May 7, 2015
You cradle your head in one hand. You've got this throbbing pain in your temples and it refuses to go away. It's the physical manifestation of your mental state. You already hate yourself for what you're about to do. But every time you look up, there he is: Alabaster sitting with HER, at a table directly facing yours, like he has been at every lunch period for the past week. Trying to mess with your head, as if that would even work. Pathetic. It's pathetic what he's trying to do.
Every time you see it, every time he flashes you that punchable, smug, sneering grin from across the cafeteria, it gives you renewed resolve to execute the plan.
Stackleford walks by your table on his way to sit with the weeb patrol. You stand. "Boyd."
He wheels around like he just got busted by the police. "I'm sorry!" He pleads.
"You're... sorry?"
He casts furtive glances this way and that. "Listen, if someone looked up bad stuff on my workstation in Computer Science, it wasn't me. I don't even know what hentai IS. I was as shocked as you when I saw it! In fact, I was about to report it myself! Please don't tell the rest of the student council--"
You can feel how taut your smile is. This isn't good -- this isn't going to work. You can't do this. Just standing within three feet of this tubby failure is going to leave you smelling like moist cheese for a month. Going on a DATE with him? Letting him put his hands on your shoulders, letting him dance with you? Letting him -- you fight back vomit -- kiss you?
But then you happen to catch Alabaster's gaze. He's totally ignoring HER, while she prattles on about her latest purchase from Hot Topic. He's watching the conversation between you and Stackleford. He's never been good at hiding his true emotions, not from you, and especially not when you bother to needle him. His expression is as grim as death.
You look back at Stackleford, perking up. "Wanna go to prom with me?"
The shock and joy on Stackleford's face is actually revolting. The glisten of the grease in his pores, the yellow tint to his canines, the folds and crevices of his chins. Your hatred for this boy is like a finely aged wine, with dozens of complex notes and undertones. But it's for a greater good. Because how Alabaster feels is the same as how you feel, only multiplied by 10. Seeing this is killing a little piece of his soul. It's the same logic behind why he would debase and humiliate himself by asking HER to the prom. He hates her, despises everything about her -- but he knows you hate her even more.
After Satackleford stammers through his acceptance, he turns to call after Alabaster. "Did you hear that shit, nigga? I'm going to prom with-- uh..."
He's nowhere to be found. Ladies and gentlemen, Alabaster Soliloquy has left building: stood up and stomped out without even saying goodbye to HER, leaving her to sit befuddled and sad-looking all by herself. You smile warmly.
May 11, 2015
You freshen up in the ladies' room. Lately you've been spending a lot of time here, because it's the one place on campus that Stackleford can't follow you.
With a handheld compact, you redo the concealer around your right eye. Sometimes these shiners just refuse to buff out. You gently touch the tender skin, testing it, worried that someone might notice it even through the caked-on makeup.
You search your purse for a different shade, but the one you want is missing. Alabaster must have grabbed it for his own use. Last night was a doozy.
"I should chop off your head."
Whitney is standing at the sink beside you, pretending to check her hair.
You clack your compact lid closed and stow it in your purse. "Did you get lost on your way to the boy's room, Whitney?"
She huffs. "Get some new material, Incest McTumblr."
"It's not a joke," you say, "I'm sincerely concerned. Do you need me to help you find the right bathroom? I know you've always had trouble with directions... and signs... and basic literacy..."
"If that fat cunt from Moon Station Japanime pops Ally's cherry, I'm blaming you."
"I have nothing to do with Alabaster or Rose 2," you say. "If you have unresolved feelings for him, I suggest you bring them to his attention and discuss them honestly. That's the healthy thing to do."
You try to leave, but Whitney grabs your arm. "I'm not kidding," she says. "You've got him so fucked up that he's eating with the anime club every day. Anime club! It's like making Jesus so mad that he starts hanging out with the Jews just to get back at his dad."
"Jesus WAS --" you begin. Then: "Did you really just compare Alabaster to Jesus Christ?"
Whitney's expression darkens. "If it goes any further between those two, then start calling me the groundskeeper. Because I'll be cutting down Roses like I get paid to. You can take that to the bank."
