Taystee is wearing a dress today, which is rare occurrence, and shouldn't be. It's mustard and teal, and looks beautiful on her. Poussey tells her so, between placing The Madding Crowd and Hunger Games on the shelves. Taystee ruffles her brush-like Mohawk, dyed purple to follow Nymphadora Tonks' footsteps. It brings a smile that doesn't leave Poussey's face until they reach Edith Wharton.
"You finished the Song of Achilles yet?"
"Nah, too much testosterone for me, bruh. I like me some girls, y'know?"
Taystee tucks her tongue. "That's kinda fucked up, P. The fact that you think of these two as mutually exclusive."
Poussey thinks about it for a while, shame starts crippling beneath her skin. "Shit you're right," she murmurs, taking a step back to inspect their work. "Hadn't thought of it that way."
Miss Claudette appears from behind the wooden stairs that lead on the second floor of her tiny bookcase, and Poussey is almost thankful.
"Is it going alright, girls?" she asks. "Ready to put some order to the philosophy section?"
"Sure thing, Miss Claudette, what you got us there?" Taystee grins, swaying her way towards the older lady.
She presses her lips to a faint grin. "I brought you some coconut cake. You've done good work this week."
"This shit's awesome!" Poussey's face lights up, as the two of them practically grab the plates from her hands. "Yo thanks, Ma'ame Claudette!"
"Red also called to send your coffees with Gina, so please remind me your order, Taystee?"
Taystee wears her Amanda accent and flicks her wrist, "I'd like a soy cappuccino mocha latte with extra almond glaze and cream, please! Mackenzie, how does that sound?"
Poussey throws her hands in the air in mock shock. "It sounds like calories, Amanda! Also sounds like how we white YA novel authors would describe black skin!"
"That's enough with you two," Miss Claudette scolds them, unable to hide the hint of a smile. "Off with your work, take Suzanne's example and be polite! If I find any coconut on The Romantics, I swear I'll get cross!"
"Yeah, as if Byron's face could get any more powdery!" snickers Taystee.
"Yo, where's Suzanne?" Poussey whispers as Miss Claudette walks away.
Taystee sighs heavily. "Writing fanfiction hidden in the broom cupboard. I tell you, if she ships Mme Thénardier, Dobby and Nick Fury again, I swear I'll confiscate that bullshit." Poussey tries to look away with amused guilt. "Hey, I'm serious!"
"Look, fanfiction's good, okay? Fanfiction's everywhere! Even damned Shakespeare was fanfiction! Not to mention the Song of Achilles… and Wicked! I mean look, this shit be tight! Suzanne might climb up to the classics one day, uh? We could sell her book and be filthy rich!"
Taystee breaks into dance, humming "If I was a Rich Girl", and Poussey follows suit, Kant's Metaphysics of Morals in hand.
"I can hear you!" calls Miss Claudette from the poetry room.
"She can, but he Kant," Taystee giggles, pointing at the book.
Poussey shakes her head, opening it in a random page of the categorical imperative. "Fucking white men, man. Ordering you around even when they dead."
They hear the bell of the door. "Coffee's here, Mackenzie," Taystee makes a gesture. "Ready to let your café au lait glory shine through?"
And somewhere along the way Poussey sits back with Audre Lorde in her pocket and lets her speak, and lets her do the laughing and the jokes while she just looks at her, while she focuses on keeping a balance, on walking on thin strings and pulling them together. Sometimes Poussey is out of words, the little and the big ones, the smell of old pages, the coconut and the teal and the right thing to hum under her breath. Sometimes all that's left beneath her tongue is a simple I wonder what kissing you would feel like, and Dumbledore assuring her that curiosity is not a sin. Sometimes Poussey thinks of ruins, those of friendships and those of herself, scattered all around the globe, in places where she grew up to be a metaphor.
There should be laws and shit, for falling in love with your best friend. Or maybe there are, and Washington has always been a delinquent.
.
It begins with Morello finding out that Nichols can't drive to save her life, and goes downhill from there. Apparently Nicky is very touchy when it comes to the taxi she once borrowed and crashed and almost landed her sorry ass to jail, so Morello attempts to make her feel better by mentioning that she doesn't know how to cycle.
