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It has been months since they’ve been trying to overcome the grim courier of the
apocalypse
: the regenerative pantry.
A clear sign of doom — an over exaggeration of the crisis every college undergraduate seems to endure during their struggle for survival. Something ruled by evil forces — the consequence of never properly writing a grocery list; the inevitable results of telling Rio they should get something
‘easy’
to cook because their workload is insane and no fancy dishes had been made since last Christmas (which actually meant reheating what they've brought from Jen and Alice's place the night prior); the clear repercussions of never checking the pantry or the fridge for actual food, so their options are (i) pasta in different shapes and sauces throughout the week, (ii) Señor Scratchy's food, (iii) a branch from Rio's many ferns, (iv) Señor Scratchy himself, (v) the gypsum of the wall.
They've tried everything — they haven't moved a finger to change the situation. Every action plan tested —
which were none
— ended up in failure and fatigue.
Agatha would say she did a lot by warning Rio they'd have to make carbonara again. Rio would tell her they've run out of eggs, so they'd have to stay with aglio olio instead. They'd define which one would cook through a very mature system — a match of
rock, paper, scissors
— and when Agatha would win, she'd promise to help slicing the garlic.
Once finished, she'd linger just a few steps from the other, looking over her shoulder. Asking for bites. Sitting on their minuscule counter and waiting for Rio to come to her because,
yeah
, they tended to get a bit touchy while sharing the same space. (It would be nice; they wouldn't say a word. Or they'd talk about their respective degrees — Rio and her weird
‘green classes
’; Agatha and her boring
‘book club’
. It would be nice.) That is, any other day if not this one.
“I’ll just eat in my room tonight,” Rio says as she places some basil on top of her spaghetti (in that bowl Lilia had made for her and she wouldn't let anyone else touch).
Agatha, who's sitting on the sofa, only a few steps from the kitchen, doesn't move. Despite how much she wants to turn back and ask why — ask Rio to drop it and just come to sit with her. She doesn't move. Her eyes are trained in the episode of…[ lord, what show is this? ], and the rest of her body is more concentrated in actually holding the plate steadily in her hand — the one she has been playing with since she sat there; the one containing the dish she made herself.
Red sauce. I brought tomatoes. A peace offer.
“Okay.” Is all she mumbles before she hears the other's feet on the floor. Down the hall. Then the slamming door.
Fuck
.
Agatha drops her head in the backrest, closing her eyes and placing the plate aside.
Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck!
The fork clatters on the side of it.
There's that, too
.
(Another grim courier she's supposed to be facing — another crisis that does feel like the apocalypse.
Something that started with something as innocent as a cancelled class — a change in her schedule that, for the first time, had Agatha praising the Lord instead of cursing the skies. Crossing campus as fast as she could. Stopping by at that bakery she and Rio love so much to get them one of those sinful cheesecakes. Arriving almost an hour and twenty minutes before she was supposed to. Opening the front door to find Rio sitting on the couch shirtless — a girl with a dress pooled by her waist on her lap. Touching said girl's thigh while gnawing at her neck. Saying the most comical — to a 70s show standards — ‘oh my God' and then a weaker ‘my fucking eyes’ before almost losing her expensive cake to the entryway’s dirty floor.
Something that culminated in a discussion the previous night — not about the girl in the dress, but
another one
. One that dared to greet Agatha
‘good morning’
and ask her for a glass of water. [The same one Agatha so kindly said,
‘why don't you just leave quietly like the other ones do, for Christ's sake?’
to.] The one that essentially caused all this mess — released all the ugly feelings that have been developing in the bottom of Agatha's stomach since Rio brought the first girl home.)
The nausea. The headache. The punctures on her throat.
The crescent moons on her thighs. The retraction of the tongue. The grinding teeth.
The emotions that now run wild. The undeniable revulsion. The possibility of her being homophobic even when most people in her social circle
are
queer.
The apocalypse that can't be exactly prevented by going grocery shopping — with an actual freaking list — more often.
“This is just great.” She mumbles to herself after a handful of minutes in the same position. Neck hurting and an untouched portion of cold spaghetti. “Amazing even.” Her legs are pulled up and she hugs them, resting her chin on her kneecaps. The show on the television goes on — she still doesn't know what in hell is being aired right now — and a small ball of fur comes out from under their pitiful excuse of a coffee table.
It makes her smile, even if just a tiny bit.
Agatha moves down to pick up the bunny, cradling it in her lap
“What do I do, Scratchy?” She hums, petting his forehead and hoping he'll have some magic answer appearing in his sable eyes. “I hate fighting with your Ma.”
isn't her first option.
Nor the second.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
It doesn't even make the top ten of possible solutions to her issues, no.
Before that, Agatha — as the mature human being she has grown to be — decides to cool off on her own. (Not think about the fact that, for the first time in two
damn
years, Rio seems genuinely upset with her.) Get in her car, go downtown; buy some drinks with Jen. (Not think about it being her fault.) Reason the whole situation and build a plan of action. Talk to Rio. Fix all this mess. Go back to their joint fight against their resilient home-menu.
Yeah
— that's practical enough; that's her first plan.
“Is the beer here
that
good, Harkness?” Jen says as she nudges her with the elbow. They're in a small bar; both covered in the pink glow coming from the ceiling; both thankful this place is still unknown by the majority of people — which translates to,
‘I’d hate to push through people to move around’
and
‘we’d be sentenced to stay home forever’
. “You looked miserable when you picked me up.”
“
Excuse me,
I was
not
miserable, just tired.” She points out, sipping on her cup. Suppressing a wince.
The beer is nowhere near good. Why did I even choose this?
“I haven't been sleeping well, you know that.”
“Are you and Rio still fighting?” Jen sips on her own cup, raising an eyebrow. Agatha bets she's having something with weird spices. “You've been doing that a lot lately.”
“We… disagree on something, it's not a fight
per se
.”
Lie.
Crossing her arms, she turns to the side. Her friend is covered in a pink glow.
‘Boygenious’
sings in the background. “And don't look at me like that. Or talk like that. You make it seem like we're a married old couple bickering.”
“Isn't that your current arrangement?”
“We're roommates, Jennifer. I'm conditioned to her presence.”
“You adopted a bunny with her.” The other deadpans, “you're
momma
and she's
mama
.”
