"Marriage isn't between a man and a woman, but between love and love." -Frank Ocean
The two women stand on the dance floor with their arms around each other in the middle of the bar, listening to the music vibrate off the walls and reverberate against their skin, pressed together. The one with the dark hair sways her hips, one hand against the slender girl's back and the other tangled in her flaxseed hair that cascades down in messy waves. Her lips mouth words into the blonde woman's ear, singing the song that plays through the speakers in the musky room. The blonde woman has both arms secured around the taller one's waist, cradling her body and at the same time pulling her impossibly close to achieve the feeling of unity, totally inseparable from each other.
Even in the awkward silences between when one song stops and the other begins, they dance together as if they were the only people in the whole city, as if they had the whole world to themselves, moving to the music that generates within themselves from just the other woman's presence. Each hold their inamorata with such reverence and love that it exudes from their bodies in nearly tangible waves of energy: holy. Pure. Languid. Even with the gyrations, the salacious sheen of sweat clinging to breasts and foreheads, the hands and high-heeled feet that is to be expected of a Rabelaisian bar atmosphere such as this, the two women stand out in the crowd. A charged radius is left around them, where it is impossible for the other people in the dim-lit building to go without feeling uncomfortably out of place, sensing the intoxicating, tempestuous aura of the couple.
A spark is ignited between the two women, body to body, hand to hand, cheek to cheek, heart to heart. Flames burn through their veins instead of blood. There is heat. There is heat, and the two women continue to move on the dance floor unhurriedly.
And when the blonde presses her lips to the brunette's neck, the hollow just below her jaw, the air escapes the darker girl's lungs and she can't think. Her eyes shut. She sees flashes of deep, rich colors beneath her eyelids. And her hands find their way under her shirt, pressed flat, the crevice of the lean girl's spine humming against her palm. They are impassioned.
"I could dance forever with you, Katniss," Peeta whispers into her lover's neck, lips brushing against earthy skin. Katniss's arms encircle around her closer, fingers trailing against her bare body, raising familiar goosebumps in their wake, pressing the woman's hipbones into her own. Stomach against stomach, ribs against ribs, breasts against breasts, they are the same being. They fit together.
"I love you," the taller girl murmurs into her golden hair. "I love you, Peeta."
Katniss revels in the feeling of being held by the woman she loves, by the woman who loves her with all her soul, intoxicated by her scent, her laugh, her muscles, her freckles. She's hooked. She finds paradise when she is with her.
And here the two are, holding each other, finding paradise in the middle of a sea of heterosexuality. They disregard the frowns directed at them and the not-as-inconspicuous-as-the-homophobes-had-thought pointing. The young women's hearts dance together as their feet do, in the sex-saturated room, ignoring everything but themselves. Their pulses mimic their eyes as they flit over each others faces, a gentle smirk resting on Peeta's perfect pink lips. Fingers intertwine with fingers, arms raise into the air, a victory stance in celebration of them, thumbs brush, tongues flick out to wet lips. And there is always eye contact, heated and so alive. Power runs between the two, around their ankles like a brisk autumn breeze, swirling up the leaves of morning kisses, coffee breath, Friday pizza nights, slow dancing in the middle of the street, drinking hot chocolate out of wine glasses, sharing mittens on cold winter days.
The smiles that play upon their lips could make flowers grow.
Peeta draws back from their embrace slightly to run a hand through her honey tresses, still crimped slightly from the braid she had it in the night before, further exaggerating their natural waves. Her hair frames her thin, delicate face and falls past her athletic and somehow- in a way that Katniss has always found somewhat enticing- simultaneously feminine shoulders, toned arms, down to her narrow waist. The loose-fitting top she wears right now covers the strong muscle of her upper body that she developed through years of hauling bags of flour and crates around the bakery that she now owns. Peeta flutters her fingers quickly as they run through her hair, trying to untangle a knot at the bottom, and scrunches her face. A laugh rumbles in Katniss's chest as she places a small kiss on her wrinkled nose.
She glances up at Katniss, her eyes flitting just a fraction of a second until resting, preoccupied, back to the tangled split ends of her hair. Katniss wishes she hadn't looked away; she wishes she never would. Peeta's eyes hypnotize the people she speaks to, rimmed with thick eyelashes that make them even more distinctive. And when she smiles at you, this quality of her is awoken that makes it unthinkable to hate her; Katniss swears that at least five guys she passes on the street every day fall for her, just from simply flashing her teeth at them. Being with her is like wrapping yourself in the comforter that is too big for you the second it has come out of the dryer and feeling home as you inhale the homey scent of fresh cotton and warm detergent. Being with her is like running your hand through your hair immediately after you've woken up, only to be surprised by the complete and utter lack of tangles in it and the ease at which your fingers run through the silken strands. Being with her is like... seeing the first blossom of spring. And smelling the crispness of the air that had departed for the winter, clear and fair anew.
