A/N: This is a birthday gift for KatieJay as organised by the Elsanna Shenanigans Discord Server - and is a crosspost from AO3. Happy Birthday, Katie!
You always had a problem parking between the lines: parallel lots, vertical ones, even the slanty bays at Woolworths'. Your blonde fringe flutters in a gasp of exasperation as you peer out the window of your dad's little hatchback. Someone honks behind you. Goddammit, why do these lots have to be so freakin' small? It takes forever, and as you slam the door shut, perspiration trickles down your forehead - and you catch sight of a Mitsubishi Outlander crammed perfectly straight in a compact lot.
Anna always had a problem colouring in the lines, not that she ever really tried. The squiggly lines on her colouring book depicting caterpillars or ladybugs were more suggestions for her to spew a monstrosity of rainbow colours on. Why can't a caterpillar be blue? She'd ask her teacher. No, they only exist in storybooks. Tongue poking between her lips, Anna wears down her yellow colour pencil to a nub as she shades in a girl's hair. She draws flowers, blue and purple and red, all outside the lines of her book. No one's hair is that blonde, the teacher remarks, only for Anna to fold her arms in a huff. No, my sister's is.
It's not entirely unexpected then, that as Anna grows older, some lines that aren't meant to be crossed become irretrievably broken. A birthday card becomes a present. A hug becomes one that lasts longer than it's supposed to. All snug and saturated in the scent of her strawberry hair. Ok Anna, you can let go of me now, it only makes her hug tighter, but what if I don't? A stolen glance becomes an obvious one, before it turns into eye contact, lingering far longer than your socially anxious potato of a brain can tolerate, were it not for the fluttering it sinks in your chest. Pecks on the cheek become kisses on the mouth. The gentle curve of her lips against yours stealing what willpower you have to resist letting her cross yet another line. Soon the kisses turn raw, and needy. She waits for you to be alone before lurching into one of her attacks, straddling you on the family couch. And as your fingers wander below the hem of her track shorts, a line snaps in your soul.
We shouldn't be doing this.
I know.
Then why are you-
Why does something so wrong feel so right?
Father grabs hold of you one day, his voice urgent and harsh like nothing you've ever heard from a man who works 60-hour weeks in construction and spends what little time he has watching the footy and drinking beer. He starts telling you about your responsibility as an older sister, the lines you aren't meant to cross and just how damaging it is to a younger girl that you're letting this go on. I love her, you protest. Then stop, he argues back, I didn't raise you to be this callous. Don't hug her. Don't touch her. Don't say anything that- and his voice fades into a raspy drawl in your ear, his rough features dissolve into a teary fog, and you end up shutting yourself in your room.
What happened? The notification on your phone beeps, I heard dad yelling at you. And for the first time in forever, you leave her on read.
Thank god you've always chosen the rear lecture theatre seats, because when Professor Lawson draws a pair of parallel lines across the chalkboard - it spirals your typically stoic demeanour into a meltdown. Two parallel lines, he explains, forever on the same gradient, slight displacement apart, but never destined to meet. You bite your shaking fingers as tears seep through them, the stinging agony not being nearly enough to dull the pain. Fuck! You seethe, knocking your head backwards against the wooden wall. The pair of white lines mocks you from a distance. Forever intertwined together and yet separated by that tiny gap that is the space between two rooms in a modest suburban Australian home.
University becomes a lonely haze of Academics and video games. The few friends you have treat you like a persistent pet project. Oh let's get Elsa out of her shell, they snigger, while copying your assignments. Bitch, you don't want to know what put me there. It takes more than a promise of Xbox, Maccas, sausage rolls and VB beer to coax you into a mate's going-away party. What that "more" is, you haven't the slightest clue. But you see her rocking up close to midnight. After you've trashed half the party at every game from Tekken 4 to FIFA 2023. Your lips part at the petite, slim figure giving high-fives to people you barely know. Her eyes glance over yours, giving little reaction to the realisation that you've made fewer friends in three years than she had in three weeks. Your repressed feelings manifest as a mild sense of competitiveness, and through the corner of your eye, you try to match her drink-for-drink (even if you know it's pretty much hopeless). The alcohol tightens that invisible cord connecting you two across the cramped expanse of a house party. The gravitational pull between two objects. Obviously you're the larger one because she makes her way across to the couch. She doesn't ask you for permission to dance, or you miss it over the low beats of Drake and Kanye West. And her hands lead you into the backyard. Arms flung over your shoulders. Eyes closed against your chin. She smells different, or maybe it's just the tequila shots you've taken. Your mouth opens to speak, Anna. Only for her to cut you off, quiet - I don't need to hear your voice right now. Her hips sway against yours beneath the fairy lights strung between two gum trees. You've been cruel to this girl, far too cruel to deserve what she's doing to you right now, for you. But you just thank the tequila gods and tell yourself it's just her drunk self acting up.