May 15, 2015
"It's a moral failing, as far as I'm concerned. I don't know what came over him... that girl is a degenerate."
"Cerise, I agree with you. 100%. Honestly - I do. That's why--"
Cerise points at you with the hand holding her beer. A little of it sloshes on your bed, and you suppress the curling of your upper lip. "I'm her fucking faculty adviser," she says. "You don't need to tell me." (Tell her what? She's telling you.) "I deal with her every day. Do you know how many times I've had to stick Rose 2 in the circle of shame? 50, 60 times -- at least. No exaggeration. She's incapable of learning."
"That's very--"
"I think it's some kind of medical condition. She's legitimately retarded. In a clinical sense."
"Right. Which is why--"
"She actually writes Axis Powers Hetalia fanfiction. Unironically. My hand to god."
"I don't know what that is. But what I'm getting at--"
"I should kick her in the teeth. You wanna help me kick her in the teeth? I'll wear steel-toes. You can hold her down."
You like the sound of that. But you decide to save it for Plan B.
"Cerise, I'm quite concerned that Alabaster is being manipulated."
Cerise leers at you. Her drunkenness is making her cognition a little slower than usual. "Manipulated how?" She manages.
You fold your hands in your lap. "Alabaster didn't get to know -- this girl -- very well, until he volunteered to help clean up the grounds of North High after the fire. I was there, too. The whole student council was. I saw the two of them talking. And to my eyes, it really looked like -- this girl -- was using emotionally abusive psychological techniques on him."
"What the hell are you talking about, you dizzy slut?"
You brush that off. "It's called pickup. Usually men use it on women, but it can be done the other way too. You find someone in a fragile emotional state and then pounce -- like that." You pantomime a lion swooping in on its prey, and Cerise startles. "It's rather insidious."
Cerise is skeptical. "You think the girl who still owns an iPod nano and still listens to My Chemical Romance on the iPod nano she still owns is secretly a Hannibal-Lecter-tier brain-bender."
You sigh. "Alabaster is still shaken after the FBI came to question him about the fire. Even though they didn't arrest him - that's a very scary experience, don't you agree? You don't have to be a genius to take advantage of someone in that state."
She stares at you. "What do you want me to do?"
"Just help. That's all. I'd do it myself, but. Well. You know as well as I do that Alabaster isn't too fond of me."
"Not too fond of you?" Cerise half shouts, laughing like a hyena. "I guess Hitler wasn't too fond of Stalin, either. I'm waiting to see which one of you kills the other one first."
You purse your lips. "Despite that, he is family. I hate to see him being used. If you could talk to him -- make him see reason -- maybe he won't have to go through with this ill-conceived prom date. It can only hurt him in the long run."
"Why," Cerise says, "so you can take him? Or just so you don't have to actually take the Human Planet to prom too?"
"I don't know what you're talking about--"
"Want me to do your dirty work? Knock your rival off so you can grab Alabaster on the rebound? Cousin fucker."
"Brother fucker!" You snap. Lost your cool, there.
"You want Alabaster to cancel?" She says. "Then make him do it yourself. I'm not going to step into his personal life. I may not like who he dates, but he's free to make his own bad choices. Whether that's Rose the weeaboo or Rose the insufferable harpy."
Cerise stands and leaves your bedroom. You seethe.
June 5, 2014
You sit propped up against the headboard of your bed. "Your" bed, rather - note the scare quotes - it's hard to think of anything in this unfamiliar room as truly yours. The mattress is a little too soft, the walls are a little too white, the carpet is a little too clean, the air is pleasant in a strangely sterile way that triggers no memories and therefore feels alien. There's nothing to complain about, it's all quite nice, and yet lodging here is like sleeping in a hotel suite; you look forward to returning to your real bedroom, even though you know you never will.
Cerise is here. She's been spending nights with you, watching anime on your new big flatscreen. See, there's another thing you shouldn't complain about: a free hi-def TV, 55 inches, strictly an upgrade from watching anime on your PC monitor. Yet that's what you'd rather be doing.