It really is too bad you're gay, Katniss would joke. 'Cause you've got those guys hook, line, and sinker.
They don't even have a chance, Peeta would reply, pulling her girlfriend close and rubbing her arm up and down casually. Especially when they're competing with you.
The best thing is that with Peeta, her smiles are always genuine. She's the kind of girl who doesn't even have a clue about how much she means to people. Peeta smiles and leaves everyone in her wake feeling happy, leading a better day because they know that she sincerely cares about those around her. Optimism, compassion, generosity. Katniss can never wrap her mind around why such a perfect girl as Peeta would want to be with such an ordinary, even subpar, girl as her. It is astounding, mind blowing, a miracle. Before Peeta, Katniss hadn't even put it together that she was different from all the other girls around her. Peeta had been there for her when Katniss was racking her brain for reasons as to why she could possibly have possessed romantic feelings for all her previous boyfriends and still had the capacity to love Peeta, a remarkable person, but a girl. She helped her cope with the fact that maybe some people wouldn't like her for who she was or who she chose to love, and that that's okay. That is something people like us just have to learn to live with, she would say. People like us, Katniss would ponder. Is there really such a strict definition of what, who we are? Are we all truly exactly one thing? Neither thought so then, and neither do now, but the fact remains that the majority of the population- the straight population- did. And Peeta was patient with her.
Most of all, the sweet girl, all smiles and honey hair, was the catalyst that helped the girl with the braids come to terms with and learn to feel pride in who she is and was.
Now, in this moment, Peeta tilts her head and plants a soft kiss on Katniss's lips.
"I love you," she whispers back, her voice cracking in the middle of the sentence, leaving her chuckling as her warm breath mingles with Katniss's. "And I particularly love you in that dress," she murmurs into the hollow of her neck.
"You always say that," she smirks as her lover slips her slender hands into the craftily hidden pockets inside the folds of Katniss's short, loose dress. As her girlfriend moves, Katniss gets a whiff of her scent, her trademark Peeta smell: the rich, wholesome scent of flour and a certain delicate aroma that reminds Katniss of spring dandelions. She breathes in deeply, filling her lungs to their complete capacity, not wanting to have it be replaced with the sticky scent of the bar. (And also, admittedly, getting her fill of eau de Peeta. She might be slightly addicted.) Katniss moves her arms down to meet Peeta's, rubbing circles with her thumbs over her bare wrists.
"Only because it's always true." How matter-of-fact. Always, indeed. "I'm going to go get some beer. Want me to grab you an IPA?" Peeta asks, her nose wrinkling slightly as she eyes the less-than-modest movements of their surrounding company.
"Yeah, sure. Thanks, P." Katniss presses a quick kiss to her knuckles as she draws her hands out of her pockets and goes to wait by a corner booth as the golden-headed girl's hips sway lightly all the way over to the counter, where the bartender runs back and forth from the cooler to the taps. Katniss makes her way sedately to the booth, weaving through pairs of sweat stains and beer goggles as if they were photocopied. As she tries to get around one exceptionally physical couple a young man brushes past Katniss, his shoulder bumping abruptly against hers, throwing her arm across her body roughly.
The corners of her lips drag down.
"Dyke," he mutters maliciously, just under his breath enough for it to go unnoticed by those around them, but loud enough for Katniss to hear him clearly. The jolt unnerved her and she clenched her fists, shoving them back deep into her pockets to keep from acting out in a way that very well could get her and her girlfriend kicked out of the bar.
Bigot, she muses about calling back, mocking him. Watch out, I might endanger your family values. Don't get too close, it's contagious! She does not say anything though, and she lets the man walk away with his big ignorant ego, thinking he righted the world of another wrong.
Only a handful of seconds later, Peeta comes back with her seasonal pumpkin ale and Katniss's IPA.
"I got one homophobe over here. You?"
"I was honored to be the recipient of various glares and one stool-scoot away from me," she brushes a stray strand of gossamer hair out of her face and flicks her eyes over to her girlfriend for a brief moment.
"I had the pleasure of hearing yet another completely original gay slur," Katniss states as she puts the bottle to her lips.
"I think I win this time," Peeta mumbles.
And the two young women lean up against the booth people watching, one hand holding their chilled, deep brown tinted glass bottles and the other holding each others, fingers intertwined and thumbs casually running against against their skin, against each other. They clink the hips of their beer bottles together and exchange a quick smile before they begin pointing subtly and making up humorous conversations between scantily-clad women and their male rubbing posts. Sneaking a glance at her inamorata, Peeta has a hard time swallowing as her cheeks refuse to stop grinning, her lips pulled tight in a broad smile around the mouth of the thick glass.
