I know Sara's still embarrassed from the other night. I kind of appreciate the strong reaction she gave to seeing me with someone else. She deserves to feel what I feel when Emy is around. Sara keeps apologizing to Lindsey every time the boys scrutinize and joke at her expense and while I enjoy watching her face tint red from the embarrassment, Lindsey is patient and reassuring every time it's brought up.

"I've been there so many times, Sara. At least once a month, don't feel bad at all." She doesn't think anything of it apart from feeling bad that Sara got so wasted and sick. Although seeing us argue did seemed to bother her, I guess she'll have to get used to that if she continues to come around.

"Man, you guys need a day off." Lindsey looks at the three of us and the dark circles under our eyes. She wonders, "Do you guys ever take a day off?"

Sara laughs, dryly. "We'll get about four months off after recording. It takes time for the album to be sequenced and mastered, and then released through the label. After that break, we'll be on tour."

Lindsey looks at me longingly. "How long will you be on tour?"

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, telling the waitress to bring me whatever they have on draft and a California roll. "We never really know. Typically, we tour America and Canada first and then fly over to tour Europe, but Piers was talking about doing Australia and New Zealand also. We'll probably be touring the last half of 2008 and most of 2009. The money mostly comes from us touring, so Nick and Piers really push us on that."

I see Sara nodding with me as she orders her fourth coffee of the day without putting in an order for something to actually eat. This pisses me off, her whole not eating when she's depressed bullshit.

"I don't see how you do that. I would be so fucking exhausted-"

"Hey Sara, food. Order some." I demand, interrupting Lindsey, lifting my eyebrow to tell her I'm pissed. I see her jaw clench with shame. She despises when I call her out. Her eyes shoot daggers my way, letting me know I'll hear about this later.

"I'll also have the edamame. Thanks." She lifts the menu to the waitress. "No, real food. You need real food."

"Come on, Tegan."

"No, I'm serious! You look sick." I bite back, not wanting to argue with her, but worried at the same time. I see her flinch at my insult to her appearance. She smiles at the waitress and hands him the menu. I give up, realizing I've hurt her feelings and embarrassed her.

"Anyways, Lindsey," Sara speaks up, giving a smile that doesn't reach her eyes as she ignores me, "what do you do for a living?"

Lindsey sets her water down and reaches for my hand under the table. "I'm a freelance photographer. I mostly photograph bands and do a lot of work for NPR, Thrasher, Spin, Pitchfork and Alternative Press. That's how I met Emy actually, I was taking pictures of City and Colour a few years back and they had hired her to do some art directing."

Sara nods, contemplating. I wonder if she's upset at Emy for introducing me to Lindsey, although she'd never be able to tell Emy she was upset without having to explain why.

"That's awesome! I can't imagine how difficult it must have been to get started."

Lindsey is exhaling loudly and looking at Sara as if to say, 'yeah it sucked'. Sara nods again and adds, "It's really neat that you know Dallas, he's one of Tegan and I's closest friends."

"So I've been told." She turns and smiles at me sweetly. I think our relationship is getting somewhere. I think she's realizing that the feelings she holds for me might not be as elementary as she first thought. The past two days she's been here have been great and she's the first person in a long time to be able to give me butterflies. I run my thumb and forefinger over the veins in her hand and the tattoo on her wrist, sad that she has to go back to L.A. tomorrow night. Sad that touching her makes me feel like I'm cheating on Sara, although I could probably count on my two hands how many times Sara and I have touched each other. It's pathetic, really. It's been four days since we kissed in the kitchen, and the kiss before that was over a year and a half ago, before Sara left for Montreal.

I bite back the knot in my throat that forms from the reopening of that wound, choosing for once to ignore all thoughts of Sara and focus on Lindsey for the rest of the night.

Sara

I toss and turn in the bed, feeling bloated and unable to sleep from the two beers and edamame I had at dinner. The clock next to me reads 2:43 a.m. I groan and shove my head into the rough pillow case, wishing I would've brought my own bedding with me. I miss my bed in Montreal, and my girlfriend, and my fancy coffee pot that I bought before recording that I haven't had the chance to use yet.

I hear the sound before my brain registers what it is—a moan coming from Tegan's room behind the paper thin walls. A loud 'fuck' follows and the sound of her bed creaking.

Oh shit, oh no.

I have not prepared myself for this, having thought the understanding of them being friends and of Lindsey being straight despite Tegan's attempts of wooing her. Why couldn't I just go to sleep? My lip quivers, not knowing what to do. The moans grow louder and I'm sick. I don't register the moans as Tegan's, but as Lindsey's. How can she be so disrespectful? I've never had sex around her, not even remotely. I wouldn't even think about fucking in the room next to her.