Tonight was her pick. NeeKyu, some insipid thing about vampire hunters. Cerise is gaga for it but it leaves you cold. Cerise suffered basketball lolis for your sake, though, so this is the least you can do. Not without grousing, of course:
"I hate this shit."
"Shut the fuck up," Cerise says. "I know you aren't used to real characters with real motivations, but some of us have taste."
"What is Shiro's motivation, again? Being a weak-willed asshole who fucks everyone? Wow. Such great writing."
Cerise grumbles.
The truth is, you like this. Not the show. This. Everyone is always saying sorry, these days. I'm sorry for you loss. I'm sorry to hear about your mother. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Even Whitney says sorry, even Rose occasionally takes the time to say sorry. You and Cerise never say it. The galaxies of regret and sadness you share could never be put into words. You rely on an unspoken understanding, the little things you can convey with an occasionally meaningful look or uncharacteristically brotherly hug. That goes way beyond I'm sorry.
Tonight, Cerise wants to tap out early: shifts in place and says something about needing to hit the pavement tomorrow, needing to go catch some sleep.
Whereas sometimes you give her emotional support in ways that would have been unthinkable to the Alabaster of just months ago, you also sometimes need that support in return. "Wait," you say.
You can't bring yourself to add "don't go," even now, because even now it feels like some sort of emasculation. But Cerise can pick up on what you want. She settles again beside you, and you cue up the next episode in the series. She leans her head against your shoulder, and you lean your cheek against the top of her head. Neither of you say anything else for the rest of the night, but here again is the wordless understanding of so many things you can't verbalize. You like the way Cerise smells; it isn't alien like the air in this house that will never be your home.
Tomorrow you will begin down a dark path, but tonight you have some sort of happiness to cling to, however briefly.
October 1, 2014
"There you are!"
Yeah. There you are. Whitney's ability to sniff you out borders on supernatural - she must be part bloodhound.
The sun is already setting and the classroom is suffused in a golden glow. You read a trivia almanac at a desk near one of the windows. Whitney saunters up and sits across from you.
"The election is tomorrow and you're sitting here by yourself dorking it up with your quiz shit while I bust my ass on last minute campaigning. What the hell!"
"I trust in your skills as my spokeswoman," you say. "Do your best. I'm counting on you."
"We're gonna beat the snot out of her," Whitney says. "Everyone I talk to is super freaking peachy keen on knocking Rose Mallory down a peg. They don't even care about your campaign promises, they just wanna fuck with her. It's wild!"
"Hey," you say, still reading your almanac, "here's something weird. Did you know that Hitler was a vegetarian?"
"...Whoa. That's interesting as shit."
You roll your eyes. "Sorry for trying to teach you something."
Whitney slugs you in the shoulder. "Ass munch."
"Hey! I could have you--"
"That's your problem, Ally. You always rag on people because you think they're gonna rag on you. But I wasn't being sarcastic. I think it's cool that Hitler was a vegan. It's like, what? Get out of town."
You close the almanac, fold your arms, try to gauge her expression. She really is telling the truth: for maybe the first time ever, she has something nice to say about your trivia hounding.
"Okay," you say. "Now it's your turn."
"Huh?"
"I taught you something. Now teach me something."
"Pfft. And maybe next you can give me some pointers on soccer. How am I supposed to teach Megamind here a fact he doesn't already know?"
"Give it a shot."
Whitney spends a couple moments in contemplation. She smiles slyly - and then before you can stop her, she swipes the trivia almanac.
"Hey! That's cheating." You try to grab it back, but she turns in place in her chair and uses her shoulders to block you.
"You used this book to teach me!" She chides. "Fair's fair."
"I knew that about Hitler already," you say, which is true. "Seeing it in the book just reminded me."
Whitney pays no attention. She leafs through the pages for some seconds, and finally plucks out a fact at random: "here you go, quiz fag. Did you know the study of eggs is called-- um, ology? No... that's not it. Oology. Two O's. Is this a misprint?"
"It's not a misprint. And it's also not interesting at all," you complain. "That's just the name of something. I give you cool a Hitler fact and you come back with nomenclature?"
"But it's a pretty freaky name! Don't you think so?" She stares hard at the page, reading. "Oology. O-o-logy. Feel like a monkey saying that shit."