"You fucking kidding me, right?" Nicky gapes in shock. "Do you actually not know how to cycle? Like, what the hell was wrong with your childhood?"
"There were things wrong with my childhood slightly wronger than cycling, Nichols," Morello murmurs, focused on the steering wheel, and Nicky isn't even going to address wronger. She lays back against the lowered passenger's seat, taking in several details of the moment that aren't yet ruined by the absence of Morello's skin beneath her lips. It's the grogginess of the people that wake while she heads to her bed (city that never sleeps her ass). It's the clutter of Morello's bracelets as she changes speed, the sounds her red lips make as she hums along the indie shit that's on the radio, the twitching underneath her sparkly sunglasses that reminds Nicky of the secrets she has to guess, the stories that need to be written about her, the conversations she would be afraid to start in another life and afraid to end in this one. Of the loneliness full of skin and teeth and tongues, and fingers wandering under denim waistbands, of drifting together to the dark side and their feet tangled together in sunrises the way they should be.
Turns out she's an open fucking book, sold at Miss Claudette's little shop of wonders, in the ancient tragedy section, complete with wings of wax and shit, or maybe in the low comedy one, handed out in flyers by Soso and squad, painted cheesy on the front seat of Morello's car.
"Something about ya feels comfortable," Lorna murmurs, eyes focused on the road. She licks the sugar from her lips and leaves them curved.
One day she's gonna make the sun retire, and fuckin Icarus will be without a job. In this economy, he should consider sucking a dick or two. He should consider a break, he should consider gnawing on his lips until they bleed, and wearing leather again, for the sake of melting and of fucking shit up.
Nicky doesn't shudder, not at the low blow, it's not what she does. She's grown up and grown old and grown paper dry, like a disposable cup she sips coffee from. All she does is choke from them, but she does it in fucking silence. "That's real smooth," she utters hoarsely. Morello seems proud of herself. "Hey, you know what we should do? I should teach you how to cycle."
"It's because you like bossing me around, isn't it?" Morello hides a smirk.
"Well, I'm sorry for wanting to fill you up with late childhood memories!"
"Is that the only thing you want to fill me up with?"
"Fuck this, forget I offered –"
"Yes," Morello cuts her.
"What?"
"The answer's yes. I got the night off on Friday. How does 2am sound t'you? Streets will be empty!"
Nicky's heart feels like a fucking banjo. "You got a bike?"
"I can trade the neighbor kid's with a cake, I'll figure som'thing out."
"Friday sounds good, kid," Nicky smirks, lion roaring in triumph.
"I'll pick you up at 2." The car stops and Nicky gathers her cigarettes and keys, ready to get out.
"Hey Morello," she stops, one knee out the door. "Nice jacket."
Her face lights up as she leans out of the car. "Thank you, Nichols."
I got a lump in my throat 'cause
You're gonna sing the words
wrong
She's working on it.
.
It's a nice jacket, Lorna is satisfied with it.
She's been wearing it all week, since the day she got it. Christopher has already seen her once with it when she went to hear him play last Friday at the club. She doesn't blame him for not coming to talk to her. She knows how busy he is, how it's only his job to talk to all those other girls, he can't do anything else, and she knows how he noticed the leather on her, how he loves it. She can't have Christopher spot her wearing the same clothes again, a girl's gotta know how to shine, especially when she's always tried so hard, especially in the middle of an Italian heatwave somewhere in Manhattan, with kids running around, and maybe she's one of them, maybe she's grown up too fast.
This jacket has done its job. It's a nice jacket, but Lorna doesn't need it anymore.
She waits in the car until the shop assistant arrives to unlock the door and open it for its morning shift. Lorna has been playing one of Christopher's mixes out of her phone, trying hard to get keen on the kind of music he plays, always with a lump on her throat, a lump she isn't currently willing to taste, not on such a nice sunny day, not after Nicky paid her another compliment.
She tucks her scissors under the front seat and walks out of the car and into the shop, a practiced smile already sported, her eyebrows always at her aid. No person with such eyebrows can be a liar, no person with such eyebrows can be anything but innocent and elegant and respectable. If Franny knew that tip it would save her so much time trying to get herself a decent paying job.