It takes minutes before I feel the hot tears hit the pillow, too numb to not feel them run down my face. I'm paralyzed in this sick sadness, paralyzed at the sound of her pleasing someone else in a way that she's never done with me before. I know that it's selfish, she has to think about me sleeping with Emy, but she's never had to hear it.

It's dangerous—the game my head plays with itself. How can I want her to be happy and at the same time collapse at the fact that she will inevitably sleep with someone else? Maybe it's because I've never, not once, had to deal with this being pushed in my face.

The headboard hits the wall and I hear it for the first time, Tegan's voice as she moans. My back arches off the bed in heat from the sound of her low growls. Just like a nuclear fusion or a drug overdose, sending me into a full blown panic attack, my mind scolding me for the reaction to her. You're sick! You're fucked in the head, getting wet at the thought of your sister like a sick fuck!

I sob into my pillow, every muscle in my shoulders and back groans from being so strained. The cycle of the panic attack begins: gasping for air, overheating, gasping for air, overheating, gasping, straining, crying, straining, gasping, crying, straining. My fists are clenched so tight that my nails draw blood from my palms.

The moans escalate from both voices, bed creaking viciously, as they finally come to their conclusion. I know somehow this is my all fault. I know I am to blame for setting the wound in my chest on fire—not needing their help to burn or drown or freeze in this hell that's been created around me against my will power. I wonder what I did in my past life that got me to this point.

It takes hours, but eventually I fall asleep, watching the sun peek through the blinds. For most of the night, I was unable to get any rest due to the sobs wracking my body, smothered by my wet pillow. When sleep finally does come, I am overcome with anger.

No.

Rage is a better word.

Tegan

Lindsey holds my hand on the cab ride to the airport, giving me quick kisses whenever she sees fit to do so. We've been exploring Portland all morning since I got a text from Chris around 6:00 a.m. saying that Sara has given everyone a day off today. Which comes as a surprise to me, she must have made plans for today. Lindsey and I got up at ten and were out of the door by eleven, walking in the direction of downtown to find a nice place to get breakfast. We've spent the entire day together, getting snacks from food trucks and going to museums and galleries, where I spent most of my time staring at her instead of the sights in front of me and she took way too many photos of me with her small Canon point-and-shoot.

Last night we slept with each other, and it was honestly great. Much better sex than I expected from someone who's only been with one other girl and that was over 10 years ago. I have this nagging thought in the back of my head that we were too loud and that Sara might have heard us, which means that I'll have quite a lot to deal with when I get home. Not that I give two shits, she deserves it. If I have to deal with her and Emy kissing and giving bedroom eyes to each other in front of me, why should I have to keep my relationship with Lindsey quiet on her behalf? She has no right to be angry with me no matter how much of our relationship is exposed to her. I'm tired of hurting because of her, I'm sick of feeling like she doesn't want me and knowing that she does. I'm tired of the war. I am giving in.

After all, Sara says that she wants me to be happy, so I'm doing just that.

I look at Lindsey again, trying to analyze our relationship as she stares out of the window. I don't know where it's going but I hope it's going in the right direction. We have so much fun together, no drama apart from her fading heterosexuality that I've been battling since we met last year. I enjoy her company and I think she can say the same about me. I think I need a relationship that's fun and full of laughter, someone who genuinely cares about me, and I think that if anyone was to take Sara completely out of the question—Lindsey would be the one. She really could be my best friend; she is, for all intents and purposes.

Sadness dawns, reminding me that it's impossible for Sara to ever be out of any equation involving me, even if she doesn't want to be in it. Sometimes I feel like she isn't even my sister, isn't even mine to claim. But she is me—so how can she not by default be mine as well?

Sometimes I wish I would have been born the distant one of the two of us, and not her. I don't think she will ever be able to understand the full encompassing need I have to be next to her, near her, consuming her. She's been pulling away from me for so long, against the grain, tugging backwards on the rope that runs into me and my soul and after spending my entire life using all of my strength and energy trying to keep her from pulling, trying to keep the rope from snapping, I'm erring close to giving up. One day I'll be exhausted of fighting the rope, the tug. One day I'll let go and watch her rip me inside out.

"Tee? What's on your mind?" I come back into focus and Lindsey's looking at me in concern. I bite my lip and transfer my weight as the cab driver takes a right turn onto the airport highway.

"Just wishing you didn't have to go so soon." I half lie through my teeth, giving her a sad crooked smile.

"Me too." She twirls the ring that's on my right hand between her fingers, longingly. "You should spend your few months before tour with me in LA."

The invitation comes as a shock, though I was hoping she would eventually ask. I smile and nod nervously, elated that I don't have to make up an excuse to be in L.A. and get a hotel I can't afford for the duration of my stay.