"Gender preference does not define you. Your spirit defines you." -P.C. Cast
The grinding sound of a blender arouses Katniss from her sleep coma.
She stretches herself further out among the cool sheets of her bed, twisting her body and flexing muscles to wake them up from their nine-hour stupor, sprawled out diagonally over both her side and Peeta's side of the mattress. She relaxes and curls up into a ball, rubbing her eyes and stretches out again, rolling onto her stomach. She reaches lethargically for the pillow that had not been beneath head the whole night, and hugs it. This is her leisure time. The fabric of the clip is cool against her cheek and she takes in a deep breath, half waking up and half keeping herself tethered to her spot on the mattress. On the one hand, the flow of oxygen to her brain is stimulating... On the other hand, the downy rectangle she lays comfortably on now smells remarkably like perfection. (If, that is, perfection smelled like flour, dandelions, and something that must be linked to the rush of endorphins Katniss experiences relating to anything Peeta-esque.) It's a habit, though, and habits are harder to break than to make. Once the two girls' relationship became serious enough to begin living with each other, Katniss started a habit of stealing Peeta's pillow, still able to sleep in when her girlfriend wakes up in the morning to start the bread and let it rise before the early bakery hours. Luckily, she never minds since it always ends up smelling like Katniss in the end. On the other, other hand, she deliberates lackadaisically, the real Peeta is only a few yards away in the real kitchen... Why settle for less, Katniss?
"Mmm..." Katniss breathes in the scent of their apartment, the scent of Peeta still lingering in the fabric, the fresh air coming in from their open window, the familiar scent of flour and baking bread wafting into the bedroom from all the way across the multiple rooms and a hallway. She doesn't want to move. But she must admit, she does make a good argument.
Katniss swings her bare legs over the side of the bed and her feet meet the polished hardwood floor. Katniss pulls out one of the drawers of their now-shared dresser and slips on an oversized knit sweater over the tank she slept in. She pads down the hallway, not bothering to brush her hair out from underneath the sweater, so it stays tucked in the collar and bubbling.
"Peeta," she mumbles as her feet slap the floor. Katniss runs a hand along the wall lightly as she turns the corner into their kitchen. Her girlfriend stands there, halfway wearing her apron so the top part of it hangs down with the rest of the canvas, folded at her waist. Peeta sticks one long finger into the blender, containing some sort of green smoothie. She pops it in her mouth, taste-testing. Katniss slumps down, leaning her crossed arms against the counter. On the other side of the cool marble tabletop, the lean blonde girl throws half a banana, some nuts, and honey into the blender.
What a catch, Katniss reminds herself silently, admiring the girl standing in front of her. She makes eye contact with Katniss after having secured the top back on and pressing her finger down on one of the buttons of the machine.
"Good morning." Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. "How'd you sleep? I figured you'd be getting up sometime around now anyway, so," she nods her head towards the cacophonous swirling concoction, and the messy topknot high on her head bobs lopsidedly with her movement. Katniss likes it when she wears her hair down, golden and slightly wavy.
"Well," she merely says, staring at Peeta with her chin still resting on her folded arms. Peeta's slender frame is accentuated by the jeans she chose to put on today, light-wash and tight, rolled up halfway up her calves. When she walks over to the sink to wash off a set of spoons, Katniss feels no shame in dropping her gaze to see how her Levis hug her- and boy, they do their job. The corners of her mouth twitch up. Peeta resumes work on her breakfast despite that she's been awake for a few hours now and would have had time to make breakfast and eat earlier, having opened up shop. It's been almost two years since Peeta started the bakery, and it's been a real hit in the downtown neighborhood. There are a lot of regulars, and business is booming. Katniss has a theory that the large percentage of male customers, especially the preteen hormonal ones, is due to the fact that a hot blonde chick is sometimes working behind the counter.
It's not like they're any threat to her at all, seeing as Peeta doesn't swing that way, but it is amusing to watch sometimes. Oh and the whole gay thing? Another reason why Katniss is baffled that she has Peeta- never in a million years would she have thought, upon their meeting and first knowing each other, that Peeta wasn't straight. (At that time, though, Katniss didn't even know that she, herself, wasn't straight, though. So you gotta give a girl some brownie points for walking Katniss through that mess of sexuality.)