“Shared custody.”
“Do you ever just listen to yourself ?”
Agatha purses her lips, looks away from her; tries to focus on something like the pinball machine in the corner or the people gathered around the pool table.
She sips on the awful drink again, and — right where the poor lighting intersects with the heavy scent of various perfumes, frying oil and every sort of alcoholic drink available here — she feels something bubbling midway up her sternum. It's impossible to tell if it's a hiccup, a heart attack or a burp until she opens her mouth.
“Ralph texted me last week. He said we should have lunch again sometime.” Great. Awesome. Talk about him.
Jen looks at her with a tilted head. A genuine grimace twists her nose. “I thought you had blocked his number after you caught him and Danna that day.”
“He changed his number.”
Jen snorts. “Is he planning to get into your pants to get a golden spot in your mother's company again? So he doesn't have to worry about his mediocre GPA?”
Agatha actually
gulps
the beer this time. (Chugs it down and promises herself she won't ever order a beer anywhere ever again.) “I have no idea.” Pauses. “I said no, by the way.”
“
Good
. Otherwise, Rio and I would make those t-shirts we told you about and hand it over like a souvenir of the town.”
‘Agatha Harkness, nominated the imbecile of the year. Vote for her!’
was the suggested phrase, and it actually made her laugh when Rio said she'd get stickers done so she could put it on her plant pots — and it
really
made her guts do weird somersaults when Rio sat in her bed with her,
after Ralph happened,
holding her hand and telling her she would drag her mattress to sleep on the floor if she wanted company for the night.
“I'm sure you would.”
(There was no mattress dragging, though. Agatha simply said,
‘my bed is big enough for us two'
and they ended up tangled up in one another even before sleep could be used as an excuse.)
“I think I'll get myself another drink. I don't know why I ordered this thing.”
Jen nods; tells her she'll wait for her here and Agatha goes to the counter. She's about to ask for a Gin-Tonic when something catches her eye. On the left.
Turned. Wearing a Queen t-shirt; hair up with a claw clip. Arms curling around the waist of some
bimbo.
Chin resting on said bimbo's shoulder. Lips occasionally rasping on the exposed skin closest to it.
Rio.
Yeah.
Fuck.
Agatha turns on her heels so fast she can few the bones in her ankles rubbing inappropriately against each other. (Her heart is thumping in her ears. Sweat running down her spine. Another second on her feet and she might spill all the bile that rises to her mouth.)
Fuck no.
No, no, no.
She doesn't even think.
Her practical, mature plan slips from her mind and all she's able to do is to tell Jen she needs to go home this instant —
I'm really, really not feeling well.
Once she gets home, and finds nothing but silence, she takes off her sneakers and jeans. Grabs a piece of cheese from the fridge and a glass of cheep —
cheep —
wine and sits by Rio's personal jungle.
That's when it comes to her mind — the unthinkable option becomes number one.
How humiliating…
She opens
.
‘r/relationship
karaokefreak:
I [24F] feel sick whenever my roommate [22F] brings a girl home. Am I being homophobic towards her?’
‘tl;dr
:
Roommate is gay, I am not, but I have multiple friends that are queer (I don't care about them). I thought I was okay with said roommate's sexuality but I just feel absurdly sick every time I see her with some girl, and it's started to affect our friendship. How do I get my shit together here/how to stop being an asshole so I don't hurt her?’
It's purely silent within the apartment.
Agatha is sitting by the dining table, papers spread everywhere. Markers, pens and lilac highlighters. A generous mug of black coffee and a pencil between her teeth — a matching one holding her hair up. Her legs arrange on the seat in a weird angle and thick-framed glasses rest almost on the tip of her nose. Prayers held under her tongue as she wonders why on Earth she didn't start the
‘Six Women of Salem’
earlier — it would've saved her this stress, considering it's past one in the morning.
And Rio — careless,
‘I thrive on the edges of complete academic desperation’
— half-laying on the couch with a massive textbook on her lap. (
Plant phylogeny,
Agatha could read on the cover when she glanced at the other.
I don't know how she likes these things.)
Señor Scratchy leaning on her thigh as she pets him behind the ears. Several cans of red-bull collected by her
home-only flipflops
. Eyes moving at light speed behind her own pair of thick framed glasses. A bright green marker having its cap sacrificed by her molars.
It's purely silent within
their
apartment, ever since the night before when Agatha saw Rio at the bar with another girl. She hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. Hasn't dared to talk to Rio and risk saying something rude because of how revolting those feelings brewing inside her
are
. (Hasn't really thought of addressing the issue at all since she opened Reddit this morning to half a dozen people calling her the asshole.) Which only makes it all the more tortuous when she hears the other's grunt from the living room.
Clear sight, she raises her head. Sees Rio scratching her own scalp quite aggressively. Tries to catch on what she mumbles before she stands with the bunny in her arms.
“Agatha.”
Well–
“Hm?” She looks down again. Purposefully. The hand responsible for the notes continues its work, but each letter becomes a whirlwind. Unmatched ones are put together; Agatha's hopes that the moment will be enough to anchor her.
Rio makes a sound with the back of her throat, taking enough steps to stand on the opposite end of the table; eyes trained on Agatha's silhouette, and the micro expressions she
knows
how to decode. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong.”
Was it too quick?
Her hand moves faster, letters start to cover the footnote. Her eyes go to the book and back to the paper, but she isn't reading a single line. (At best, she's memorizing the number of the page and chapter.)
“Then why won't you look at me?”
“I'm studying. Shouldn't you be doing that, too?”
A huff.
In the very limits of her sight — momentarily regretting not having her hair down to filter her gaze — she sees Rio putting the bunny on the floor. Taking one step closer. Placing one hand flat on the table.
“I saw Jen at the bar yesterday.”
Well, fuck.
Well,
fuck.
“Yeah?”
“She said you basically ran out of there after going for a drink. Because you were feeling unwell.”
It's not a lie. “I was.” Agatha did feel unwell — the issue lies on the cause and the covered up excuse. “The beer there is really bad.”
The shameless crumbs of affection you seem to throw around at every starving girl that agrees to entertain your thirty minutes of defilement makes me sick, too.
