Naomi spends the rest of the day avoiding Effy at all costs.
Naomi knows that her friend knows something is wrong, because Effy always just fucking knows everything – and it's pissing annoying, Naomi thinks with a frown as she scowls at her ring binder, completely oblivious to anything Kieran has said so far in the lesson, but it's fine, because she's ace at politics and really has bigger things to worry about than the bloody government and its leaders.
It's not like this is new for Naomi, and it's exactly that, that tightens something in her stomach, a pain that intensifies every time she catches sight of a bruise, or the scars on the backs of her hands; her skin prickles with heat, face flaming as her breathing picks up and panic floods her system, because she just can't stop thinking about what this could all mean, and it's so unfathomably unfair because everything's finally working out, and she has friends and Emily and –
Fuck, Naomi thinks, a broken sound escaping through the thickness in her throat. Emily.
Emily, who fought tooth and nail and Jenna Fitch for her, who loves gardening and Blues Clues and cheese and marmite sandwiches; Emily, who can't cycle to save her life and reads Tolstoy and Jane Austen and has the most brilliant cherry-red hair; Emily, who kisses her like she'll die if she doesn't, who holds her hand and cuddles into her side when they sit in Naomi's back garden and stare at the stars or the sunset, who makes love to her like they have all the time in the world to be young and in love and them. Emily, who Naomi loves more than she will ever love anything in her life.
It's that last thought that makes Naomi's eyes burn so that her vision blurs, and she jumps from her chair and mutters something hurriedly to Kieran about feeling sick (it's not a lie at all) before darting from the room, trying to escape the mindfuck that's making it damn near impossible for her to breathe. Naomi knows that that love runs both ways; Emily loves her so intensely it scares the shit out of her, that she could lose her or fuck everything up so easily and destroy the girl she loves. And that's why Naomi thinks that this just cannot be happening again, because it would absolutely wreck Emily, and Naomi never wants to hurt her, ever, so just, No, she thinks, feet pounding the vinyl floor of the hallway as she flees. This isn't happening.
Naomi closes her eyes and wishes with everything she has for that to be true.
Naomi is panting by the time she reaches the toilets, and she slides into a heap on the cold, tiled floor the second she locks the cubicle door, gasping for breath – she is suddenly, inexplicably tired, completely drained of energy. She quickly assures herself that she hasn't had anything to eat yet today, and she didn't sleep well and coursework is stressing her out (she hastily ignores the voice in her head that tells her she's been just shy of exhausted for the past few weeks now, and it's getting to the point where blaming the crazy sex she's been having with Emily just isn't cutting it, because if she listens to all the alternatives she'll lose her mind). That's all it is. Stress.
It's not, though. And that's the fucking problem.
Naomi curls into herself, head dropping onto her knees as she runs her hands through her hair and bites her lip, desperately trying to stop the tears from falling. If she cries, it means there is something to cry about, and Naomi can't even begin to process what it could mean for her, for everyone, for Emily, and she just cannot deal with it right now, because it's too much, so quite frankly, it can just fuck off.
Naomi takes in deep, shuddering lungfuls of air to calm herself, rubbing her temples to ease the pain caused by her over-thinking; her fingertips come away slick with sweat, and she feels incredibly angry with herself for getting this worked up over nothing (it's not nothing). Sighing in frustration, she clambers to her feet shakily and unlocks the door.
Effy is waiting on the other side.
Naomi freezes. Effy is perched on the edge of the line of sinks, a lit cigarette hanging between her lips (Naomi briefly wonders how she didn't hear the click of a lighter, but then, she was sort of preoccupied), intense gaze focused on the girl in front of her, taking in her watery eyes and unsteady profile. Naomi watches Effy file it all away in her head, and feels fear snake its way into her stomach.
"Jesus Christ, Eff," Naomi manages, voice wavering only slightly as she ducks away from Effy's mind-raping eyes, busying herself with turning on the tap and letting the water cool her skin. "Scared me to death."
And fuck, that was the wrong thing to say, Naomi thinks as her eyes widen and her heart skips several beats in her chest, kicking herself mentally when Effy notices her stiffen where she stands. "Sorry," Effy says, sounding anything but, breathing out a line of blue smoke that curls its way towards Naomi, who desperately tries not to flinch (though it makes bile rise in her throat). Effy pauses, gives her a once-over. "You look like shit."
Naomi rolls her eyes at that, turning off the tap and shaking her hands dry as she leans against a wall to face Effy, because she knows that, thank you very much, can see her reflection in the mirror; her eyes are tired and bright with unshed tears, the skin below them lilac from sleepless nights, and faint lines bracket her lips, holding in everything she can never say out loud. "Gee thanks, Effy. You sure know how to make a girl feel better."
"Better?" Effy questions, arching her eyebrows, at the exact same time Naomi curses herself internally for that slip of the tongue. Be more careful, you twat.