"Hello," she walks to the counter, jacket neatly wrapped under her elbow.
"Hey there," the assistant smiles. "How can I help you?"
"Well I don't know if you remember me, I got this jacket from ya the other week, here's the receipt, but I'm afraid, ah… you see I tried to wear it today?" she unfolds it up, spreading it in front of the other woman. "It appears that it's all ripped under the sleeve over here, see? It's almost impossible to wear!"
The assistant looks baffled, if not astounded, not to mention slightly hesitant to deal with the situation she's got in front of her. "That's a bad rip, almost looks like it wasn't sewn properly?" She run her fingers through the uneven, frayed cut. "Or like it was caught on a fence or something? Maybe it happened after you wore it?"
"No I'm sorry, you see I hadn't worn it before today, I had kept it in the bag for a special occasion, my boyfriend was playing in that club, and I had all the ensemble ready, with matching boots and all y'know. Aw, don't worry," she sighs comfortingly, "these things happen, I'm sure it wasn't the shop's fault, but you see, I can't possibly keep it that way."
"Are you sure?" the other woman murmurs, taking the jacket in her hands to inspect it more closely. "It doesn't seem like something that could happen… I honestly don't know, I do apologize but I know as a matter of fact that we double check our products before getting them out…"
"I know, I know, but you see it's happened to me before, and with a much more expensive dress, they'd sold it to me with a third sleeve sewn, obviously an industrial fault!"
"Are you serious?"
"Damned serious I am, but this was a quite unfortunate situation, as they refused to do anything about it when I returned."
"Don't worry miss, I suppose we can look for a replacement even though it's quite hard to find your size during sales period."
"Thank you, you are so kind!" Lorna croons. "I haven't shopped from you before but now I will definitely keep the quality of your customer service in mind!"
"Just let me browse through the stash."
"If you wouldn't mind –" the assistant turns to look at her. "If of course it's not against the policy of your shop, is it possible, y'know, that I get a refund?"
She walks out of the shop, every time slightly prouder than the last one.
It crosses her mind only with her hands on the stirring wheel and a full purse sitting on an empty passenger's seat. Nicky liked the jacket, and for a moment there the rules changed, for a moment she regretted it because with Nicky she didn't feel like she needed to wear new clothes all the time, but to wear the same thing again and again. She didn't know why she cared so much, girls give girls compliments because that's what they do. She doesn't know how she feels about the effect that Nicky Nichols has n her, about the way she clings on her opinion, something jolting inside her every time she gives her that horrid smirk, or does funny things with her mouth behind her mug, licking strolls and teasing spoons. Nichols has her way with girls, and the fact that, apparently Lorna knows she'd be much upset if she didn't get the same attention reassures her about it being an ego thing. Maybe it's just a lesbian thing, to make you feel special, to make you miss things you've never had.
And she loves Nicky, she really does. She doesn't know if she loves all of her, if she loves her that way, but for some of the visible and the concealed ones, the vulnerable bits and the half-eaten sarcasm, for every glance that phases out of the window at 3am, for that she's sure. It's just, she wonders if she should love her through that odd middle path she doesn't really want to cross, through the effort of trying to convince herself that it isn't real, that it's a lie, not who she is but a thing born in her head. What she needs is the real thing, the man she's in love with, the hot Captain Von Trapp to her Maria, and the confidence that comes with songs. For the timebeing, however, all that she has is the house full of kids.
"You're home," Franny enters the kitchen just after Lorna drops the keys on the table, in that sneaky way of hers that scares the shit out of people.
"That I am," Lorna grins, peering into the fridge for leftovers.
"How was work? Been meeting any new people?"
"Y'know how night shifts are," she shrugs. "Drunk old men, drunk rich teens, drunk single mums who've had enough…" She grinds to a halt, turning her face away with guilt. "Night shifts are quiet. You're up early yourself."
"Giacomo is teething, this kid I swear to God."
"He's teething, Franny. It's not like it's his fault."
"I've forgotten what sleep feels like."
"It must be some sorta an epidemic."
Franny frowns, taking the bowl of mac and cheese from Lorna's hand to heat it. "Why? You sleep enough through the day, don't ya?"
"I was talking about Nicky."