"I'd love to." My cheeks pull up into a gummy smile, growing even bigger when she kisses the corner of my lips.

"Alright ladies," the cab driver speaks up, "Southwest gate is coming up on your right. It'll be $13.22 for your trip." He points a greasy finger at the monitor that's mounted on the dashboard. Lindsey gives him a twenty dollar bill before I can pry my wallet out of my jean coat pocket and I shoot her a playful glare as we unbuckle our seatbelts to exit the taxi.

We shuffle quickly through the airport, me pulling her checked bag behind me with her carry-on slung around my shoulders, grasping her hand in mine, being the gentlewoman that I am.

We stop a couple of feet before the check-in desks and I wonder if she feels as nervous as I do about the future, as sad as I do about her leaving.

"Are you Tegan Quin?" I hear from behind me. With a deep breath, I let go of the frustration of being interrupted and wasting the last bit of time I get to spend with Lindsey, to turn around and face a woman who's also carrying bags for a flight. She has the usual face of a shocked and happy fan.

"I think that's the name my Mum gave me, mhm." I smile with my teeth, being charming in the manner that Sara says embarrasses her. Lindsey smiles and steps to the counter to get her boarding pass, pulling the luggage out of my right hand to get checked in. "What's your name?"

"Paige! I can't believe this, I love the White Stripes cover you and Sara did. I don't mean to bother, but would you mind signing my arm for me?" She bites her lip, anticipating. I swallow down the urge to tell her to go fuck herself for thinking Walking with a Ghost was a White Stripes cover.

"Of course, no problem." I give a fake smile again, watching her pull out a red sharpie from a book bag and handing it to me with the exposed skin of her arm. I sign 'TQuin, xo' on her wrist and wave, turning around without a goodbye to give my attention to Lindsey where she stands, smiling at the interaction.

"It takes some getting used to," I whisper, tilting her chin up for a kiss.

"I think it's adorable," She whispers into my mouth, kissing me again. In no way is her kiss comparable to Sara's, and I love that even more, I love the way Lindsey's mouth tastes. Cinnamon and cigarettes as opposed to Sara's honeysuckle.

She kisses me again and again and again. Not wanting to say goodbye, truth be told, I don't either. I wish I could go with her to the heat of Los Angeles.

The difference in their kisses are easy to distinguish. Lindsey kisses me like school girl, soft and sweet. Like we're sixteen and on our first date at the movies, lips pressing and moving together and every time it's enjoyable, every time it's like a first kiss. Maybe a third kiss, still in the process of learning each other and bouncing off the highs of new territory.

Sara kisses me like I'm on my deathbed. It's heady, open-mouthed and palpable. She kisses me like a gun is pressed to her temple. She kisses me like she'll combust and who fucking knows—maybe she will, she just might. I know I will, I most likely would. She is me and she is mine and I am her and I am hers. She kisses me like she's trying to consume me, trying to exist inside of me, trying to put us back together as we were meant to be before we split. Her mouth is poison, and her mouth is wine, and yes, I might die from it every time. I just might fucking die from it, but at least I'll be drunk while doing so and that's enough for me, enough for her.

The thoughts in my head are raging again and I feel the familiar feeling ripping through my gut of missing the part of my soul that's not here as I give Lindsey one last kiss before she turns and walks towards the part of the terminal I know to be security.

With one last glance in her direction, I head towards the airport exit and call another cab as the rain begins to fall from the overcast sky that reflects my mood.

Sara

I hear the keys in the front door jingle from the kitchen, assuming that it's Tegan back from the airport. I rest against the counter with two hands gripping the ledge. Tears flowing down my face like they've done since I woke up around 1:00 p.m. I tried to make myself eat something, but the sandwich sits discarded to my left with only three bites taken out of it. I was unable to force myself to eat more. My emotions are scattered all over the place, casting a heavy tension on this house. I can't decide if I'm more enraged or more devastated, the feelings being so mixed up now that they feel the same in my stomach. I think the inability to separate the two is what keeps the tears flowing. Hearing Tegan call my name from the door as she shuts and locks it draws a sob from my chest. I've been fighting this battle long enough, I can't do it anymore. I don't think I can physically do it anymore.

"Oh my God, Sara! You wouldn't believe what this woman at the airport told me. . . she said she loves Walking with a Ghost and that she was so happy that we covered the White Stripes. I nearly refused to give her an autograph." She giggles, setting something down on the floor after throwing her keys on the table near the couch.

When she hears me crying, she falls silent and heavy footsteps begin drawing closer to the kitchen. I hear her round the corner and walk towards me, but before she can reach for me, before she lays hands on me, my left hand is rearing back and flying towards her face, connecting to her high cheekbone in an awful smacking sound. She stands there, dumbfounded, left hand holding her cheek in her hand as I continue to fall apart.