She slides the almanac across the table. "I don't know when I'm ever gonna need to actually know that," Whitney says, "but it's taking up some space in the old noggin now."
"Uh huh," you say, skeptical. "You're definitely not going to forget that by tomorrow."
She sticks her tongue out. Then one of those weird, sudden conversational lulls settles. The two of you sit there in the empty classroom, just thinking, not talking.
You break the silence: "so I'm definitely going to lose the election tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah, probably. Can't change the system, man. Rigged as fuck."
You shrug. "I tried. She actually started campaigning last week, so at least she's scared."
"Rose is vegan, isn't she? Maybe that's the secret to getting special Nazi powers."
"First of all, you keep saying vegan but it's actually vegetarian. Second of all, Rose eats more meat than I do. I don't think I've ever seen her eat a meal that wasn't meat."
"Pay a lot of attention to what she eats?" Whitney says, quirking an eyebrow.
You huff. "I'm just saying."
"Maybe you should spend less time getting all obsessed on every detail of what your cousin 150 times removed eats, and more on the people who really count!"
Whitney picks up her backpack and roots through it. She hands you a slip of paper. "Here's your ballot. Don't forget to vote tomorrow."
You take it. "I'm more worried that you'll forget to vote."
"I already did," Whitney says. "Ten times. But I'll slip another 20 or so in the ballot box again tomorrow."
This crazy girl is going to actually make you win the goddamn election at this rate.
You open the almanac again and smile. For the next several hours, Whitney sits with you in silence -- she's happy just to watch you.
June 5, 2015
"All together now! Right there in front of the fireplace!"
Mrs. Mallory wrangles and corrals and harangues the four you to get you to stand where she commands.
"Mom, please," Rose says, "can we just go now?"
"Sh--" she hisses. "This is a big moment! My precious baby girl and boy are going to prom! I definitely need pictures."
You tug uncomfortably at your tie as Rose2 sidles up. This is a living nightmare of your own creation: wearing a stuffy, overpriced tux, standing sandwiched between the two Roses.
Rose2 has an absurd bubblegum-pink dress with puffy shoulders and the hip circumference of a Victorian hoop skirt. The satin fabric is crisscrossed by high detail, pitch black lacework. She looks like a walking 80s movie. It's embarrassing. You're embarrassed for her.
At least she's not Stackleford though. His rumpled and ill-fitting tux has arm cuffs that extend up to his thumbs, and it sits on his frame like a curtain draped over a hippo. You almost pity your cousin (once removed) for having to be his chaperone.
Mrs. Mallory snaps multiple photos on her phone. You throw your arm around Rose2's waist and hold her close, for effect. Stackleford, seeing this, tries to mirror it; but can only bring himself to hover-hand Original Recipe Rose.
"I was going to tell Boyd no funny business tonight," Saul says, watching on with folded arms, "but after meeting him, I think I'd better just warn him not to raid my Oreo stash."
"Saul!" Mrs. Mallory chides. "You're awful." But she can't stop herself smiling a bit.
Rose-Prime is miserable. "Are we done here?"
The answer is no. Mrs. Mallory snaps some more photos. "Rose, get a little closer to Alabaster."
Both Roses get closer. You shudder; Mrs. Mallory laughs. "I was surprised when I saw your date tonight, Alabaster," she says. "But I guess in a certain sense, you've got a type."
You stare at the ceiling and pray for this to be over as quickly as possible.
"I-I'll go check on the limo," Stackleford offers. He breaks away and heads for the front door. Even he can start to sense that Rose 1.0 isn't glowing with excitement for the coming evening.
Rose2 offers you some Hubba Bubba from her purse, which you gruffly turn down. She goes to sit on the recliner in the living room as you wait for your ride.
Saul and Mrs. Mallory crowd around to give their last minute goodbyes and encouragements. Retro Rose still isn't happy, though. She folds her arms. "So why does my date get the 'no funny business' warning, but Alabaster's doesn't? That's a complete double stand--"
"Alabaster," Saul says. "Is there going to be any funny business tonight?"
"Definitely."
"Good man."
Rose Sr. stomps indignantly.