"Yeah, well," Naomi begins cautiously, fidgeting with her shirt sleeve. "It's been a bit of a shit day. This dump is boring as fuck."
Effy smirks, taking a deep drag from her cigarette before flicking it away. It lands three inches from Naomi's feet; Naomi watches it burn silently, distracted by the bright orange glow. She looks up to find Effy staring her straight in the eyes. "Didn't think you got bored with Emily around."
Naomi knows exactly what Effy is playing at. "Emily's not here."
"Odd, considering."
"Considering what?"
"You know what." Naomi's eyes harden. "Something's wrong. Figured she'd be right alongside you, waiting to kiss it all better." A beat. "Still keeping secrets, aren't you, Naoms?"
Anger flares in Naomi's chest, white hot and sharp like the edge of a blade, because fuck Effy and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit, because she doesn't have a cunting clue about anything, about her or Emily. Naomi tells her as much with bitter eyes and a constricted throat, making a move to exit the bathroom in a thoroughly pissed off fashion –
A cool hand on her forearm stops her in her tracks.
"Emily didn't give you that bruise, Naomi." Effy's voice is quiet, solemn; it is the way her friend's voice almost breaks on her name that makes Naomi turn to face her, pleading with Effy with her eyes to just drop it.
The brunette is having none of it – her grip on Naomi's arm tightens, and the blonde winces as the pressure aggravates the contusion on the inside of her wrist. She imagines blood vessels erupting underneath the surface of her skin, bursting under the weight of their own failures. Irreversible damage.
Naomi very nearly tells Effy, then, opens her mouth to wrap her tongue around the words, because she's actually really fucking scared and it's really fucking dangerous, the warning signs scarring her body like paint on a canvas, and she knows she can't possibly keep ignoring them. But Effy's eyes are fixed intently on her own, cobalt blue and wide with expectation; they remind Naomi of an entirely different life, of a man who she swears she still hates, whose own eyes are as blue as the hottest part of a flame, identical to her own – the only connection they still share after the years between. That can't happen again.
Naomi tears her gaze away from Effy as something splinters in her chest, and when she spots the fire-bright red flame of Effy's cigarette butt winking at her from the floor, the words die in her throat; she has to protect Emily. She crushes the fag beneath her heel, watches as it breaks apart into ashes, the light extinguished.
"Everything's fine, Effy." Her voice is weak, a barely there whisper that struggles to span the distance between them. "Just leave it alone."
Naomi wrenches her arm free and escapes from the bathroom, blood pumping so fast through her veins she fears they'll break open from the pressure. She runs from Effy and everything she can't bring herself to think about, desperately trying to convince herself she's doing the right thing.
She's getting good at putting out fires.
Naomi waits for Emily outside of her Psychology classroom at the end of the day, after skipping her last period to chain-smoke behind the Art block (her lungs burned a little more than usual with every drag as an unfamiliar sickness settled in her stomach, but she was in dire need of a nicotine hit to calm herself down and it won't be smoking that kills her anyway, so whatever).
The second Naomi sees Emily coming out of the classroom door, mahogany eyes smiling when she sees the blonde standing there, Naomi knows she's seriously, seriously fucked, because there's just no way she can stand to see Emily looking at her any other way than this.
"Hey, babe," Emily says, walking to meet her and sliding small arms around her waist, pushing their lips together in a brief kiss; Naomi needs more, needs distracting, so she locks her hands around the back of the redhead's neck and strokes the fine hair she finds at the nape, pushing her tongue against Emily's lips. Emily gasps in surprise but grants her access nonetheless, opening her mouth and letting Naomi taste her like she's been dying to for the past hour, and as the kiss deepens, Naomi finds her mood lightening and everything seems a little brighter than before, as all the rainclouds hanging over her head develop a silver lining.
That's just what Emily does to her.
They break apart to catcalls and wolf-whistles, but Naomi doesn't give a shit, because Emily's smile is warm and open, and Naomi feels her heart swell because she's the only one who can make Emily smile like that. Naomi drops her hands down by her sides and interlocks her fingers with Emily's, pulling her out of the college doors.
"Missed me, did you?" Emily asks as they're wandering down the college steps, pointedly smirking in the blonde's direction.
Naomi feels her own lips twitch in response. Of course I did, you twat. "Eh," she shrugs, trying to keep a straight face. "To be honest, I thought you were Katie, and we've been secretly fucking behind your back for a while now, but I guess the cat's out of the bag – "
Emily smacks her upside the head with her free hand, telling her she's a stupid prick, and Naomi can't help but laugh at the adorable mock-scowl on her girlfriend's face. "I'm serious, Em, you could learn a thing or two; she does the most amazing keepy-uppy thing with her tongue – "
"Shut the fuck up, Naoms!" Emily cries, tearing her hand from Naomi's to clamp both of them over her ears and hurrying on ahead, while Naomi shouts after her through her laughter; she chases after Emily continuously on the way back to her house, pinning her against walls when she catches her and kissing her senseless, smoothing her hands over the softness of her skin and just feeling. Emily never gets too far away from her, and when Naomi's hands clutch at her waist and spin her around, her cheeks are dimpled from smiling, hair bright like burning paper in the late-afternoon sun as she curls into Naomi's arms, aquiescing.