"You hit me." She says it as more of a statement than a question.

"You broke my fucking heart." I bite back, willing the tears away so I can stand my ground. "How could you. . .how could you be so cruel to me?" I stutter, feeling the room begin to close in.

"You don't know shit about cruel!" Her loud voice echoes. Tears well up in her eyes at my outburst. We don't hit each other often, and I think of how funny it is that if anyone else on the face of this planet was to lay hands on her, I'd probably fucking kill them.

"I could never, would never, dream about fucking another person in the room next to you if I had the slightest thought that you could hear it."

"And you think that watching you with Emy, kissing her, letting her touch you, letting her be with you, simply knowing she sleeps next to you is any better?"

"Fuck you, Tegan you know that's completely different, I-"

"No, fuck you, Sara! I'm over this sick bullshit you play with me!" She screams. "You leave me. You leave me after you tell me you share whatever this is between us. . . and. . .and you just sit there on your fucking high horse while I'm killing myself. You tell me you want me to be happy. . .be happy with someone else. . .and you, you punish me for it! How was I supposed to know you could hear me, huh?"

"You wouldn't have known because I have enough respect for you to not test the goddamn walls and break you into a million pieces while I do it!" I scream back, watching her face twist as if I slapped her again.

Suddenly she's in my face with her finger pressing into my breastplate. "You don't have to fuck someone to break my heart you cold-hearted bitch. You do it so easily already."

"Cold-hearted? You want to know what cold-hearted is, Tegan? Cold-hearted is having to sit there and listen to you get another woman off. Have you no regard to the way it made me feel? Cold-hearted is the way you don't make it easy to just be your goddamn sister! Like it would be easy for us to just ride off into the sunset. Like our entire lives and careers wouldn't be over if anyone ever found out."

I'm yelling now, watching as she clenches her jaw at the insult. I can feel the anger in my shoulders. I need to leave before one of us hits the other again. I shove past her into the living room, not knowing what I want to do or where I would even go if I could leave.

"Where are you going?" She yells, throwing her hands out in exasperation.

"Away from you! Away from this. . .this fucked up fucking cesspool of anxiety that attaches itself to me whenever you're near me!" My eyes dart around the living room for my house keys, my cell phone, my wallet. Anything that I think I might need before leaving.

"You can't just fucking leave me! What the fuck is wrong with you? I need you!" She's wailing again.

"This is so fucked, Tegan." I rub my temples, the tears welling up again. "Why can't you just be okay with being my sister? Can't you see that this will never work? It will never work."

"You can't just hit me for sleeping with someone and then tell me it won't work! What the fuck- what is wrong with you? What the fuck do you want from me?" She yells.

I'm stuttering, mumbling at her logic, ignoring her. "I have to go, I have to leave because you're breaking me down again and fucking with my head and you can't just come in here and fuck someone and make me feel like I'm crazy, like I'm fucking psychotic because I shouldn't feel the way I do for you. I just want to be your sister, why is that so difficult for you to understand? Why can't you make this easy for me? Why do you make me feel like I'm dying?" I can't handle the look she has in her eyes with her hand over her mouth to hold back her cries.

"You can't be like that. You can't expect me to never be with someone after reminding me. . .after you. . .you remind me how much you don't want to love me."

"I need to leave. . .I have to leave."

"No!" She wails, pissed. "No you will not go anywhere after you started this, if you walk out of that goddamn door I swear to God, Sara- if you walk out of that door I will-"

"You'll what?" I challenge, cheeks ablaze with red fury, and I feel the hot tears seep out from beneath my eyelids. I feel as if I might have a panic attack, or maybe throw up. Unable to talk about this with her, overwhelmed at what's happening and I wish I was strong. I wish I was strong like her. I wish I would have never opened my mouth. Never cried. Never allowed myself to ever feel the way I do about her.

It's such a foreign act for us to actually talk about what's happening between us. The last argument we had over our fucked up circumstance ended in me packing my bags and leaving her, and I feel like doing that again. Running away from the problems because I am not wired the same way she's wired. I'm not strong enough to stand and fight and talk it out. I'm not as strong and as confrontational as she is. I'm weak, especially when it comes to her and the pull and the magnets. She's never opened me up this much though, I think to myself, and if I stay here arguing with her—I worry that the floodgates will drown us where we stand.

My head shakes at her silence, knowing that she's defenseless and completely unable to do anything. She won't hit me, although I do wish she would.

"I can't do this, Tegan. You're, I'm- I'm going fucking crazy!"