Rio exhales loudly. Pinches the bridge of her nose. Waits five full minutes before using her voice again. “I don't believe I have to ask you this, but do you have a problem with me sleeping with other women?” She asks, each word built on top of the other in such a negligent manner that it feels
calculated
— layered; it hits Agatha pride with significant force to leave an injury; she doesn't
get it
, not like she usually would (not like Rio would normally allow her to). “Is it unnatural to you? Is it because of your mother's… weird catholic thing?” Agatha winces at the briefest mention of Evanora. The flat hand on the table becomes a fist. “Look, I came from a Catholic School too, and a very religious family, but that's no excuse to–”
“Rio,
no.
” She shakes her head. Drops the pen without noticing it’s almost running out of clean space — offers an open palm up in surrender. Dignifies Rio with eye-to-eye. “
No,
it's nothing like that. I have no problem with it.”
“Oh,
really?
” Rio cocks an eyebrow, crossing her arms.
“Yes! I have a bunch of gay friends. Most of my friends are, and I have no issue with it!” She argues. Her posture strengthens. “Natasha, Jen, Wanda, Carol. I'm totally okay with it!”
“So you're only a
dick
with me?” A dry laughter —
crackle —
is ejected from Rio's mouth. They wince in union. It's such an unnatural sound coming from her — all sharp and sour. “That really makes me feel special, thank you, Agatha.”
They end up in the living room after the echoes of a
‘I don't know what to say'
and a
‘at this point I recommend you just keep your mouth shut, really’
subsided
.
Rio stands near the backrest, and Agatha is inches away from where they keep the bunny's cage. Next to the TV, and the stupid ornaments that wouldn't be considered as such by anyone else but them — a pile of buttons glued together; photo booth shots of the two making faces in poor quality; a glass bottle full of wine corks, and another with bottle caps; empty cases from old VHS tapes of their favorite classics; a plain clay ashtray that Rio got from one of her trips to Lilia's.
It feels almost unfair to maintain a disagreement before it. (
Their
bunny.
Their
collectable trash.
Their
place.) It
kind of
makes her want to hold her stomach — just to assure the coffee consumed since noon won't come back burning chest and trachea on the way back up.
I don't know what to say.
“I didn't mean to be mean to them.”
“I don't believe that. Neither do you
.
”
She bites her lip. “I didn't mean to hurt you with it.”
Just keep your mouth shut.
“I just don't get why you're acting like
that
.” And it's unsurprisingly evident when her voice strains on the last words. (She looks down at her un-socked feet. Wiggles her toes. Sees Scratchy hiding behind his
momma's
legs — fights back the smile that tends to dismantle her whole.) “You're not like that. You're never…” She gestures in the air, as if that could make the right word come to her grasp magically. “I don't get it.”
I'm sorry
, Agatha thinks, biting her tongue so strongly she's certain that blood is about to fill her mouth, thickening her saliva and diluting her words. “I don't know what's wrong with me.”
Rio shakes her head lightly. Hands go to her waist. Gaze on the textbook she left on the couch. She seems
tired.
“I never once mistreated Rex when you brought him over.”
“I know.”
“I was nice to him even when we all knew I despised his guts.”
“I know.”
A beat.
“I even offered Rudolph food.”
“Ralph,” she corrects weekly. Her cheeks burning just enough to make her eyes divert from Rio's again.
“Rocky, yes. I even let him sit on the couch.”
A small — almost imperceptible — curve moves the right end of Agatha's mouth. She corrects again, “Ralph.”
“Yeah, Robin.” Rio's mouth does the same movement, just a bit wider. Her fingers, for some reason, play with the hem of her white shorts. “Didn’t I have the trouble to let him use one of my towels?”
Agatha closes her eyes for a second. Breathes out. She can almost see the shape of the font from that book in her eyelids. She's tired too. “You threw it in a trash bag and almost set it on fire.”
She shrugs. “I'm not very fond of fleas.” Her eyes twinkle — either because
this
pace is known to them, or because of the big light of the room. “Just like I'm not fond of this.” She gestures between the two of them.
I hate fighting with you.
“Me too.”
“So you'll stop being a jerk?”
She smiles — teeth and cheeks. Turns just enough to find Scratchy still there. Scoops him in her arms with ease. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good.”
With that, far easier than Agatha had ever expected her to, Rio walks around their mini table, stops in front of her. Steps a bit too close with the excuse of properly petting the bunny's back.
“It's past two by now.” One of them whispers. “I'm so damn tired.”
“And so damn hungry,” the other replies.
The cursed pasta is yet to be removed from the pantry, but this time they have something new — cheese, cherry tomatoes and olive bread.
“We can make bruschettas with the loaf I brought from Lilia's.” Rio suggests.
“
You
can make it. I'll put away my things.” Agatha says.
“
Nope
, not today, Aggie.”
They're close —
so
close.
“I hate that nickname.”
“I know.” Her breath collapses against the tip and the dorsum of Agatha's nose — that's setting off the whole alignment of her chest's cadence
.
“Provoking you is just so fun.”
Agatha traps her tongue between her lips. Smiles. Dives into the other's gaze knowing it's a dangerous place to get herself lost at. “Are you still upset?”
Rio shows her the thumb and the forefinger, pads millimeters of each other. “Being mad at you requires too much energy. That's
worse
.”
She nods. “Much worse.”
They stand at a precarious distance for a few more moments until Señor Scratchy asks to be pulled down.
Rio starts slicing the bread, and, completely forgetting about their notebooks and pens and books, Agatha just attaches herself to her back. Arms circling waist in a suspiciously familiar manner.
“I thought you'd put away our things.”
“I'm tired. I'll do that later.”
“So you're helping me with the bruschettas?”
“I'm supervising the process.”
Rio chuckles.
“You should hear yourself sometimes, Harkness.”
“Quiet.
Chop, chop
, Vidal”
The emergency stairs
, that's where she sits with her
fucking
backpack, her
fucking
jacket, a
fucking
bag with some vegetables — frozen, but still vegetables —, her
fucking
cigarettes and the
damned
chocolate bar she bought for Rio.
Her lungs expand comfortably in her ribs, always so compliant with the tobacco assaulting its sensitive tissue; always so silent whenever a burn pulls on the wrong nerve.