"Shoulda figured out myself," Franny mutters with spiked interest. "The Nicky,huh? 'Cause it seems to me you talk about her, I've almost forgotten what Christopher's name sounds like!"
"She's my friend," Lorna states sharply, surprising herself that she feels the need to even prove it. "A friend to who I can talk about Christopher and mine news to my heart's content!"
"She hitting on you?"
Lorna turns to her sister, stifling an absurd little laugh. "You're being ridiculous, ya know that, right? Y' know my heart beats only for Christopher!" She feels defensive and transparent and she hates all of it.
"You must bring her for dinner some time," Franny says as the microwave beeps, and her voice is soft. It means bring her to the ultimate test. It also means I don't know what's going on in your curly little head, as I often don't know things, but I'm willing to get familiar, and then try some more.
Because that's who Franny is. She's good, does her best to be. She doesn't always know what good means, doesn't always accept what you show her, but deep inside, she's willing to try.
"Hey, where's your beautiful jacket gone?"
"It was faulty," Lorna answers fast enough with an intense yawn. "Took it back to the shop."
She walks up to her room, macaroni in hands, stumbling on toys and waking kids. She sits cross-legged on the bed of her childhood fairytales, weariness starting to take over her body while she feels her system with food. Her hands fiddle with the small nothings on her bedside, tickets and posters, laundry and post receipts, a calendar and a piece of ribbon. Franny calls them trash, Lorna calls them memories, dark alleys and music she doesn't quite understand, and she sleeps clutching on them.
.
"Let me think… what about uh, no fucking way?"
"Come on, Nicky!" Soso widens her eyes pleadingly, "you're the only hope we have left. We were banned from the community center after Flaca fought with Maritza and broke a table!"
Nicky raises her glance from the tattoo gun she's been repairing, to stare at Flaca in amusement, briefly wondering how the fuck she could stand through that eyeliner tattoo being done without dying of fucking pain. "Why'd you two fight anyway?"
"She got angry we were protesting against the pizza!"
"To be honest you should both be angry you're protesting against Mendoza's pizza."
"It ain't my fault," Flaca shrugs her shoulders. "I'm just in it for the soft grunge!"
"Flaca! The working conditions at Cesar's are unacceptable and inhumane!" Soso turns to look at her comrade scandalized and Nicky turns to look at the young Japanese-Scottish girl.
"Listen love, this isn't happening. Red doesn't want trouble at her shop, a collective Russian coffee shop's already enough to raise suspicion in those dark times we live in, you feel me?"
"We just want the café to become the meeting place for our activist group! We have a cause that you've misinterpreted, and we need a place to organize our action!"
"Yeah about that, what cause exactly are we talking about?"
Four different voices are raised. "Education!" "Cultural appropriation!" "Green feminism!" and "Weed!"
All eyes turn to Tricia. Nicky doesn't echo Alex's amused chuckle.
"Yo, for medical reasons and shit!" the kid with the neck tattoo shrugs.
"Better not let Red hear you say that, girl. Or have her bail you out after a protest turns riot again, for that matter."
"Come on, Nicky! We need your help! We're trying to change the world here, isn't that what you've always wanted?"
"That so, and how you gonna do that?"
Mercy's face lights up as she throws an arm around her girlfriend's shoulders. "By demanding queer representation in the media!"
"Listen, even then the actresses will all be straight and fuck you up, vagception wise. I'm telling you girls, this is a lost war you're fighting. You gotta stick it to the man, I'm all for that, but not in Red's coffee shop, not with Yuri and Vassili and Sparkle Tits around. I'll talk to Red, but if you wanna change the world stay in schoo, do your homework and suck no dicks while you write essays on intersectional feminism, is that clear?"
Soso opens her mouth to protest but shuts it again and deflates. After they walk out of the tattoo parlor, Alex who had been watching from the door all along, fairly amused, lifts a curvy eyebrow.
"Honestly?" she asks in her hoarse voice. "Stay in school, kids? Revolution, but civilization? That's rich coming from you!"
"Yeah well, you know, give the advice you'll never follow, ancient proverb. 'Sides, who needs college when you've got rehab centers and their mechanics reintegration classes?" She asks bitterly, waving her screwdriver in the air. "See? Your machine's ready, ma'ame. Is there anything else you want me to tinker?"
