[summary: 'You're back in New York after having just just finished your penultimate term at Yale, and it's winter break, and you've very much missed your moms.' fababies: just a little drabble about Nora (& Oliver) coming home from university. lots of fluff.]
...
give me a world (you have taken the world i was)
.
nothing's worse than saying goodbye. it's a little like dying.
—Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood
…
You're back in New York before Oliver because, obviously, New Haven is closer than London. You've just finished your penultimate term at Yale, and he's in his sophomore year at Guildhall, and it's winter break—thankfully, you think, and find yourself wondering how in the world your mom stays in academia.
Usually going home—you will always think of the city as home, no matter where else you find love and light—is full of excitement because you miss your moms, always, and you get to see Oliver and old friends if they're back in town, and usually your aunt and uncle and sometimes Lucy make their way to the city as well as your grandfathers. Raj has come with you to stay with your moms a number of times over the past eighteen months, and he dealt with Quinn's stony attempts at intimidation and Rachel's binder full of questions about you with flying colors; they're quite fond of him now, and despite the fact that you have no intentions of getting married any time soon, you can see yourself sharing your life with him.
It's not that you're exactly unexcited to go home, but you're mostly just worried because your mom had called you the night before that Quinn was feeling sick. Colds in your house, while never any sort of problem for you or Oliver or Rachel, had been dangerous and scary for your entire life—you'd spent a few nights every year coloring pictures for Quinn while you and Oliver stayed with your Aunt Santana and Aunt Megan, and then walking very, very quietly, Oliver's hand clenched tight in yours, as you'd gone to visit Quinn—and Rachel, vigil beside her—in white, terrifying hospital rooms. As you've gotten older you've found the memories strange—Quinn dealt with a sore back and tired lungs all the time when you were small, but for the most part your family had always been active and lively, but those times in the hospital always stand out so vividly to you. You Skyped Oliver this morning and he had been panicking, rushing around his flat, and you'd reassured him that you'd take care of everyone until he got there.
You lean your head against Raj's shoulder, close your eyes and focus on the slight rise and fall of his body with his healthy, strong breaths and the heady, calming drift of his cologne, the softness of his cashmere sweater. He kisses the top of your head and laces his fingers with yours.
"You okay?" he asks softly as the train starts moving.
"Yeah," you say, lift your head. His eyes are bright, a darker brown than your mom's or brother's, his skin this rich honey that you have gotten lost in so many times.
He takes you in fully, trying to see if you're lying, and you kiss him softly, quickly, feel him smile as you pull back. "You know," he says, "I won't mind if you aren't okay."
You laugh a little, roll your eyes. "For now I'm okay, promise promise."
He nods, wraps a strong arm around your shoulder.
"Love you," you say.
"I love you too."
.
Rachel is at the door before you even get the key in the lock, swinging it open wide and wrapping you up in a hug. She's just as bright and energetic as she's always been, the main signs of her growing age laugh lines around her eyes. You're an inch taller than her, with the same color hair and the same dimples, although your eyes are closer to the hazel of Quinn's—they picked a donor, you know, who had green eyes and blonde hair, so in a lot of ways, you and Oliver really do look like their biological children.
She kisses you on the cheek and you laugh and say, "Hi to you too, Mom."
She rolls her eyes and moves to hug Raj, who laughs and nods as she says, "You've kept her safe, right?"
"Mom is napping," she says as she ushers you inside. It smells like slightly burnt toast—a sign that Rachel has taken over cooking for the day.
You nod as a jolt of fear pierces its way into your stomach, but napping at home is okay, napping at home is still safe.
"Do you want food? Water? Coffee? Tea?" your mom asks quickly.
Raj tilts his head and then says, "Coffee would be great, Mrs. Berry-Fabray."
Rachel laughs and shakes her head. "It's Rachel, please." They've had that exchange a number of times—mostly because it makes your mom laugh—and she sets off toward the kitchen while you lead Raj to your bedroom to put the suitcase away.
After a few minutes of catching your mom up on your final exam results—you and Raj are both on track to graduate summa cum laud—over coffee and some biscotti from her favorite vegan bakery down the block, Quinn wanders out of the bedroom, her short blonde hair—usually so immaculate—messy from sleep, glasses crooked. A big smile blooms on her face immediately when she sees you, though, and you stand up and wrap her in a tight hug. You'd not been closer to either of your moms growing up, but you and Quinn had always shared this special, quiet love for books, reading silently in her office as Rachel and Oliver bounced around the house singing.