These are the moments that Naomi lives for.
Emily is the most beautiful thing Naomi has ever seen.
They are lying on Naomi's bed, the blonde's head in her girlfriend's lap as Emily leans against the headboard, lazily dragging one hand through Naomi's curls whilst she grips a book tightly in the other, reading aloud – Naomi loves the sound of her voice, how it's soft and husky and makes every word sound safe in her mouth. Naomi's not really paying attention to the story Emily is telling, but rather the way her rose-petal lips are moving, the darkness of her eyes around the iris; the blinds are closed, and in the muted light of the room Emily's skin is silver, her hair a shock of brilliant colour against it.
Emily notices Naomi staring up at her, and the blonde smiles sheepishly, caught in the act, reaching up with her right hand to stroke the swell of Emily's cheek; she closes her eyes at the feeling, dropping the book and resting her hands on Naomi's shoulders. Emily hums in contentment as Naomi's hand travels lower, tracing the slope of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, before linking with Emily's own. "You stopped reading."
Emily laughs at Naomi's pout, stroking her fingertips over the blonde's mouth until it smoointo a smile. "You stopped listening," she says, smiling fondly and without a hint of anger.
"Did not," Naomi replies childishly, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself up onto her elbows, grinning at Emily. "We were at the bit where Andrew and Johnathon decide to go to Mexico."
Emily raises her eyebrows. "We're reading 'Spot Tells the Time,' Naoms. We finished reading the Buffy book yesterday. You got really mad that Xander saved the world, because it's supposed to be a show about female empowerment and how strong and independent women are, and 'bloody Xander's a useless fucking prick.'"
Naomi frowns. "Oh yeah." Emily smirks at her, point proved. "Why the fuck are we reading 'Spot tells the time,' Em?"
Emily's facial expression turns a little defensive. "Because. It's very educational. And I love Spot the dog."
Naomi smiles widely at the adorable look on Emily's face, equal parts daring Naomi to contradict and mild embarrassment. "Spot is definitely the coolest cartoon dog there is, Em, for sure," she says, nodding emphatically whilst trying not to laugh, leaning in to kiss the indignant look off Emily's face.
"I've been thinking," Emily says when they pull apart, eyes so bright with excitement that Naomi feels her heart warm in her chest, and she squeezes Emily's hand to prompt her to continue. "We should go travelling next year, just the two of us; put university on hold for a bit." The corners of her mouth curl up into a small smile as an idea comes to her. "Mexico, maybe."
Emily is looking at her expectantly, a world of possibilities charging the air between them; Naomi had always planned on getting the fuck out of Bristol the second she was finished with college (it's a shitty place and she hates it) but she'd always imagined buggering off to a university in London, or Manchester, somewhere she could study politics so she could get a job and finally make a difference in the world like she'd always intended – but now she has Emily.
There will be time for growing up, maturing and becoming a respected member of society, Naomi thinks – that option will always be there, waiting for her. Naomi hopes with everything she has that that will always be true regarding Emily, too, but everything is so fragile, and they might never have the chance to do this again, be so reckless and spontaneous, and Naomi can see how badly Emily wants this for them. So she humours her, for a moment; closes her eyes, and conjures up a mental picture of Emily on a beach at sunset, the sun a slash of red in the sky, devilish grin on her face as she strips off her clothes and beckons Naomi into the peaceful waters; the two of them at a bar, getting shitfaced on something local, slurring their speech with their fingers locked for stability, laughing uncontrollably as they dance together; a year full of Emily, a scrapbook of memories made up of long moments of laughter and making love and and fucking awesomeness, seeing the world through a haze of bright red and dark brown.
Naomi opens her eyes to find Emily looking slightly uncertainly back at her. Naomi closes the gap between them, stealing Emily's lips in a kiss in answer. She travels the length of Emily's body, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotion, the way she kisses Emily's thighs and draws patterns on her skin with her tongue easily translated into I love you.
It's her way of saying yes.
The thought hits her in the night like a shot to the back of her head and has her sprinting out her bedroom door to the bathroom where she vomits into the toilet repeatedly.
Naomi sobs quietly so as not to wake Emily, body shaking as she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth; guilt crashes over her like waves on a rocky shore, and she wretches again at the thought that she just made a promise to Emily about Mexico that she can't guarantee she can keep.
By next year, Naomi could be dead.