Mrs. Mallory adjusts the rose on Rose Alpha's pastel yellow dress. Of the four of you, she is probably the best dressed - although you would never admit it.
"Have fun tonight, you two," Mrs. Mallory says. "This is the kind of night memories are made of. Don't let it pass you by!"
She and her husband take one last moment to admire you before leaving you to your own devices. Mrs. Mallory also snaps a couple more candid photos of just you and Classic Rose (which neither of you take kindly to.)
"Try not to get any STD's from the anime club's bicycle," Rose I whispers sneeringly when her parents are out of earshot.
"Stop slut-shaming her," you whisper back. "Besides -- at least my date doesn't have a BMI bigger than her IQ."
Rose2, leaning back in the living room recliner to take a selfie, accidentally drops her own phone on her own face.
"Are you sure about that?" Rose1 asks.
---
Someone got the idea to put "We Didn't Start the Fire" on the prom playlist.
It's thematically appropriate, you guess -- but one of the school's faculty runs up to the DJ table and makes him change the song.
The next track that comes on is that inane pop song about being happy that's been playing on the radio every day for about two years. You can't believe people can still tolerate hearing it. You can't believe you're tolerating hearing it. You can't believe you're dancing to it.
You move around the dance floor with Rose2, awkwardly - this was never your forte, and you have no idea what kind of tempo to keep with this annoyingly peppy song - but her eyes are dewy with adoration either way. She doesn't seem to notice you stealing disgusted glances in Rose The First's direction every time you circle past.
"This song is so epic," Rose2 says. "I love it!"
You set your jaw.
Meanwhile, Rose: The Beginning tenses every time Stackleford's hammy hands touch her. So at least she's suffering too.
Near the end of the song, as you draw particularly close to the pair, you decide to twist the knife. "I think I could be falling for you, Rose," you say.
Rose2 nuzzles your chest, buzzing with a joy she can't contain.
Rose's expression is more inscrutable: not hurt, but certainly not happy. She closes her eyes and seems to be lost in thought.
Stackleford says, stammeringly: "A-Alabaster isn't the only one--"
Rose opens her eyes. "Don't ruin a good moment," she says, her voice low.
You lose track of those two as the evening drags on and you drift around the dance floor. When Rose2's enthusiasm for yaoi, and fan dubbing of said yaoi, gets on the last of your nerves, you manage to break away for a while on the pretense of using the restroom. But actually, you duck into a nearby empty classroom to be alone and browse your phone in peace. You hate parties, you hate dances, you hate people, and you hate being here. You relish the peace and quiet.
That is, until Rose finds you.
"This night gets better and better..." you mutter. You put your phone away.
"Did you get tired of Hello Slutty or what?" Rose says, leaning on a table opposite you.
You rest your cheek against your fist and regard her. "A man can only withstand so much in-depth dissection of Black Butler before he goes insane. How are things with Stacklefuck?"
"Just wonderful. He proposed to me."
"You're joking."
"I would never joke about something so morbid," Rose says. "That's when I had to get away."
"Guess I'll have to be best man, then."
Rose bows her head, laughing, and kicks at an imaginary something on the ground.
"You dance like shit," she tells you.
"Uh huh. Whereas you're a regular fucking Anna Pavlova."
Rose motions for you to stand.
"What do you want now?" You demand.
"I may not like your date," Rose says, "but it causes me honest to goodness pain to see you stumbling around with her like a dazed monkey. She deserves better than that. Someone has to teach you -- for her sake."
"You can go to hell. I am NOT going to--"
But she already has her hands on you. "Like this," she says gently. She guides you upright. You begin to twirl around the room in wide, lazy circles. "Step - step - step. See?"
Through the walls, muffled, comes the sound of "Every Breath You Take" - a classic school-dance staple, you guess, although you always thought it was creepy.
You decide to let Rose have her way on this one - just to get it over with quickly.
The two of you slow dance together. Eventually you have an easy rhythm, a smooth synchronization that doesn't feel forced or awkward. And without consciously realizing it happened, you find that you're in the lead: she lets you guide her around the classroom instead of the other way around.
It's... a lot different from the kind of thing you two usually wind up doing when you're alone in an empty classroom.
