(Won't make much sense without this.: [tegan and sara tumblr] /post/4417100836/i-think-i-was-banished)
"PLEASE TELL ME YOU FOUND MY WALLET!"
Something is tacked on the door, but she can't see what. She stumbles forward but is not really interested in that. She comes up behind her and slips an arm around her waist to her front, fingers stopping underneath a ridge that she assumes is binding tape or a bandage. She's not sure; she doesn't understand these things and she's never asked and she's too drunk to stop herself from this movement. Facing the fridge and using her momentum from creeping up behind her, the alcohol surges through her veins and the action is pure inertia. It's not filtered out. She tips forward a little and comes to a stop, pressing herself against the back in front of her. Sara jerks her spine straight in response, then relaxes slightly. Still tense. But drunk, drunker than her possibly. She started earlier. She starts earlier these days. She's not sure whether that's a great thing, or an awful thing. Everything seems uncertain recently. She doesn't start or pull away, so they just stand there awkwardly for a long while, the room spinning slightly for both of them. The music in the other part of the house is loud. She can feel it through the floor. But it's quiet in here. Sara's breathing is slow and she knows this will only be a hazy memory in the morning. She takes a calculated risk and puts her chin on her shoulder. Flesh and jaw move slightly out the corner of her eye and she knows she's embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable, but that the tiny blurred change is a smile. She doesn't move her gaze to look at it. It'll break the moment. These 2AM minutes are sacred, they don't have to be talked about. They remain silently acknowledged, 'forgotten' under the veil of drinks and cigarettes. She's never been so grateful for a poison before. They've been happening more regularly lately. Something has shifted. She's not sure what. Sara feels thin under her half-hug, half-hold. She smells of Laphroaig and something else she can't quite put her finger on. Cleanliness. Her hair is getting longer. The part has changed. A wisp isn't perfectly pressed down and it tickles the side of her nose, the side Sara's half-smile is on. She can feel her heartbeat in her rib cage under her hand, through the layer of bandage. tick, tick, tick. Like a hummingbird trapped in a cage.
They stare at the cat picture from the stranger and breathe.