The timer on the stove goes off as Peeta begins pouring the thick liquid into a set of crystalware, so Katniss gets up from her spot of laziness and takes out the oven mitts from a nearby drawer. Her hair falls out from its spot tucked beneath her sweater and into her face as she swiftly pulls on the oven door, using her body weight, and her body arcs down into a crouch. It makes opening the oven more exciting. That tactic works for shutting the car hatch, as well, much to Katniss's delight. The wall of heat rolls out onto her cheeks, like the feeling of the sun beating down on you, and you can feel your skin cooking, and she scrunches her nose.
A giggle behind her seems to hum throughout the open space.
Setting the searing metal pan down on the stovetop, with steaming, perfectly-browned muffins waiting to cool, and shutting the oven with her foot, Katniss turns back to glance at Peeta.
"You're very expressive," Peeta makes out from behind her crystalline cup of a healthy-looking portion of liquified baby spinach, among other foods. The sound seems to circle the glass, rolling and full, and yet muffled.
"So I've been told," she responds dryly.
Peeta puts down her drink onto the counter with a clear, sharp sound of glass hitting marble, and comes over to Katniss, pulling her into an embrace.
"Katniss, I just knew we were perfect for each other," she quips, swaying her hips slightly as she speaks. "You with your oven mitts, and me with my apron- what a match."
"Those are yours, P," Katniss breathes, meaning the mitts, and stares relentlessly into the gorgeous blues of her girlfriend's eyes.
"You know what? You're right! How silly of me to forget." Peeta's smirk draws Katniss's gaze down to her lips, delicately lifting up at one corner. Katniss licks her lips and looks back up with her next words, continuing to joke. "You know what else is mine?"
"The bakery," Katniss decides to play.
"Nope, not that."
"Well then the employees in it."
"Closer... kind of," she chuckles.
"Kind of? Okay then. Half of the silverware."
"Nope." Peeta's grin widens to show her teeth, not commenting on how there is nearly zero connection to 'employees' and 'silverware.'
"Oh, okay! I got it," Katniss glances at the ceiling and widens her eyes as if she's just had an epiphany. "I got it, I got it. Ready?" She waits for Peeta to nod her head. "That huge wine glass with the red swirl in it."
Silence. Peeta just continues to smile as she waits for Katniss to proceed with her banter.
"I can't believe I didn't think of that sooner! You know, what with you being such a humongous alcoholic and all-"
Peeta gasps playfully and rips off one of Katniss's mitts to smack her in the face with it. It leaves excess flour on the right side of her face and a cloud of white puffs out.
"Hey!" Katniss pulls her eyebrows together and attempts to steal back the big padded glove.
"Nuh-uh," Peeta laughs and tosses it away from them on the counter on the other side of the kitchen, albeit a small distance, out of Katniss's reach. Sarcastically, she teases, "Has anyone ever told you that you're very funny?"
"Okay, okay, fine." Katniss sighs dramatically and pretends to roll her eyes. "Me. I'm yours." She can't say the words without cracking another small, authentic smile, though, so she drops the annoyed facade.
Peeta pulls her tighter in their hug, and Katniss lets the other mitt slide off with a soft thump onto the floor before wrapping her arms around her girlfriend like a vice, securing her and never letting go. Peeta leans in and gives her a peck on the lips.
"I know," she murmurs lightly. Katniss rests her head on Peeta's shoulder, feeling satisfied and whole with simply feeling Peeta in her arms and, likewise, being in Peeta's.
Their breathing evens out with that of each other so that they become synchronized. The blonde girl strokes the long, rich tresses of her counterpart and pays attention to her breathing as if it were her heartbeat, as if she could hear it, match it, be one with it. After a few moments, minutes, Katniss readjusts her head into the crook of Peeta's neck slightly.
"Hey, P? You're working today, right?" She hears a mumbled affirmative. "Can I help you in the bakery?"
"Of course, Katniss. Whatever you want," Peeta pulls back and smiles comfortingly at her. "Any reason?"
"No. I just want to be with you." Peeta blinks.
"Okay."
A moment.
Two moments.
Three moments later, Katniss slips out from the embrace and downs her half of the smoothie. It tastes like bananas and pecans and has a bit of a kick at the end. Cayenne pepper, probably. The good thing about the green smoothies that Peeta makes is that for the most part she can't even taste the baby spinach, or the kale, of the algae, or the whatever-new-healthy-thing that she's found. It makes eating well a little bit easier, especially since she lives with a woman who works at carb-city and makes cupcakes for a living. Katniss puts the empty glassware and the green-coated pitcher of the blender into the sink, and rinses them out, letting them soak to deal with later that night.
Katniss hears the gorgeous woman call from the other room as she heads to the door, already setting out:
"You might want to put some pants on, though."
"The beauty of standing up for your rights is others will see you standing and stand up as well." -Cassandra Duffy