Title: Wooden Arms (1/11)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own Skins.
Summary: An album fic for Patrick Watson's Wooden Arms, Naomily centric, with a smack of Katie/Effy.
Fireweed
There is a distinct kind of burning behind your eyes when you know the sun is rising, bringing the day no matter how hard you want it to go away. You remember a class once, where the teacher told you the sun, when it rises or sets, for a while it's not actually there. It's some sort of bending of the light, something to do with the atmosphere – and it simply furthers your belief that God, or whatever, got bored out of their mind billions of years ago, and started looking for things to do to make this joke of a life even worse (obviously for a laugh).
There is a distinct kind of tingling in your arms when you know its seconds before your alarm goes off, and you wonder for a moment why you don't just turn it off and spare yourself the heart palpitations when it does signal the end of the only time of day you truly have to yourself (which is funny in itself, because really, you couldn't be more alone).
There it is.
A pillow sails across the room, missing you spectacularly, and you take it as an order; that it's your turn to roll out of bed first, and turn the clock radio off. It's blaring something terrible, Katie's choice of a station obviously.
There is a distinct kind of chill that runs up your spine when getting out of bed, feet touching the floor, hair hanging around your face and spilling onto your shoulders, an ache in your stomach, when you know the day is pointless.
It's twenty minutes later and the shower is still running.
You bang on the door, "Katie!" She doesn't answer, and it's no surprise. When they were 12 they stopped talking in the mornings, and Emily isn't quite sure why. It's one of those things, like how when she was small and cried herself to sleep after a temper tantrum, and suddenly realizes she had stopped sobbing at some point, but doesn't remember – it's disturbing how the end of things pass by so quietly. It's why you rush through firsts.
The door is unlocked, but you wait.
There is a distinct kind of step you and Katie fall into when you walk together. You trailing behind, dragging your feet, and Katie ahead, acting like you aren't there. There are times when you act the same, to the point when people acknowledge the both of you when walking up the steps to school, you startle.
At some point, Katie fucks off to the bathroom to fix her makeup, and it's ridiculous really, but then again, you think as you open your locker and there is nothing but a line of books and black notebooks staring back at you – nevermind.
There is a distinct crack that reverberates around the inside of your body when you see her, and your new favorite color changes to blue in the time it takes to realize that you're even smaller in comparison to the world around than you'd thought. Her name is Naomi, and all you can think of as she sits down after being introduced to a less than interested class of drowsy middle-schoolers, is that you never knew your heart could swell and sigh.