I just want to pretend we're not related for a moment so I can forget all the bullshit dad made you do. Or not do. Or whatever.
Nope, she's not drunk.
Your silence persists. She rewards it with a kiss, tasting like cheap beer and bitter resentment. You ponder kissing her back, if only for the reminiscence of it all - but you ponder too long. And with that, she's gone. Her snivel is inaudible beneath the music. Barely looking over her shoulder as she storms out. You're too bewildered to sob. Too out-of-it to even go to sleep, fearing what you had in that moment was really a waking dream and sleeping would erase it from your memory.
The next day, your Algebraic geometry professor draws a line through the axis and a circle beside it. The tangential curve barely grazes the line of chalk. You wonder if you're fated to have her pop up in your life like this. Over and over again - touching for the fleetest of moments before drifting apart forever.
Perhaps the experience anchors you into your mundane university life. As you see your friends graduate and move onto cushy private sector jobs, nothing really compels you to leave. Or maybe you're hoping to run into a cute redhead at a house party again. Twenty-two years old and with nothing to prove, you achieve your Masters degree. A scrap of paper merely a ticket to the PhD program. By then you're in too deep with Academia. A Doctorate becomes two. You supervise students, none of them looking like your sister and it only makes it that much more annoying. Especially when the Dean tries unsuccessfully to pique your interest in a research subject with the Commerce Faculty.
I'm a pure maths person, those guys only care about money, you argue.
Guess what, so do we - get your ass over there or we're cutting your next grant.
Fingernails claw down the pale smoothness of your cheeks as you see your sister's name on the Faculty roll. No, no this can't be happening. And what's that? Assoc. Prof Anna? You didn't even know that Anna studied economics. You didn't even know she was in Academia. Heck you didn't even know she graduated, she didn't invite you. You just got so sucked into the mess of your own life that you forgot the very person who sent you there in the first place.
Ooh! You both have the same surname, the administrator quips, are you two related?
Anna forces a weak smile. Grey suit and pants. Dark glasses. Her hair's still a little curly in that tight ponytail.
Sorta.
A fishing line snags your heart and rips it out. All bleeding and shit. You just tell yourself it's the tangent meeting the circle once again, and this will be over soon.
It becomes more than a meeting. The tangent shows up in your office and on calls, repeatedly berating you for your style of research while you tell her off for being so reckless with her data. Your little sister's grown up to be an Economics snob, every theory supported by a model, in turn supported by years of data. While your theories just have to mathematically check out, maybe computational validation if you have the time. But how would we know it works? Her disaffected voice booming so loud that colleagues always ask if you're alright after each meeting with her. The arguments extend beyond research styles - font sizes and margin spaces and even the colour of the slides. Months pass and you begin begging for this to be a tangent. You question why she'd behave like this. Perhaps the girl has a chip on her shoulder. Something to prove. To you? Or a seething frustration at not having her way. With you? Why does everything have to be about you? You bury your head in your hands, looking down another one of her snarky, sarcastic emails.
The entire research project is more agonising than childbirth. With none of the satisfaction when it finally passes peer review. Perhaps it's the unusual methodicalness and thoroughness that her abrasive personality has placed into you. You're more careful this time, checking and counter-checking every assumption and reference that when the defence eventually comes, it passes without a hitch. She sees you outside the Faculty building when it's over, laptop bag slung over her shoulder. Untied red hair fluttering in the breeze. Her eyes narrow through the sunset. Before extending a hand.
It was nice working with you, Dr. Elsa.
And with that stiff, polite gesture - you realise this tangent is over. It's ok, it's ok, you watch her slim figure disappear behind the pillars, trying to stop your heart from cracking by force of will alone. It doesn't work. You slump down onto the steps, wonder through tear-stained glasses, whether it's the last time you'll ever meet her.
Hey I got a letter from the Foundation - perhaps we should open it in my office.
The email's notification chime rings in your head repeatedly as Anna's assistant shows you into her office. It's more cluttered than you remember, economics books and boxes of students' assignments piling up beside bookshelves full of folders. The only tidy spots are a coffee table and two armchairs, complete with a Nespresso machine and little dainty cups. She flashes the envelope the moment you enter. Let's open it together.
You can't remember the last time you saw her smile, or say anything to you that didn't start with "For crying out loud-" and ended with one of a dozen expletives.
Still, the thin Helvetica font on the envelope spelling out AUSTRALIAN ACADEMY OF SCIENCE catches your attention.
Did we? Your voice's pitch raises, Did we get it?
Let's find out!
She rips the envelope as the realisation sinks in - she waited for you. And the light in her eyes gives it away.
Yes! Yes! We did it! The Horan Medal is ours!
In her excitement, she leaps onto her table, knocking over a monitor and hurling herself into your outstretched arms. Her office smells like chalk and printer toner, but your heart is on the verge of exploding as she twirls around in a spin, court shoes dangling above the ground in a circle.