"Then fucking go!" She's sobbing. "Go if you want to! I cannot physically stop you, and if you wanted to just be my fucking sister, you wouldn't be crying about having to listen to that last night. There's a difference between us, Sare-" She seethes, sarcastically, like she's about to make a point. "You see, I've had to spend the last five years getting used to the fact that I feel like I am going to die without you, I've had to get used to that. And you? You spend your entire life in misery, in absolute fucking misery- running from me and from us instead of just fucking accepting that no one-" the distance between us lessens as she gets in my face, "no one, Sara, has you the way that I do."

I don't pay much attention to the fact that she's right, instead my brain chooses to get angrier. I am livid that she's not wrong, livid that she can say things like that without her guts being twisted in sick guilt.

"Don't you want a family one day?" I yell, "Don't you want to not have to hide from the world every waking minute of every day-"

"You're not giving me this spiel again, Sara. We both know what this is, your easy way out. Like I said, if you want to go then just fucking leave, I'm used to it by n-"

"Don't you want to be able to love someone effortlessly, Teg-"

"You, Sara! You!" She screams, her voice trembling as she cries out to me. Her words are deafening, her wails louder than the time I called the police on her in 2002 after one of our other knockdown, drag out fights. The statement silences me, knocks anything I could've thought about saying out of my mouth. What could I possibly say back? No, you don't love me like that, you don't love me effortlessly. Because she does, and she does do it effortlessly, in a way that I'm not sure I ever will be able to do, but she knows that.

And the fucked up thing, the fucked up thing is I can't deny her the right to say it, I can't deny her the right to love me, because it's all she's ever done. I'm well aware of that fact, and the truth of what loving me effortlessly, no matter how much I try to push her away, means for her and for us both. She'll always love me—effortlessly—and unfortunately, I don't share that reality with her. Do I love her? That's indescribable, an obvious yes but also indescribable because it's not enough, that word is not encompassing enough, there's not a language capable of being spoken that could describe what I feel for her—forever. It's something akin to need but that doesn't do it for me either. Unfortunately, again, it will never be carried without weight or effortlessly.

Loving- needing, the insatiable desire to bring us closer, it will always fill me and destroy me simultaneously.

She's sobbing, out of breath with her hands on her knees, looking up to me. "You. . .you fucking fool. I am nothing without you. Nothing, Sara. And fuck you for thinking that you can be so manipulative, so manipulative to sit here in front of me and lie through your teeth like you don't need me too, like you can actually make me believe that you don't need me."

We stand in silence for a moment, her body bent over, staring at my erect posture.

"You don't get to decide that, Tee. You just don't. I do need you, but I can't ever do anything about that. I don't see us ever being able to fix this, or consummate it, what I feel for- what we feel for each other."

"Why? Why can't you do something about it? It could be so easy."

My brain reels, trying to piece together which reason to give first to show her—No, Tegan. It can not be so easy.

"Because then all of this will be real and I'll have to deal with all of this, with you, and I can't do that because what will we do? What could we possibly do after acting on how we feel? What, are we just going to hide it for the rest of our lives? Never be with anyone else? That's so miserable and lonely. I want a family one day, I want things that you will never be able to give me, Tee. And you have to want things I will never ever be able to give you either."

She shakes her head and I watch her throat constrict as she swallows what I'm saying like a horse pill, eyes flicking from side to side while she tries to calculate ways to disprove me and my logic. My fingers twitch, blood boiling from a slipping resolve that I've spent years trying to maintain within my grasp, and she wonders why I don't talk about it. Because she gets under my fucking skin and my soul is not capable of hearing such arguments when I know that they stand so strong against my own.

"Yeah, you're right. But it doesn't mean that you have to ignore it completely because you push me away when you do that and I'm so sick of you pushing me away. It's breaking my heart. You push me away, you retract anytime I barely touch or hug you, even when I get near you, and then you do this when I get tired of it and sleep with someone when that's what you wanted for me in the first place. Can't you see that it's hypocritical? I'm tired of feeling like you hate me. . .every second I spend away from you when I know, Sare, I know that you need me all the same- it is killing me. It is killing me to not touch you, to- to not be allowed to love you like this, I feel like I'm choking."

Her words resonate with me, not that I didn't already know I was being selfish, but I didn't give a shit that I was. She's crying again, pulling her shirt up to catch the tears before they drop. I have the overwhelming urge to hold her at the sight of her crying, but I push that down, pushing the guilt down with it. The pull fights against me, pulling and pulling my soul, pulling me towards her. I fight that, I scratch at the rope that's pulling and winding against my own will because I know that once it wins- there's no going back. Once it snaps, I'll succumb to her in a way that I've never allowed myself the right to do.