Her heart beats violently against her breastbone, echoing through every bone in her body and causing her skin to tingle uncomfortably.
Clammy, cold palms shake considerably; eyes focus on the streets several feet below her; mind tries to shuffle through the moment she smiles at the old cashier at the store and the second she twists the knob to find a girl wearing Rio's Megadeth shirt on their sofa. Only her Megadeth shirt.
On their sofa.
(The same sofa they fell asleep on three nights ago after making their
late-night-snacks
. The same sofa where she woke up to Rio playing with her hair and teasing her about her alleged snoring.) A girl looking at her with her mouth open —
most likely another stupid one that wants to introduce herself, thinking this thing of theirs will last —
when she told herself a soft
‘just leave
’, stepping out with the same foot that would let her in. Turning to the end of the hallway and climbing out the
[quite hazardous]
window to sit on the emergency exit of the building.
Taking long drags of her cigarettes.
Holding back the bile that fills her mouth and consumes her teeth.
Resisting the urge to peel herself off her skin right there. (Put everything out and search through the darkest corners of her for the roots of this unsurmountable discomfort that has plagued her for weeks.
Cut it off.
Place everything back and pray the nausea won't come back the next day. Place everything back and hope Rio —
and her prolific sex life
— won't mess it all over again.)
Playing with the lighter in her hand.
Tempting her lips with more tobacco.
Watching Rio's stupid hazelnut
milka
chocolate melt by her sun-warmed sneakers for almost fifteen minutes.
Pretending not to hear the combat boots coming in her direction, nor the Rio that comes with her name already on her lips, all loose and apologetic.
“She was meant to leave before you came back. I didn't know you'd be here before 4:15.”
“Finished early.”
Rio has her hands hidden in the back pockets of her jeans. Her biceps are accentuated by the white wife beater she wears. Agatha doesn't look her way.
“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable today. Really. I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.” She moves her feet almost enough to step on the chocolate bar, but she doesn't. (She holds the smoke in for a second more than necessary.) The way the other stands make her think she's one movement away from hopping out the window and sitting there, in the fire stairs, with her. “I think we're both embarrassed by this.” She reasons.
Easy.
“I should've called.”
“No, this is
our
place. You don't have to warn me you're coming back to the apartment we share. That’s ridiculous.”
“I do when you might have someone over.”
Rio bites her lower lip —
hard.
Agatha doesn't move her eyes away from the traffic. Doesn't move her eyes to the other's.
“I think I might go to Alice's tonight. To study. Sleep.”
“Okay.”
They're silent. It feels weird. It feels…
worse.
“Can I ask you a question?” Rio says, sounding oddly smaller than usual. Looking at the windowsill and the paper bag left by it. “Would it be best if I just don't bring girls home anymore?” Her voice is almost as unstable as her posture — she keeps switching her balance from left to right, over and over again. “So we don't have to go through these… situations. And fights.”
It takes from her conscious effort, but Agatha turns. “Yeah…” Smoke expelled by her nostrils as she shrugs with — what she intends to be — nonchalance. “I think as long as it's not at home, we're fine.
I’m
fine.”
“Really?”
She nods. Opens her mouth — closes it rapidly because an unexpected wave of nausea reaches her premolars faster than ever before — it makes her gums burn.
It would be great to spit it out.
“I don't care what you do out of the house. It's not my problem.”
Rio
also
nods. The movement of her head is so slow it must be painful to some degree — a crooked smile twisting her lips in a poorly disguised grimace. “Good. Alright.” She moves her head again, now forcing it to move faster. “I'll be… going now. Be back tomorrow.”
“Alright.”
“Alright.”
Agatha's cigarette escapes from between her fingers. Her feet move; the chocolate bar doesn't stand a chance against brute force.
“Bye.”
Agatha can't close her eyes at night when she lays in bed. The apartment is so eerily quiet; she suspects Rio might've taken the
sound
in her backpack.
She doesn't put away the groceries, or throws away the remains of the
milka
chocolate — paper bags are left on the counter and the crumpled chocolate is thrown on the back of the fridge. She doesn't have enough mind to sit still and study — despite knowing her PI will be
kicking her ass
pretty soon if she doesn't deliver her report in two days — and she doesn't find comfort under her own skin when she sits beside Scratchy's cage to stare at the couch — where
Lord knows what
happened.
Wishing to be angry at this point
is
alright — the sinking feeling in her stomach that pulls on her esophagus and almost reaps it off its place is
not
. (The fact it has gotten worse since she reopened the front door and found
their
place empty, and
tidy.
No girl, no Megadeth shirt, no disheveled ghosts, and no Rio leaning against the hallway wall with her arms crossed, asking how did it go with her professor — no Rio smiling at her like it's a symptom of being around Agatha for so long, like it's normal to enjoy her presence
that
much.)
Her hands run through her hair, gathering enough of it around her fingers to sting just a tiny bit when she clenches her fist.
Señor Scratchy sits on the floor beside her — unlike other times, he doesn't make a move to hop on her lap, and a part of her is certain he might hate her now.
Hate her because Rio is not here tonight. Hate her for not telling Rio she didn't have to go to Alice's — Agatha could’ve left instead. Hate her because, somehow, something in how she delivered her line —
‘I don't care [...] It's not my problem’ —
made Rio look even more hurt than before —
hate her because she’s got quite the talent to fuck things up
. Hate her because they both know she can't defeat the regenerative pantry alone, and if this distance keeps growing between Rio and her, the war might have to be fought cowardly, from the trenches —
an army of one lonely, miserable soldier
.
And that just won't do.
(She sighs.)
Her phone vibrates in her pocket; she takes it out — three texts from
Jen
, two notifications from Reddit and two texts from
Rio
.
(She groans. Exaggeratedly. Checks behind herself to make sure she can make a clean fall when she lays back.)
Jen [6:01PM]: hey, are you still up for tomorrow? the tab is on you this time
Jen [8:46PM]: Alice ditched me because your bunny's ma is staying over. everything ok?
Jen [8:47PM]: what’s with the quarrel this time?
She rolls her eyes. Types a short
‘yes, yes and no'.
Ignores her friend when she gets two income calls on a row.