Alex smirks meaningfully. "I'll avoid answering that question. Actually I won't. There's something you can fix, and it's revolutionary related. Talk to Red."
"What?"
"Talk. To Red. Turn her place into the Café Musain, for all I care. We're overthrowing the government, and lezzifying the media."
"What. The fuck. Are you talking about."
"This is my chance, Nicky," Alex widens her eyes behind her glasses. "Remember how we were looking for a chance to introduce me to your hot blond friend? Here we have it, served in a golden plate! Or should I say, venti papercup? Bitches love social activism and lattes!"
"I don't think I see where you're getting at."
"Say yes to the kids."
"Are you serious?"
"As a fucking coup d'état!"
"Now wait a sec, are you asking me to host a preschool feminist activist meeting in Red's café, with Soso as fucking Liberty leading the fucking people, so that you can shove your fake Theroigne de Mericourt Piroshky dick into Chapman?"
"What!" Alex nibbles thoughtfully on a pen, unable to hide a wide beam. "Liberty was topless, so here's your end of the deal. Plus, you get to smash the patriarchy! Kids were right, this is indeed everything we've wanted!"
"I don't know man, it's not that I haven't had my fair share of Soso's naively well meaning opinions and fancy words in the past, it's just that she talks so fucking much!"
"Yeah I know, she's quite a handful."
"Or should you say a mouthful... So wait a minute," Nicky raises her palms in the air, "you an activist pimp now? Is that how you get your pussy?"
Alex bats her eyelashes innocently, lowering her glasses with two fingers. "I'm just stating that you can help the girls with their noble cause, and me with mine!"
"France before pants, Vause."
"I just feel that she'll be the type to attend a feminist meeting taking place in her neighborhood. I mean, you know her better of course, but I fucking feel it, Nicky!"
"Yeah I know about those feels," Nicky scowls. "I don't see why you're so pumped up with this matchmaking business though. Chapman's cool and all, but she fucks piefucker Larry, sells fancy soaps with my mum's One True Daughter, and calls her fucking dog Granola! I mean I love her, but she's a Mediocre Cinammon Roll, just Right for this World, just Edible!"
"Fuck Nichols," Alex squirms in horror, "what kind of a friend are you?"
Nicky puts her tools in her bag, heaving a sigh. "The pussy liking kind. And that one? She's a dog person, dude!"
"I'm a dog person too," Alex browses through the watercolor book with a dreamy smile she can't quite get rid of.
"Hey, watch your sap, okay? It'll start dripping all over my tools and y'know how territorial I get!"
"Of course. Should we talk about your Lorna Ya don't look like a lesbian problematic fave Morello instead?"
"Suck my tit," Nicky smirks, no hint of spite in her voice.
"With pleasure!"
"We got a cycling date, actually."
"As in, you'll let her ride you?"
"As in, I'll teach her how to ride, Vause, the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Sounds promising," Alex winks, moving behind the chair and starting to gather her things, cleaning the desk up for Stella's shift. Nicky gestures at Stella's side, all the books full of ironic biker tattoos. "Hey, you fuck her yet?"
"No I did not fuck her. She's my coworker and of ambiguous moral background."
"In your spare time you're a drug mule, Vause!" Nicky loud-whispers, fairly amused. "You and I have different definitions of morality!"
"God that was tacky!"
"Hey, now that you mentioned tacky, have I told you what I think of Chris-tuh-fuh?"
"What do you think of him?" Alex smiles, and only does so to give her a rantaway again.
"That he's like Red's chicken!"
"Russian?"
"An urban legend! He doesn't fucking exist!"
Alex shudders. "Yeah, no big news."
Nicky fiddles with her tool belt a little, then raises her eyes. "I must go now, or I'll pass out and wake up with Carlin's face tattooed on my ass."
"Sure, thanks for fixing that. And Nicky?" she calls. "Please talk to Mommy and Blondie. Do it for the revolution!"
Nicky rests back, placing her thumbs on her tool belt and sticking it out. "The shit I do for a Motherland that hates my fucking guts!"
Vause's husky chuckle is totally worth it.