My hands shake at the resolve, and it's like I'm watching it walk out of the front door. Blood is boiling in fear beneath the veins that run through my body. Why won't my fucking hands stop shaking?

And this is what I wanted to avoid, all though I knew that one day the volcano would erupt and I would no longer be able to avoid this conversation, I didn't want it to be so soon if it ever even happened at all. What hurts the most is there's no escape to any of this, there's no end, there never will be.

"I don't hate you, Tee. I could never hate you." I bite the skin of my lip that's quivering, trying to keep the words beneath my teeth to no avail, so I fail, "You have no idea just how much I love you." It's a whisper, because I don't think I'll ever be able to tell her I love her unless I'm whispering.

"You have quite the way of showing it." She's sobbing, continuous, broken down again because of me. I have no choice but to fix it at this point, knowing that she won't allow me to leave or go to bed until I do, or maybe that's my own conscience that won't allow me, because when I think about it- she's never forced me to stay every time I've left. And like I knew it would, the resolve breaks and the volcano has erupted and I snap- telling the guilt in my head and gut to shut the fuck up for just two seconds while I right my wrongs and fix her. The living room is too quiet when I step closer to her and grasp her hands, so warm against my own cold pair, and move them from her face, the collar of her t-shirt falling in the process.

And it's the first time I've been able to get a good look at her, this close to her, since we were nineteen and I picked her up off of the floor after standing there while she had a panic attack, unable to move or do anything. That same night I again told the guilt to fuck off so I could hold her in her bed and calm her down because I know she needed it, and although I realize I'm often cruel to her, I'm not that cruel to leave her heaving and gasping on the floor the way I was last night- but I shove those angry feelings down also. I look at her now and I can see her age showing like it never does, I see the bloodshot eyes and the few out of place wrinkles, the blue circles under her eyes and I wonder where those circles came from. Me? The recording process? The lack of sleep and too much alcohol? Probably all of it combined. There's a light shade of purple on her left cheek bone where my ring connected with her face and it's a different kind of guilt that twists my guts this time, I shove that down too because I think she's already forgiven me and I'm sure the emotional bruises and trauma I've caused her are probably a lot worse than the small physical bruise I can see that I've caused.

So I stand there, and I'm as quiet as the room, not even breathing when I touch my thumb to her bottom lip, fingers shaking violently because I'm touching her in a way I shouldn't be and grazing the line of her strong jaw, stronger than my own because she's stronger than me I think. And I trace her lip some more and her eyes close and I decide that I think I can be done fighting her in those twenty seconds we stand there. I'm giving up and I'm giving in because the taste in my mouth is pure honey and I feel my mouth water, muscles fighting too long to control the pull between us and I'm so tired of fighting something I don't think I can ever win. I feel so guilty for touching her like this, and it's not even because I'm cheating on Emy- no, I can't think about that right now or I'll stop and if I stop I think I'll probably die. I'll suffocate and so will she, she'll die too, and she'll probably never talk to me again and the thought of that alone is enough to make tears well in my eyes again. So it's not because I'm cheating, but because I'm afraid of what's to come- terrified, utterly terrified of not knowing how long the resolve will stay down or if it will never return. It's because the thought of being with her is aching me all over, aching me in places that makes me feel so wrong and yet the ache persists.

And it's as if she can see the battle between me and me trying to bite down the pangs of guilt coming up my throat like vomit.

"Kiss me. Don't think about it. Stop fighting it. You don't have to fight it. I'm here and I'm yours, we're okay. Just kiss me, Sara." Her lip shakes, dipping in and closing, encouraging and I feel a hike in the intake of breath through my mouth and it's dizzying when that soft skin touches mine, beckoning.

And so I, hesitantly, lean up to connect our lips and I listen to her when she tells me that we're okay. And we stay like that for awhile, frozen because this is the first time we've done this when we weren't trying to prove something to the other and most importantly, more importantly, it's the first time I've been the one to close the distance between us. I feel the warmth hit my chest again and so I open my mouth again just to connect our lips together once more, repeating to myself all the things she told me before I kissed her in order to prevent me from pulling away. My hand moves from her jawline to the back of her head where her baby hairs are and I twist my fingers around those, pulling them the way I know that she loves and she moans into my mouth, and that right there, that sound causes my eyebrows to come together in pain because it is so excruciatingly painful to hear, to hear what I'm doing to her. So I tug them again to hear the sound and her hands are shaking, I think, when she grips onto the cloth on my waist, bringing the low groan from my mouth when our waists meet. I die and my soul turns to the dust it was made from when I feel her tongue on my lips asking for entrance that I willingly give her. It's spearmint that my taste buds pick up on when her tongue meets mine, from the gum she's probably been chewing on, and it only makes my hands pull at the nape of her neck even more. She's kissing me differently than last time though, softly. This is soft, and I don't think I can remember a time in our entire twenty-eight years that I've received a kiss from her that is so tender. Like I could break in two, like she could shatter if she were to stop. And maybe she will, you know. Maybe we'll combust into nothing if we don't keep each other afloat, here in this moment, afloat and above water.