Jen [8:51PM]:
you're a jerk
Agatha [8:52PM]:
you flatter me too much ;)
Jen [8:54PM]: tell me what happened this time
Agatha [8:52PM]: nothing
Jen [8:52PM]: Rio is not sleeping at y'all's place for nothing?
Agatha [8:52PM]: she missed Alice ig
Jen [8:52PM]: bullshit
Jen [8:47PM]: what have you done?
Agatha [8:52PM]: why do you automatically assume I've done something?
Jen [8:52PM]: because that's what usually happens.
Agatha [8:52PM]: you're supposed to be on MY side here, jennifer
Jen [8:52PM]: i side with honesty and that includes calling my friend on her bs, so…
Agatha [8:52PM]: fuck you
Jen [8:52PM]: tell me
Agatha [8:52PM]: nothing happened
Jen [8:52PM]: I'm going to call you again
Agatha [8:52PM]: I won't answer
Jen [8:52PM]: I'll show up to your place
Agatha [8:52PM]: I'll call the police
Jen [8:52PM]: you wouldn't
Agatha [8:52PM]: wouldn't I?
Agatha takes a deep breath, exits the chat. Allows Jen's notification to be forgotten on the upper bar as she opens Rio's conversation. (Closes her eyes. Counts to ten. Looks at her side to see if at least the bunny is still there with her.) A
‘I’m at Alice's. Safe and sound and properly fed. She's cooking for me tonight. I'll bring some for you tomorrow if we have leftovers’
and a
‘I hope you sleep well. Tell Scratchy I love him. Tell him to look over you (and my plants, pls), too. He knows I don't trust you on your own, Harkness ;)))’.
She smiles. Like a moron. Like
a symptom of knowing Rio for long enough
.
It brings a sweet taste to her mouth — something that certainly doesn't sit well with the lingering bile that hasn't abandoned her tongue since the moment she got home. It makes her stomach flutter — a sensation a bit too similar to nausea, or insects crawling on the walls of her hollow organs. It makes her head spin a bit —
because
she's laying down on the floor,
of course
, and, from this angle, the big light in the ceiling is particularly offensive.
Señor Scratchy moves enough to be on the level of her ribs. His dark,
dark
eyes searching for something in her face — or maybe trying to show her something in his.
“Are you hungry, baby?” She says, putting her phone aside. “I got a few radishes for you. Thought you might like it. Is that it?”
But he doesn't move; he keeps searching.
She doesn't understand it, but she lifts the upper half of her body with her elbows and slowly sits back up. Slowly gets back on her feet.
“C’mon,” she says, guessing her first suggestion was correct when the rabbit
does
follow her when she steps towards the kitchen.
Her phone, forgotten on the floor, dings with a few more notifications. She never hears it.
Reddit: ‘apothecarywhittch’ and ‘kaleeater’ commented on your thread in r/relationship.
u/kaleeater:
have you thought about having not-so-friendly feelings towards Riley before? because from what you've written here, the issue seems to be that she's with someone else, not that she's gay at all.
u/apothecarywhittch:
I am BAFFLED at this level of unnawareness in once person omfg
╰u/kaleeater:
be nice
╰╰u/apothecarywhittch:
OP deserves no mercy, look at this walnut
╰╰╰u/kaleeater:
ಠ_ಠ
╰╰╰╰u/apothecarywhittch:
you know I'm right :p
It's almost 11:30PM when Jennifer Kale barrels into Agatha Harkness' apartment with a pizza box and two root beers.
What are you doing here, Kale? It's almost midnight!
Weren't you going to call the police on me?
I still can.
It's exactly 12:10AM when Jen pushes her plate aside, puts her forearms on the table and asks for a third time what happened.
Nothing.
Agatha.
If you came here for this–
I can wait the whole night.
Suit yourself.
And it's a quarter to midnight — after Agatha has changed into pajamas and put Scratchy to bed; after she has closed Rio's bedroom door and walked back to sit on the living room rug on top of a sofa cushion; after Jen had walked over to her and sat by her side (not asking
why not
the couch), entertaining Agatha's bitter comments on Netflix's recent catalog — that it happens.
“I did it.”
That's when Agatha closes her eyes and opens her mouth; let's out the reasons, the
how’s
and
when's
.
“Come again?” Jen turns to her.
“You said I did something to make Rio go to Alice's tonight. You were right. I did.” She holds her thighs close to her chest, gaze digging into the TV's frame while
something
plays on the big screen. Her chest is constricted, and her cheeks start to burn. “She had someone over when I arrived. The girl was essentially naked on our couch and–
I don't know
, we've been weird towards each other because I've been
weird
for some godforsaken reason that just makes me immediately sick whenever I think of her hanging on another girl's neck.” From embarrassment. For the teeth that dig into the inner skin — she can't look at her friend. Can't even move her head too much and risk noticing the rabbit’s disapproving glare. “And I know this is stupid because I'm sure I'm not
homophobic.
I couldn't care less about you and Alice's businesses, for example. Or Billy's. Or Wanda's. It's not my problem, I don't care about it, but something about Rio just…
It sets me off.
I don’t know. Rio is just…”
Her head drops to her kneecaps; her throat is tight again, and she's almost sure her lungs have just now started to turn sticky against her ribcage.
“We talked about this already — she thought it could be about my mother being the
cunt
she is, but
I know
it's not that. I don't feel sick because someone thinks God would hate it, I feel sick because I physically can't stomach all those girls coming and going and getting fucked on
my
couch.”
Jen licks her lips. Narrows her eyes. Takes several moments to pick out a good sentence to say. “And that's why we're sitting on the floor?”
“Yes.” Agatha says, unmoving. “And that's why I fled the bar that day. She was there. I genuinely felt like vomiting all the way back here.”
At hearing a sound similar to a
hum
, Agatha interprets it as a request for elaboration —
please keep going with the pathetic admission —
and surprisingly, she goes with it.
She hands over her confession of guilt.
She sighs. “I don't know what to do, Jen. I don't want to be homophobic towards Rio. I shouldn't care this much about her sexuality — it doesn't concern me. Just like she didn't say a word when I brought Ralph over even though she hated him.”
“He was a dick. We all hated him.” A muttered comment.