She backs up and then hugs Raj just as tightly, and when she suppresses a cough as she sits down next to Rachel at the kitchen table, you ask, "How are you feeling?"
"I've certainly been better," she says, voice low and rough, and Rachel frowns, taking her hand, "but I've also certainly been worse."
Rachel shakes her head and says, "You're impossible," as she stands to put the kettle on.
"Coffee is fine, baby," Quinn says.
"Quinn," Rachel says, and you've heard that tone so many times.
Quinn rolls her eyes with a smile across the table at the two of you and acquiesces, "Tea sounds wonderful."
Raj laughs and asks her—even though he's a business major and not really interested all that much—about her latest book, and, as always—still—she sits up a bit straighter and explains the basic premise before catching herself and asking about the train, your semesters, your plans for the spring.
.
Because of the time difference, Oliver gets in early the next morning, making a significant amount of noise and emitting a few goddamn its as he struggles with his suitcase. You groan and Raj chuckles, tugs you tighter to him. The first time he met your moms they'd made him stay in one of your two guest rooms for a night, but since then he'd held you in your bed with no protests from either of your parents.
"What a pest," you mumble as Oliver curses again—he's always overpacked—and Raj kisses you with a smile.
"Same genes, sweetheart."
You gasp and roll over, swat at his chest playfully. "Raj."
You'd met him at the beginning of your junior year, a friend of a friend you'd been introduced to—you hadn't dated seriously since you broke up with your boyfriend freshman year; you'd made out with plenty of boys and a few girls, informing your moms that you are, regretfully, pretty straight, to which they'd laughed and kissed your cheeks. But Raj is funny and so smart but also calm and stable compared to your sometimes varying moods, and you'd loved him almost immediately.
He grins and tucks some of your shoulder-length, wavy hair behind your ear. "Should we go say hello?"
Your clock says 6:27 am, and you pout but relent. "I suppose so."
You put on one of Raj's tshirts and he pulls on sweatpants and you make your way out to the kitchen, where Oliver is making what looks like disgustingly strong espresso.
"Hey Ollie," you say, and he smiles and rushes over to you, hugs you tightly.
"I missed you," he says, and then says, "Hi Raj."
Raj hugs him too, and you bundle up and go out to brunch later that morning with your moms and your little brother and your boyfriend, and your moms tease Oliver about his new love for espresso, and they hold hands easily still, and although Quinn coughs a few times, most things are so bright.
.
Your moms start drinking at around eight that night, opening an insanely expensive bottle of rosé that they'd picked up in Paris the year before, and not soon after they open a riesling and a pinot noir for all of you to share.
"Isn't it a bit early?" Raj asks you quietly.
You shake your head. "They're old so they have to go to bed by, like, eleven."
Oliver overhears and laughs, and Quinn merely raises an eyebrow at him as he pours himself a glass of riesling before Rachel kisses her shoulder and tugs her down onto the couch.
Your moms have always had wonderful taste in wine, and they drink once a twice a week, especially as you got older and didn't need constant supervision. You'd taken Raj to one of Quinn's guest lectures at Yale— on historicisms and corporeality in metamodern television—last spring, and he'd been terrified of her for a few weeks after that, but currently she and Rachel are laughing and telling some story about her first year of graduate school at Columbia involving pigeon poop, and Rachel's cheeks are growing rosy, Quinn drags a hand through her hair—you notice that its blonde is beginning to turn white—and Rachel smooths it down afterward with a kiss to Quinn's forehead.
Raj tucks you into his body and you listen to more of your moms' young stories until they head off toward their master bedroom, and Oliver rolls his eyes with a groan before taking the rest of his glass of wine to his room as you and Raj start to make out.
He tastes like sweetsharp red wine, and he mumbles, "I love your family," between kisses.
You smile against his mouth and say, "I love them too."
.
A few weeks later you tell your moms and your brother goodbye, promise to Skype and call and text—you always do; promise to eat and sleep enough.
"Be good to yourself," Quinn says.
You nod and you give them one last hug and say, "I love you, Moms."
Rachel rubs Quinn's back as you make your way toward your train, and you all ache a little in these moments, you know. But they smile and wave and blow kisses as you turn around one last time, and New Haven isn't very far away, and Raj's hand is tucked tightly in yours.