Im sorry this chapter is so short, and I'm sorry that it took me so long to get this out... I have a lot in store for this story, so don't give up on me here! Thanks to all who reviewed the first chapter, it means so much and it really motivates me to keep updating. This story may move up to M depending on how steamy I feel like making it eventually ;) Enjoy! Lyrics from the wonderful song Joints by Holly Miranda.
T:
I woke up with a headache and a sour taste in my mouth.
The apartment was still dark, the blinds drawn messily across the window frame, tied over and knotted multiple times - as if to keep any glimpse of light hidden. I had a quick vision – blurry from the alcohol that had turned the previous night into a kaleidoscope of faces – of Sara, her hair mussed from either my hands or the wind, I couldn't remember, tying closed the blinds with maniacal strokes. She had yelled something, something about that damned light, but my lack of recollection made her intoxicated voice incoherent. A wave of anxiety washed over me for no apparent reason, and I thought about the things I must have said to Sara, the things I must have done, and I suddenly felt out of place on my own couch. I readjusted myself, getting up from my lopsided position and onto my feet. A wave of dizziness hit me immediately and I clung to the arm of the sofa to steady myself.
Deep breaths, Tegan. Breathe.
The door to my room was open, and even in the darkness I could make out Sara's figure, splayed out on the mattress in sleep. I felt my throat start to close, and I wasn't sure if it was from the hangover or nerves. I tip-toed into my room, ignoring how the sheets twisted around Sara's frame like a lustful lover, or how her mouth was open ever-so-slightly, her tongue brushing her lips with each breath.
I just stood there, awkwardly twisting my shirt between my fingers, not sure of if I should wake her or wait for her to wake on her own. Hell, I probably shouldn't have been watching her in the first place.
I suddenly craved the taste of nicotine that I hadn't wanted for a year.
But luckily, before my mind could wander or I lost track of time altogether, she breathed a heavy sigh and arched back against the mattress. I heard her bones crack and joints shake before she yawned and straightened up against the headboard. She glanced over at the window before noticing me; she jumped up in surprise and slammed her head against the wall.
"Jesus, Tegan, you want to say something next time?" She snapped, now rubbing her head softly.
"Sorry." I mumbled, my voice awkward and hoarse from lack of use. That, or lack of sleep. Or the hangover. One of the three. She twisted her hair lightly behind her ear, and it seemed that my awkward one-word answer had left the room suffocated with an uncomfortable silence, raising the hairs on my arms.
Sara slid onto her feet and suddenly refused to look at me, and I knew we were picturing the same thing: her warm lips on mine, slightly chapped and stained with beer, her tongue in my mouth, her hand on my hip, my mind buzzing with a need that I should haven't felt, but did anyway.
And then I noticed how pale her face was, the way her fingers brushed over her lips and I realized that maybe I was the only one thinking about that.
"Sara?" I was worried now, watching as she clung to the bedpost to keep her balance. She put her hand up to quiet me and I saw her hand worm her way onto her stomach. Sara never bode well with hangovers, I knew that well enough, and she usually spent the day kneeled over beside the toilet, grimy hands clutching the seat.
And as she rushed past me and into the bathroom, I figured this day would be no different.
I tried to block out the noises she was making, and I diligently waited outside the bathroom door until they had died down. Once I was sure it was safe, I gently pried open the door and strode in carefully.
"Are you okay?" I kneeled down beside her, watching her nails dig into the porcelain toilet; I wasn't sure if it was from her nausea or how close I was to her, our arms nearly brushing. I rocked back onto my heels to give her more room.
"Fine." She said responded so quickly and quietly that I hardly caught it. She twisted a falling tendril of hair behind her ear and I watched her cautiously, trying my best to not make her uncomfortable. Sara was always one to hide her vulnerability - she never liked to show weakness and I respected that. And by the look in her eye, this seemed to constitute as one of those "vulnerable moments"; she seemed uncomfortable and this feeling transferred to me, until I was awkwardly rubbing her back, rocking on my heels.
I cleared my throat, and it seemed to bring back her nausea, and I looked away to give her as much privacy as I could.
And suddenly I couldn't stand the image of her, so exposed by the toilet, knuckles bruised and throat inflamed; I stumbled to my feet and started for the door.
"Tegan, wait." Sara's hand shot out and clung to the sleeve of my shirt. Her fingers were clammy and sweat-laden; it made my grasp slippery and flimsy when I twined my fingers with hers.
She fumbled for her words, delirious from the nausea. I let her take her time, watching as she rolled over the words with her tongue like a sweet kiss, before she mumbled, "Do you think you can go to the store and get me some soda water and aspirin?"
I smiled and gave her hand and idle squeeze. " Yeah, of course. Are you sure you'll be okay here alone-"
"I'll be fine." She cut in quickly, seemingly annoyed by my question. I quickly dropped the subject and left her hand at her side.
"I'll be back in ten minutes, I promise." I called as I grabbed the keys from the counter, not even bothering to change out of last-night's outfit as I slid on my coat.
I heard her mumble something from the bathroom, rendered incoherent from the distance; I simply yelled a goodbye and walked out the door.
S:
I loved claustrophobia. Tegan always seemed to think it strange, but I didn't – it was a routine for me, it was comfortable. I would slip into my closet every time (virtually any) emotion came over me. I would listen to the scrape of my shoes on the floorboards and lock the door, pressing my back to the cold plaster of the walls and just listened to my breathing.
In, out. In, out.
And every time I felt my world tilting, I knew where to find all four walls, I could scrape my nails against them, and I could leave my feet steady and stable on the floor. I knew where everything was in that damned room: the old magazines that I was too tired to read, the dust mites that floated lazily through the room, the light bulb hanging from the ceiling that surely burnt out, but was never replaced. It was an odd sense of control that I could find nowhere else, and I craved it suddenly, and I bee-lined straight for the closet.
I had finally managed to calm down my stomach, and now its gurgled impatiently as I crouched into the corner. I sighed heavily and leaned my head back against the wall, ignoring the ache in my ribcage that ached slowly and deeply with each breath.
I scratched my hand idly, feeling the dead skin litter off like garbage in the street, although I couldn't see it. The air in the room was compressed to the point that I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, a slow, painfully increasing cadence. I let my fingers trail the hems of worns shirts and pants, painting the image of them in my mind. I had worn them so many times that they seem recycled now, and I wanted to tear them down, I wanted to rip them up with my bare hands so I could recreate myself in new clothes, in new skin.
My fingers paused at something soft and unfamiliar, and my heart stopped. I lifted myself to my feet and ignored my trembling bones as I stripped the shirt from the hanger. I knew what it was, even in the dark, because I had put in there that drunken night when she left.
It was Emy's shirt.
I slid the shirt over my head – she was always taller than me, so it hung down so low that it brushed against my thighs. I curled myself back in the corner and drew my knees to my chest; the shirt pressed so close to my nostrils that it burned them, burned the smell of her that still lingered on the fabric into me until I could practically taste her on my tongue.
I can feel it in my joints,
it aches and creaks and there's no point.
I recalled how Tegan used to complain to me of her heartache when we were young, and how I would secretly deem her weak and pathetic. I used to selfishly pride myself that I would never let someone worm their way into my heart, and the thought now made me feel desperate and pathetic – how could I not only let Emy into my heart, but into my very bones as well? How could I let myself become so weak?
And I stuffed her shirt into my mouth so that it could strange away the sorrow, and I immersed myself in silent sobs and screams and let them shake my body like a capsizing ship.