“She went to impossible lengths to not be rude with him or me, and I really thought I would do the same for her, but then one day a girl exits her room in the morning, asks me for a glass of water and
I
become the cunt.” The air that leaves through her mouth is only able to do so much for the perceptible tiredness covering her features when she raises her head. Dares to look at her friend. “I don't want her to think the issue is her. It's me. It's so clearly me — I just don't know
where the fuck it’s coming from.
”
A few beats pass.
Jen starts moving so she can sit right in front of Agatha; hands laid out on her lap and a far more patient expression on her face than Agatha would have expected.
“Agatha, I'm going to make this very easy for you and only ask questions of
yes
or
no
, okay?”
“I'm not a toddler, Jen.” She tries to argue, pursuing her lips.
“
Okay
?” Agatha begrudgingly nods. “Great. First question, have you ever been rude to Rio because of the disgust you feel?”
“No. Not directly.” Except for today. Although she's still unsure of why, she saw that her tone came off the wrong way. It stung.
“Have you ever felt like this about anyone else before?”
“I've told you —
no
.”
Jen takes a deep breath.
“Do you feel disgusted at Rio because of what you've walked into?”
“No.”
“Do you feel disgusted at the other girls for what you've walked into?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Have you ever considered you might just be jealous?”
“Because Rio has more sex than I do?” A dry laughter falls from her lip in an ungentle manner — almost drawing a cut from the lower lip to the chin.
What an unpleasant sound.
“I don't envy her sex activeness, Jennifer. I'm fine like I am.” Agatha sees how Jen presses her lips together, and how her jaw clenches. Thinks it might be for the long response. “I had to clarify it.”
A head shake. “Have you ever considered you might be jealous of the girls?”
Agatha frowns so deeply she feels the movement strain her sight for a millisecond.
“What?”
She hisses. (Her lungs are sticky. Her heart beats like a damaged drum.) “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what you just heard.” Jen seems unbothered — looking at her defiantly, leaning back and crossing her arms; the TV glow is like an aura to her silhouette. “Are you jealous of the girls Rio has been hooking up with?”
No, of course not!
That's absurd.
“Have you lost your mind, Kale? Is it the heavy chemicals you inhale in class every day?” She tries to sound corrosive and venomous, but every fucking consonant is feeble once it leaves her lips — they tremble. Her stomach keeps sinking and sinking, and she's certain ants and termites have made a home on her stomach. Digging holes and biting the soft tissue on the way. Licking the valuable wounds to keep their tunnels well together. Crawling up her vessels until they've reached from head to toe.
She holds her midsection.
Jennifer is insane.
Closes her eyes.
Being jealous of those… It would make no sense.
Quakes with the chills that run on her spine with parallel aims.
This makes no sense.
“Agatha, I’m just saying that–”
“No, you're wrong.” She shakes her head enough times to feel dizzy. “I'm not gay.”
“Agatha–”
“I dated Ralph.” It's out of her mouth quick enough for one to think she's proud of it. “I kissed him. I liked it. I liked when… when he'd… I liked being his girlfriend.”
The words make her grimace almost immediately.
Jen seems to dodge every word she has to offer. “You hated him. You always told me his touch was too rough.”
“You're misinterpreting me,
I said
–”
“You said he seemed to be trying to eat you alive.”
“No, I liked some parts.” (
Breathe in. Then out.)
She feels like choking, as she searches her own mind, desperate for a salvageable moment — something worth mentioning; something that won't make her nausea become worse; something not related to beards and how he never bothered to learn substantial information about her.
(Breathe in.)
Flashes of going to the movies come to her mind, along with exaggeratedly-long car rides. Dinners and how he made her feel attractive when he showed her off to his friends. (
Then… then you breathe out.
) “I liked…” She gulps, “I liked a few… things.” A heavy sensation balls up on the back of her throat, straining her voice and making her jaw hurt. “
I'm not gay
.”
“
Okay
,” Jen nods, rusty. “But think about what I said.” She moves back to where she was before, on Agatha's side.
“I don't want to.”
“You don't have to think about it today.”
Teardrops start racing down Agatha's face, searing the skin in its wake.
Salt and despair.
“I hate you.” Her mouth twists and she hugs her legs again. Hides her face on the kneecaps.
“I know,
sweetie.
”
“Don’t call me that. Get out of my house.”
Jen doesn't move an inch. Instead, she chuckles, lightly petting her friend's shoulder. “I can't. Scratchy wants me here. He says we shouldn’t leave his unstable mother on her own.”
“
Screw you, Kale.
”
Jen [5:55AM]: hey, I had to leave early, sorry. 7AM classes will be my demise
Jen [5:55AM]: I made coffee, btw
Jen [5:56AM]: and I hope you won't ditch our dinner tonight.
Jen [5:56AM]: Don’t forget to pick me up.
Jen [5:57AM]: and you better bring your wallet, Harkness. i expect to be pampered
Jen [5:59AM]: I hope you're doing alright
Jen [6:10AM]: also, I think you should check your reddit
Jen [6:11AM]: people there can have enlightening points of view
Jen [6:11AM]: (I saw the notification on your screen last night. you never checked it)
u/thefruitykind:
I'm not sure if sharing will be the most helpful thing right now, but here it is: my current boyfriend (let's call him Conan) has been my best friend since middle school. We'd do absolutely everything together; I'd spend vacations with his family at the beach, and he'd sleep over almost every day of the week. It was essentially impossible to find any sphere in my life that didn't have at least a bit of him on it, and it wasn't a problem
at all
to me until we entered high school, and he started dating this girl from our class (I'm calling her Heather here).
Heather was a very kind person and generally pleasant to hang out with. We had been from the same class since 7th grade and I could say she was a nice girl, but there was something about them together that just made me hate her guts.
At first, it was just the constant change of plans — Conan wouldn't sleep over as often anymore, and
she
was now invited to the beach while I stayed at home sulking because my best friend didn’t even bother to apologize for not taking me. [Back then, I already knew I didn't like girls, and that I was definitely into boys, I just wasn't out of the closet yet.] But then, I just started feeling like I turned into the background of a picture to him, while she got to be everything. [I understand now that that was just me wishing I were in her place, and hating her because I believed it would never be me.]
I remember that it strained our relationship, and that I even tried to distance myself from Conan for a month or so, but he was too insistent to let it go.
We fought. I cried. He started saying things like
‘do you expect me to break-up with her to be with you?’
and at some point I just told him to fuck himself because
yes
, I wished he'd do that.