She's kissing me, she's me and she's mine and I'm her and I'm hers, and I feel her fingers at my jaw, tracing around the skin there, making me realize that this is finally it. It's finally here. She's finally here and we're doing this for the first time. Are we going to do this for the first time? Here? Together? It's the unthinkable and I know this, but she's so close, and the proximity allows me to smell her hair, her skin. I smell her skin, and it pushes away the doubt, any doubt I had in my mind. I give her entrance to my mouth again and trail lines up her back at the pressure of her hip bones against mine, watching her figure light up in blue as lightning cracks the sky shining through my window. I feel it all get too much for her as my nails reach the base of her spine above her sweatshirt and she has to break for a second, catching her breath. And when she tears up, I kiss her again. Swirling my tongue around the inside of her mouth, making myself familiar and at home between her teeth and so I trace those too. Our eyes are closed and we stay like that, consuming ourselves in each other, making up for all of the lost years where we couldn't immerse ourselves.

I bite at her bottom lip, fuller than mine and pierced, knowing that she needs it. Knowing that she needs to feel me and take me and become me and consume me and I allow it, I'll probably allow it forever.

Again the thoughts rush into me if this is something we are ready for—but could anyone ever truly prepare themselves for this? What if something happens and we really do become one?

My god, kissing her is the only thing I can think that heaven would feel like. I slip her bottom lip between my teeth and tug before moving to the top lip to give it the same treatment. I feel my eyes fill with tears at the feeling, finding god and salvation—repentance in her between the clash of our mouths and the taste of her saliva. A part of me wants to scream and fight this world. How could someone ever feel the way my chest feels right now, so full- so goddamn full and ever tell me that it is wrong? How can anyone be in my position, seeing god- herself and condemn me?

Her fingers curl at the base of my t-shirt, giving me chills there, hesitant to pull it up so I nod into her mouth, into the proximity, to let her know that I'm here with her and I won't run if she rips it in half because I couldn't. She's heroin and I need more of it to be satiated although I don't think I'll ever have enough. Maybe one day I'll take too much and it'll kill me and for a second I think I'd be okay with that. So she rips the shirt off of me, albeit slowly, achingly, and I close my eyes while she does it because I can't see the way she looks at me. I can't see her face for the same reasons that I can't keep my hands from shaking when my fingers reach up to undo the buttons of her plaid shirt while she kisses me, but I can feel the heat radiating off of the skin I expose with every button that's undone and I swear to God it burns my fingers but it's enough to keep me working, working on removing this goddamn shirt I'll never be able to look at the same again. I pause and blink my eyelids open to her, wanting to soak it in because I don't know when I'll ever get the chance to again. And maybe I shouldn't have because it pains me, everywhere, to see her shirt so open. Exposing her pale skin and sports bra to me in such a way that my mouth goes dry when I watch the muscles of her flat stomach pulse and flex with every heavy intake and exhale of breath.

My god.

More tears fall, not because I'm sad, because it's like looking at pearl gates and green forests. Perfect, in my eyes, flawless.

Blinding.

Home.

And something must have been right in the way I looked at her because she's kissing me again, backing me up blindly to a hard surface I assume is my bedroom door and it aches everywhere at how hard I slam into it. Panic rises for a split second so I quit breathing and will myself to not pull away from her and break our collective heart, but when I'm slammed into the door again—from the way her hips curl into me, those thoughts are forgotten and replaced with the sound of us moaning, muffled by each others mouths. Guilt is forgotten because I'm suddenly feeling warm in places that can make you forget things. I hear her shoes come off and I almost move to kick mine off too before I remember I'm just wearing socks, but I do feel her breasts move against mine when she fumbles for her belt with one hand and the door handle with the other.

I hold my resolve to not rip the rest of our clothing off when she backs me up into the bed, our tongues battling for dominance and her hands gripping onto the skin of my hips like I'll run if she lets go. I turn us so she is sitting, switching our places, and turn my head when I'm in her lap so she can attach her lips to the flesh under my jawline, a place I know she'll use against me later, and I'm thankful she bites and doesn't suck my skin so I don't have to explain the result of that to anyone.

I trail a scorching hot line with my right hand from the valley between her breasts across the hills of her stomach, through the barely noticeable happy trail beneath her navel, and onto my own belt buckle. My fingers shake so hard that I almost can't get the goddamn belt off and my pants undone, she notices and exerts minimal effort to one-handedly pin my hands behind my back, sitting straight up in her lap so her other hand can slowly, excruciatingly, pull down my zipper.