"Are you excited about Berkeley?" Rose asks as you sway together.
You shrug. "I'm not the excitable type."
"When are you moving?"
"August... 14th or 15th, I think, is move-in weekend."
"Mm."
"You must be ecstatic, huh? It's almost over. You only have two more months of me."
She's quiet for a long time, and doesn't answer. Finally, she says: "what about you? Are you happy you're getting out?"
You don't answer, either.
"We should head back soon," you say. "They're gonna wonder where we are."
"Who gives a fuck?" Rose says.
You keep dancing.
---
Your sleep, never that deep, has been on a hair trigger for the past several weeks. You wake a little after midnight to the sound of footsteps outside your bedroom.
Eyes wide open in the dark, you lie in place and listen. Softly now, there comes a knock on the door. "Who is it?" You call.
"Can I come in?"
Dad. You exhale. You grope blindly for your nightgown and throw it over your head before stumbling to the door.
"He's a free man," Dad says. "I dropped him at his sister's."
"...Alabaster?"
Of course, but you can hardly believe it - Alabaster was arrested just hours ago. Dad is some sort of legal wizard, you're sure of it. You try to close the door again, so that you can change and hurry back to Cerise's. But dad stops the door with a flattened palm.
"He told me everything."
You consider this. How much is 'everything'? You try a cautious tack: "Is he going to be okay? Legally."
Dad shrugs his broad shoulders. "I got ahold of a judge I'm friends with and convinced him to give me an emergency restraining order against the FBI. It doesn't sound like they care very much about Alabaster, anyway - they're really after David and Mara Darkbloom, maybe this Tyrus Kang person if they can swing it." He puts his hands on his hips. "Thing is... while FBI agents may or may not follow a restraining order... criminal gangs definitely don't. Neither do billionaire megalomaniacs."
You stare at your feet. "He really did tell you everything."
"I don't blame him for his choices," Dad says. "I blame him for letting you become so involved in it. He actually told me that--" he trails off. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter."
"I need to go talk to him," you say.
"Rose."
You have an idea of what's coming.
"If I let you go, it might be the last time I see you. I'll help Alabaster as much as I can, but you have to be my top priority. Don't go back to that apartment."
Your voice is flat and firm: "You can't stop me."
He sighs in frustration, rubs the bridge of his nose. It's a tic he shares with Alabaster, and it pisses you off to see either man do it. It makes you feel like a scolded child.
"I gotta ask," he says. "Are you and Alabaster..."
"Don't go there."
"I have to."
"I'm..." you gulp. This is the hardest thing you've ever had to say, and you've got to really sell it. It's paramount that dad believes it. You brace yourself against the shudder of revulsion and come out with it: "I-I'm in love with him. Okay? That's why-"
"Is that really true? You're in love with Alabaster of all people? That little twerp?"
You glance away. "Don't make me say it again. Jesus."
Dad rolls his eyes. "As long as that's the case," he says, "we need to discuss strategy."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Say you're on a safari. You've got a tiger coming for you from the front, a rhino coming at you from behind, a lion to your right and an elephant to your left. What do you do?"
"...Die?"
"Wrong. You get the hell out of the way and let them all kill each other."
---
Galatea is taciturn at the best of times but that isn't because her mind is working slowly. Quite the opposite: her senses are always on the verge of overloading, her mind always on the cusp of frying. With every comment directed her way, she must first navigate an infinitely branching tree of hypotheticals before responding. She overthinks, that's her central problem; she cannot move until she has considered every possible outcome, and every possible outcome's contingent outcomes, in every possible detail. Paralysis by analysis. She does it to herself.
Few people recognize this. Only two so far, in fact. To everyone else, she is "creepy," "stupid," "stuck-up" or some combination therein.
Galatea considers herself creepy, too. Not because of what she does or does not say but because of what she thinks, inwardly. She has a mind warped by too much free time and 24/7 access to pornography. She thinks often about what people look like naked, what they would be like to fuck. Women especially. She doesn't think of herself as gay, but women are less threatening to her.