That earned us almost four-months of no contact until he knocked on my front door saying he did break up with the girl. He asked if we could talk, I let him in. It took us
hours
to actually get to what mattered, and when we finally did, I came out to him, and he said he didn’t care about sexuality, he just knew he liked me a lot —
‘probably more than I should’
were the words he used — so we started things from there.
It was painstakingly slow, but after one year I did get the honors to call him my boyfriend and re-introduce him to my parents properly. (Then, of course, prom. We looked fabulous, tyvm.)
And… what I'm trying to hint at here (in the gentlest way possible) is that maybe you're not as straight as you'd think? Despite having had boyfriends and never considering this possibility, maybe —
maybe —
you're queer.
Your whole friend group is, and the ‘symptoms’ you describe sounded much like jealousy to me tbh.
Try looking into that, OP!
(Update us later pls)
╰
u/sosscarlet:
not the OP, but I loved the story!
wish the best for you and Conan
╰╰
u/thefruitykind
:
hahaha, thank you ;))
u/sosscarlet:
Okay, I'm just going to leave this here because (a) I think you need to re-read your own thread at least once again and absorb your own words properly, and (b) this might be useful for when you try to piece things together (hopefully it will shine some light into your thoughts, and you’ll see for yourself what's happening here).
Feelings are one of the many chaotic wonders we take too lightly during our lives, not truly stopping to understand how unpredictable things can get in the next second. (The idea of control and even full knowledge of it is preposterous — there is no such thing as someone who's in full control of their emotions, or that knowledge's every root ending and every branch of their own heart.)
It's
impossible
.
It’s
okay
.
You say you don't understand why you've been feeling sick towards Riley, when you were more than okay with it when she first told you about being a lesbian. (You also mention this issue is limited to her. You're okay with your other friends; it only bothers you because it has to do with her.)
Again, feelings are unpredictable, and maybe at the start you didn’t have
‘issues’
with her being a lesbian not because you hadn't seen her with anyone else yet, but because your feelings hadn't developed towards her in what now seems to make you feel entitled to her exclusiveness.
You've been sharing an apartment for two years. You had a boyfriend in the meantime. She certainly slept with other women, too. Things were fine until it made you sick that the roommate you'd occasionally flirt with and share the bed/couch is giving off some portion of her intimacy to someone else. Even if you still get the cuddle and the flirting, you're now aware other people have it, and that
could be
why you've been feeling sick every time another girl comes out of her bedroom.
Also, I can't help but add that moving in with someone can be a key fact in this type of situation. She's always there when you get home and when you wake up. There's some stability there, and it's not hard to understand how or why you'd get attached. (Possessive, even.)
That said, I think you should sit with your emotions for a bit, think long and hard, and then sit with Riley for a talk. Since you seem very confused with your post, I'm guessing the first step would be best if it were a smaller one, so start by explaining to her that she's valuable to you. Remind her that you're mostly just disoriented with all this, and be sincere about your feelings (
specially the ugly ones
). It will prevent fights, disagreements and tension in your house. (It's best for you guys considering there's a little guy involved in the situation, so try to stabilize it for Scratchy?)
I hope it goes well. (I hope you're
honest
.) And that Riley and you can figure it out soon.
╰
u/thefruitykind:
who's scratchy?
╰
u/kaleeater:
you're a dumbass
╰╰u/thefruitykind:
who's Scratchy?
‘the little guy'
. is there a kid in the middle of this?
╰╰╰u/kaleeater:
someone scarlet shouldn't know about
╰╰╰╰
u/thefruitykind:
what does that mean????????
╰
u/apothecarywhittch:
istg the world is full of idiots
one more hiccup and you’d spill an address and a social security number
╰╰
u/thefruitykind:
ಥ‿ಥ
There is no immediate clarity for Agatha when she wakes up the next morning — not for the next three weeks, at least.
And when Rio opens the front door with her keys to find Agatha watering her plants, no amount of coordination could lead their dialogue in order to make it natural — it's plainly awkward, no more or less than that.
The groceries are still by the counter by noon, and the chocolate is later found in the back of the fridge — both gone by the time Agatha comes back from her
‘friend date'
with Jen at night.
Scratchy seems lost between the two adults responsible for them, stuck right in the middle as the hours pass and none of them moves — Rio is insistent on sitting on the couch with her books and Agatha won't leave the dining table. (There's no intersection today, despite how easier communication is supposed to be, one's mouth is sewed shut, and the other is too full of shapeless nothings to actually make sound.) His head going from
right
to
left
to
right
to
left
until one of them moves. Until
Rio
gets up from where she's sitting with her books in her arms, a small
‘goodnight’
on her lips and the soft click of her bedroom door closing. (That's when Agatha pushes through the barrier and walks a step too far from the kitchen, too close to the living room — when she scoops the bunny on her arms and turns off the lights, heading to her own room while keeping her lips on his forehead; a kiss that lasts just enough; a kiss that keeps her from puking right there, the nonsense weighting on her tongue.) He sleeps out of his cage that night.
It's awful
.
(Agatha barely gets any sleep, and he's restless himself. She wishes he'd spell out the thing he has been thinking about since she laid on the floor with him the day before, but she suspects even if he could, he wouldn't.
He's Rio's, after all. A little shit.
The thought warms her up inside.
The burger she had for dinner starts to spoil.)
Dreadful. Atrocious. Grim.
And it gets even worse before she's allowed one moment of genuine relief.
(Not for opening doors without knocking, or going home without warning, but for entering a café in the morning. For sitting on a booth that's easily missed from the wrong angle, and for ordering enough black coffees to make the lump on her throat be a real threat this time. For looking up at the resemblance of a name she knew from back when she convinced herself she'd be happy with a Law degree — for not being able to look away when said name matched her memory. For seeing her roommate leaning into
Sloane Caldwell’s
side and sharing a pastry with her — for cleaning powdered sugar off the corner of her mouth after a bite. For allowing her lungs to turn oxygen into glass and sand at every breath she takes — for… not realizing soon enough that the lump on her throat wouldn't end up ripping her digestive system into spreads, but tearing her heart into pieces. Plastering her shame on a dirty mirror of a public bathroom, along with her mascara and every other thing she had been certain of until now.