Ok, put me down, I'm giddy.
The fluorescent office lights shine off a tear which made its way down her freckled cheeks. You reach out a hand to dab it away, but she recoils from your touch, wiping it away herself. Your heart contracts.
I'm glad we won this together.
A student knocks on her office window. She motions you to the door. And you're left standing in the blue carpet-lined lobby, staring at conference posters and wondering if you like this tangent or not.
The award presentation takes place at an elaborate event, more ostentatious than what Academic dinners are usually like - or perhaps they just needed to spend their event budgets before the fiscal year was over. Anna's nowhere to be found, even when your presentation slot's minutes away. You wonder if you're going to receive the medal on your own - before remembering her perpetual tardiness, for piano classes, seminars, even mundane conference calls. She arrives with barely seconds to spare. Plain, fluted black dress pleats falling gently over her body like the last leaves of fall. You suck in a breath at the sight. Coiffed red hair in a bun. She did away with the glasses. Her neckline's barely showing. And you think - doesn't Anna prefer sequined dresses? She wore that to the prom or some event in your dream or fantasy that you don't remember. Your eyes trace the lines of her body. You wonder how much this girl, no this woman has changed. Whether you even want her to change. Or whether you just want her.
Woah woah, hold on there. What's that about wanting her?
The confusion rages in your head in a brief thunderstorm until your names are called to the stage. Anna links her arm in yours. The skip in her step churning each dinner course in your belly. All the words from your acceptance speech spill from your mouth in a mountain of spaghetti as they present you the medals - and for the first time in your life, you can finally count on Anna's youthful exuberance and extroversion.
"So like, if you're looking at our surnames on the papers," you stutter into the microphone, "and wondering if we're related, the answer is, yes we are. Sorta."
Anna grabs the microphone and squeals, "We're sisters!"
The crowd applauds their approval. And all at once it feels like you've come an entire circle from the very beginning.
Her proclamation of sisterhood still reverberates in your ears as you sip on wine. It's enough. You tell yourself, watching her chat with a staff member. That's the least of all you ever wanted from her. Just to be sisters again. The finality of this relationship lays some much-needed peace into your soul, and you turn to leave, only for a hand to catch in the crook of your elbow. Her eyes are glowing with their usual liveliness. Cheeks flushed red from wine. Slight slur in her voice.
"Night's not over," she points to the couples swaying to the music, "wanna dance?"
You swallow, "Oh, I don't, I don't dance with my research partners-"
"Oh yea?" she smirks, "How about with a sister?"
You look deep within her eyes to see if she means it. She doesn't wait for you to find out. Her hand tugs you somewhere until it's just the soft, classical music and her even softer body pressing against yours.
"You look happy," she whispers.
"I am happy," you answer, searching your heart for the truth, "I'd be happy without the medals. I-I'm, I'm-"
The words desert you. She leans even closer. Lips crush against your chin. And when her voice leaves them, it sounds like she's begging.
"Tell me."
"I'm at peace. That you finally see me as a sister. I've never wanted anything else more than that."
Her arms suddenly fling over your shoulders. Hips flush against yours. There's a glimmer in her eyes trying to discern if you remember. That other tangent years ago.
"But what if I do?"
The question stops your heart. You try to speak, before a hoarse, croaking sound leaves your throat. Oh god, this is worse than stage fright. This is Anna-fright. C'mon you've argued with this bitch countless times. You can do this.
"Uh, Anna, I-I don't know w-what-"
Her lips graze yours. You can feel them moving with each word she so effortlessly pronounces despite the thumping you feel behind her dress.
"You don't have to tell me anything," Anna slurs. You exhale a sigh of relief, only to lose it all at her next words.
Show me.
And with that, her lips perch a miniscule distance from yours. Waiting. So close that you could just not do anything and let the inevitable gravity and magnetism or whatever force that exists between two soulmates take over and do what you're so afraid to do. Your desire wins over; you dip down slightly. She tightens her grip. The slight gasp leaving your throat stolen by the taste of her lips on yours. That little bouncing marble of fear still ricochets around your brain, and when she breaks away from you, all gaspy and short of breath - that's all you can think about.
"Oh Anna, I don't think we-"
She cuts you off with another kiss, and the urgent words -
"You don't think we should stay here? We should get out of here? Sure-"
And it's all it takes to melt your resolve.
You give her a tutorial about lines that evening. That line behind your neck that makes you moan. The curve of her spine that you trace beneath your lips. A multitude of lines that connect each freckle on her bare breasts. Together, you learn about the exponential singularity that comes when two masses collide and collapse under the intensity of their own gravitational pull. Your head buries in her hands as she screams your name; rough wet kisses across patches of skin that somehow remain dry. And when you finish for the last time under the gentle curve of her touch - you ponder about the asymptote: two souls which stay apart, drawn together after what feels like an infinite amount of time.
And you decide you like that line the best.