Yet she wants to be threatened, to feel fear. Despite her agoraphobia she has a recurring fantasy of someone stripping her naked in public and fucking her senseless in front of a jeering crowd. Another fantasy of stripping naked herself, writing lewd things on her body, and walking around in the open for everyone to see.
She thinks a lot about Cerise. She thinks about going in tears to Cerise about one thing or another, and Cerise laying a tender hand against her puffy cheeks to comfort her. Saying something like "shh, it's okay, I love you, I'm here for you." And then without warning slapping her. The sudden sting of physical pain and emotional betrayal. The despair of it. Just the thought makes her shiver. She can't understand why.
These are the sorts of images swirling around in her head right now, when she would normally be doing her "consider every possible outcome" thing, while a bunch of strangers congregate in her apartment and discuss their plans as if she's invisible. Only Cerise seems to pay any attention to her, which is just fine by her, but every look Cerise sends in her direction, every little reassuring glance or touch, has Galatea's mind's eye picturing Cerise on top of her. Has Galatea picturing Cerise with her hands tightening around her throat. Has Galatea imagining what it would be like with Cerise's weight pressing down on her, to have Cerise whispering awful things straight into her ear: "Whore. Slut. Useless cunt."
Galatea has to excuse herself. She can't take these people and all the noise they make, and she can't take her own thoughts either. She needs to bury her face in a pillow and sleep it off.
Unfortunately, Cerise follows her into the bedroom.
"Why does it smell like cheesecake in here?" Cerise asks when they're alone with the door shut.
Galatea is too burned out to ask Cerise to go, and wouldn't be able to bring herself to do it anyway. She shrugs lethargically and points at her cluttered desktop, where her vape pen sits. Her most recent juice was flavored like cheesecake.
Cerise rolls her eyes. That hurts, and not in a good way, it just feels like judgment.
"How did you meet Camelia?" Cerise asks. "I'm just curious." She sits in Galatea's chair and faces the bed as Galatea settles in, lies down and curls up around her own pillow.
"she found me."
Most people would be frustrated with the lack of detail here, but what Galatea loves about Cerise is the almost saintlike patience she shows. "How did she find you?" Cerise prompts, gently.
"i ran scams for a long time. online. spear phishing mostly. i don't know how she found out about that... but she came here... and said she wanted to be partners."
"You knew about all this Sand Reckoner shit?"
Galatea shrugs.
"Why would you work with someone like her? Before you knew the truth."
Galatea stares at her bedspread. "i liked doing it. it was like figuring out a puzzle or winning at a game. that's the only reason... it's all just for fun you know."
Cerise stands. Galatea expects her to leave, to storm out in anger at being told it was all just a game. But Cerise doesn't go. Instead, she crawls onto the bed with her. She walks forward on hands and knees towards Galatea, and Galatea's mind goes into a frenzied overhaul now, dreading, anticipating, waiting in frozen terror - waiting for Cerise to reel back and smack her, the way she deserves to be smacked. Galatea isn't sure whether this would make her happier or sadder.
There are no blows. Cerise takes Galatea's trembling face in both hands. "You were never a game to me," Cerise says. Her voice quavers. "You were just my friend. And now you've got me so messed up that I can't even hate you. Even though I want to."
"you can hate me. i hate me."
"That's not..." Cerise shakes her head. "This is your chance to redeem yourself here. Okay? I'm telling you to say something better than 'it's all just for fun.'"
"i don't know how."
"Why?"
"there's too much. i can't get it to come out right. i'm sorry... i'm so sorry cerise... you were my friend too."
There's a long pause. Even Galatea can't bear the silence. She begins again: "i miss you so mu--"
Cerise kisses her. It's not the peck of their first kiss, but a lingering, needy and forceful kiss that sends Galatea into a paroxysm of birdlike trembling. She opens her mouth to Cerise and lets Cerise's tongue have its way.
Cerise's scent is like lilac and her mouth tastes like wintergreen -- and she is so, so warm. Galatea can't believe this woman would even touch her, let alone kiss her like this. Galatea is maybe the only person on the planet who considers Cerise a role model. This is more than just being kissed by a friend, or even by a lover. It's like being kissed by a deity.
"Never lie to me again," Cerise commands.