Soon but not soon enough, my jeans and underwear are off as I struggle with hers, I'm with her and gasping for air when the cool skin of her leg meets the heat raging through my inner thigh after I settle into her lap. I open my eyes for the first time since my shirt came off to find her staring at me, searching for something to tell her to continue, and we're already here, and God knows there's no turning back—not like we could even if we wanted to stop. So I nod with watery eyes and when those fingers, those goddamn fingers, find what she has caused—the last bit of my resolve breaks. Causing her head to drop to my chest at the wetness she meets and runs her fingers through effortlessly.

"Fuck." It's barely a whisper, but it's there, and her face contorts in pleasure as she says it, eyebrows meeting low on her face as if she was the one being touched. I know my face is equally displaying what I see on her own, like a mirror of mine because it is a mirror of mine. And then she's pushing inside and we feel that as one, wholly as one, together, shivering and crying out at the same time.

"Oh fuck, Tegan. Fuck." I moan into her mouth, I'll never leave this bed. I'll never, ever, leave this fucking bed.

It's sublime when she pushes in again with curling fingers and I need more, rougher, and she gets it, understanding, pushing in harder because I'm her and I'm hers and she's me and she can probably taste what I need through my tongue that she sucks it into her own mouth. I memorize the shape of her shoulder muscles beneath my fingers as I rock into her own, everything shaking, quivering. The muscles beneath her skin flexes and her mouth on my lower lip bites, tugs gently. I feel her own heat against my leg, drawing my hand down to feel what I'm causing her and I circle her bundle of nerves once. . .twice. . .before moving lower to the warm waters I meet there. And when I circle the deepest parts of her, it sparks another expletive from her mouth before I push inside those deepest parts and she gasps, sucking air from between her teeth so I kiss those teeth too.

I pull out to the hilt and slam back into her ocean, doubling her over. I do it again, stalling my fingers when they reach the knuckle to curl into what I find there and she doubles over into me.

Her gaze fixes on me, eyes heavy, eyebrows together and mouth open as if she wants to say something but can't. Because she can't. So I refrain from curling to enjoy this longer, resulting in me matching her thrusts at a hard, steady pace.

"I love you," I moan, speaking my feelings into existence before they crawl their way out of my mouth, causing her to slam into me harder than she was before and tears leak from the corner of her eyes. She doesn't respond, not needing to, knowing that I feel it all around me, moving through me.

And the feeling as we peak is what I expect a red dwarf star to feel like as it collapses within itself, creating the supernova or creating the black hole, whichever is chosen for it. I see the galaxies with my eyes wide open staring into her own. It shakes us both and she's crying suddenly, or maybe it's me, or maybe it's both of us and maybe if we had done this years ago we would have became one. Maybe we are one here in this moment. I think that feels more palpable as her teeth bite down into my collarbone to muffle the sounds that sound better than the sounds I heard last night, but I push that thought down because my brain is consumed in her. Absolutely fucking consumed, and I get less than a minute of time to rest and remove my fingers from her depths before I'm on my back with her strong body on top of me. And those fingers are in my hair again and my leg is over her shoulder and she's pushing deeper to places I wasn't fully aware existed, causing me to be a little more vocal than I intended on being which fuels her fire more than I knew she even contained.

"Fuck, you feel so good." She moans, creating the flood inside me to pool, creating a gasp that's pulled from her lungs. "I'm gonna make you feel so good, I'm gonna. . . fuck, Sara."

The room lights up in blue light again as my hands become locked above my head in the grasp of that which just finished tugging on my hair and we're moving fast now, so fast that all I can do is take in short choppy breaths, unable to find the strength within me to break eye contact. We're rocking and the headboard is hitting the wall as my heel digs into the dimples that I now know exist above her ass, and if I could comprehend a thought right now, I'd be so thankful that we put Angela in a hotel for her stay because there's no possible fucking way that I can keep quiet at this pace. She's trying to grasp at my heart to return it where it belongs, inside the same cavity that hers sits. And when I reach a point of no return, all I can do is squeeze her and cry out with my lips pressed against her sweaty neck, inhaling what I'll know forever to be the smell of home. I ride her hand through the onslaught of tremors I'm met with at every slow curl of fingers she gives to my body. Holding onto her back for dear life against the blood trails I've left there as we breathe against one another, spent and drenched in a sheen of sweat.

I know I will have to deal with this in the morning, but right now, right in this very moment—I am awake and I am alive and unforgiving as I roll her over, my body ascending into bliss, giving her what she already owns.