"never." How could she?
Even in her fantasies, Galatea thinks about punishment. Yet Cerise is heaping love onto her instead. She's trailing long, warm kisses up and down Galatea's face. She's holding Galatea tight and hugging her. Galatea thinks of herself as the ultimate charity case, and still, after all this time, doesn't quite grasp that Cerise needs her about as badly as she needs Cerise.
"It's so nice to touch you," Cerise coos.
"i..." She's too frayed to say anything more.
"Is this okay?"
Cerise's hands are wandering. Galatea nods.
"I can't help it. I just want to touch you." She kisses Galatea again, deeply. Galatea can hear the reverb of Cerise's breath in her mouth and when she closes her eyes she feels like she's floating on a sea of pure warmth. She never wants this feeling to end. Her whole body tingles with it.
Galatea hardly notices that one of Cerise's searching hands has found its way under the hem of her baggy t-shirt and is now tracing the contours of her bare skin. And Galatea is way too frightened, her mind is clanking way too fast, to even try to respond in turn. Cerise has to do all the work here.
Cerise is lying fully on top of Galatea now. The weight is pleasant, not oppressive, but firm. Galatea enjoys the idea that she can't get away, even though of course a simple "please stop" would end it immediately. She wants Cerise to take her.
Cerise's legs writhe and shift. Her knee brushes against Galatea's pantied crotch. Galatea's breath hitches at the sudden sensation.
Cerise holds the back of Galatea's head and draws in close. Her voice has an almost perverted tinge to it. "You're too cute... you're way too cute... it's even better in real life..."
"y-you... y-you can do a-anything... it's okay... anything y-you..."
"Here?" Cerise's fingertips go to where her knee was moments prior. The texture and pressure of her touch translates lewdly through the rough cotton fabric covering Galatea's cunt.
"yes."
But the touch is all too brief. Galatea whimpers as Cerise pulls her fingers away.
Cerise takes one of Galatea's hands now. She guides it down, between their bodies, and Galatea blushes. Because now she understands. Cerise wants to be touched like that, too.
Cerise's ministrations begin again, with renewed energy. She cups Galatea's pussy through her underwear and rubs back and forth. She rubs and rubs, palm and thumb squeezing, pinching. "God you're soft..." she murmurs. She kisses Galatea. Every little pip and exhalation Galatea makes, Cerise drinks down like ambrosia.
Galatea tries to mirror the way Cerise masturbates her. But her attempt is inexpert. Her motions are both too erratic and too timid. Even still, it drives Cerise into a passionate return of wet kissing and uninhibited molestation. That's what this is, Galatea thinks with a thrum of adrenaline, Cerise is molesting her.
Galatea's eyes bulge. Without warning, Cerise's hand is inside her panties.
"y-you're..." Galatea breathes. "you're... nnn-- y-you're inside..."
Cerise helps maneuver Galatea so she can do the same. Galatea's wrist feels the pinch of an elastic waistband clinging to it, the back of her palm feels the cling of the fabric. And her fingers feel the slippery, smooth texture of Cerise's drooling pussy.
"You're inside me too..." Cerise breathes. She humps softly against Galatea's curling fingers. She runs her free hand through Galatea's long orange hair. She showers Galatea with tongue kisses that veer back and forth from romantic, to hot and dirty, to outright obscene. She's slick with sweat and her soft muscles are tensing up. Her eyes are glazed with lust.
"i... i... i..." Galatea stutters.
"Me too!" Cerise squirms and moans senselessly atop her, lost in pleasure.
Galatea cums. She can't help it. Her pretty little pussy contracts tight around Cerise's invading digits, and finally shudders and spasms in delight. Galatea goes dizzy, almost to the point of passing out, but she can easily feel the same thing happening to Cerise as well. Cerise cums on her. She cums so hard that the wetness of it leaks out and stains Galatea's shirt and bed. Her jaw goes slack as she gets herself off in Galatea's hand.
"I love you!" Cerise cries. "I love you!"
"i love you too!"
Galatea can say it easily in this state. She doesn't need to overthink or stammer. They share a final kiss as the after-quakes of their orgasms roll through their convulsing bodies.