Dreadful is sweet when compared to this.)
It gets even worse — because some
idiot
said that's how organic things must be. (
The great rise and fall of biological systems, and the intricacies of communities that arrange themselves within ecosystems; the chaotic and inexplicable turns inherent to life.)
It gets worse, and
of course it does —
because life just finds it really amusing to test her endurance before bringing her above water. But once she's able to see light penetrating the surface, Agatha's eyes shine even as she swallows half an ocean just to reach the sun quicker.
Ah…
Agatha's eyes shine. Even with dunes piling up on her chest, she looks
up
and tries to reach it — get her
claws
into the sun and let it show her real warmth as it burns her identity off the palm of her hand.
Even after getting home soaking wet from the rain. Hands balled into fists for being chewed out by her PI for being
‘overly distracted lately’
, and red rimmed eyes because
no,
she couldn't keep them in this time — she couldn’t hold back
tonight
.
She looks at the hallway. Sees Rio standing right there, looking at her like she’s about to crowd her personal space and call her insane for not taking an umbrella. Wonders about how selfish of her it would be to ask for warmth — of
any
kind; she’s not really demanding right now — because her teeth are about to start clattering.
“Hi.”
Even then, she reaches for it.
Rio.
Sandy
oxygen burning her air pipes. She’s fully aware that her hair is indeed dripping. “I'm so cold.”
Sandy
eyes and a massive lack of common sense on her part when Rio tells her to get to the shower —
‘I’ll make us hot cocoa' —
and she opens her mouth to say. “You're alone today.”
To which Rio smiles —
why would she? why would she not? —
and shakes her head, hiding her hands on her Juniper Green hoodie with their college's logo across the chest. “I’m not. You're here.” Two steps forward. Eyes roaming every inch of Agatha's form. “Now go shower before you catch your death.”
Sandy
lungs that are held together by a layer of glass that formed there over fourteen nights ago. Itchy heart that feels the weight of a shoreline at every beat. The oppressive presence of the emotions Agatha's still unable to read; emotions that almost drown her by dawn, and have her finding a string of voice in moments like these.
Sitting between
Rio's
legs, in
Rio's
bed, in
Rio’s
room. Leaning against her as she untangles — and brushes — her hair. (Wearing one of her pairs of socks, one of her sweatpants, and that one hoodie Agatha
swears
she did not steal from Rio's closet.) Holding onto her mug as she watches the half-bitten white marshmallows floating on the hot cocoa.
“I didn't know we had marshmallows.”
She feels the other pausing her movements, dipping her head just to let a bit of her affection drip on the other — kissing her shoulder with unhurried lips. “We didn't,” she says, mouth still on fabric. Breath invading its fibers and reaching skin. “I bought it yesterday — amongst other things.”
Agatha closes her eyes, unable to resist it when her neck angles her head to rest on the other's. “Real edibles?”
“Real edibles. And snacks for
our
baby.”
They both chuckle lightly.
“If you keep doing that, we might actually prevent the apocalypse.”
Rio turns her head on Agatha's shoulder; her hands sneaking around her waist until she’s reached the kangaroo pocket. Locking her fingers together and tightening the hold just a little bit. “Haven't we already? There was no variation of pasta this week.”
“Because there were leftovers from Wanda's.” She argues.
“No pasta. We won.”
Like an hourglass would do, something shifts inside Agatha right then and there — although her perception is limited to the brief tightness on her chest followed by the clearest breath she has had for weeks.
“Don't claim victory yet. We have to go grocery shopping with an actual list and make a habit out of it.”
It becomes a matter of time.
The sand slowly starts to evade her respiratory tract with a subtle strength carried by a few vowels and phonemes.
“Don't you believe in us, Harkness?”
Agatha smiles.
“I believe the pantry is a powerful enemy. Now, back to my hair, please.”
Rio chuckles.
“Yes, ma'am.”
‘Time’
is limited to nine days, two hours, twenty-six minutes and thirty-two seconds.
That's how long it takes for the very last grain of sand to leave Agatha's body. How long it took for them to put together a grocery list — for Rio to write each item in her perfect handwriting, and for her to convince Agatha to go with her to the supermarket.
It's a cloudy day; not much color outside and an unnecessary amount of hidden meanings behind Agatha's lines. (Right in front of the carrots, peppers and onions. Whilst Rio chooses the best one of each, and Agatha's
looking
.) The heart stops itching, and skin starts warming up. The tissue of her palm might blister soon, and the relentless sea of shapeless gibberish that fills her mouth starts to crave sound.
Nine days — of hand holding and ceiling mapping; of stealing the corner of Rio's bed to herself; of trying to bribe Scratchy for the secrets of the universe that she's so oblivious of.
Two hours — of Agatha playing with Rio's fingers because she
can,
and wondering if the lack of bites from the ants and termites mean they're retreating; of hearing the other gush about poisonous plants and
natural defense mechanisms
with a dumb smile, and enjoy every second of it; of fighting the other for the most domestic aspects of their sharing; of making up because Agatha just turned her head at the right time to see Rio's angry pout and that will always be more than enough for her to find the roots of her entitlement (because this,
this bit right here, you bitches
, is something for only her eyes to see).
Twenty-six minutes —
no, actually, make it ten
— of an argument to decide pizza flavors and whether they should get soda or alcoholic grape juice (aka
the most affordable wine they find in the menu)
. At least
thirteen
of them, waiting in line to get their groceries and then stuffing them in the backseat — just in time for a drizzle to begin. And the last
three
for her, sitting on the driver's seat — watching the raindrops on the windshield; feeling the insects digging one final path from her heart to the stomach; letting the piled up words in her mouth
finally
prepare to show what they've been hiding there for so long.
The thirty-two seconds are just enough for her to breathe in and spill it out.
“I'm not homophobic.”
Okay
, maybe those nothings should've been buried to let something better come out, but it's too late now. Agatha is already turning her head to Rio — who's staring at her with a confused smile and a cocked brow; a silent
‘okay…?’
written in her eyes — and her goddamn mouth is about to open again.
God.
“I thought I was. Because
those
girls you kept bringing over were pissing me off and… and making me feel sick. Really sick. Worse than that day, we saw that roadkill near the interstate. But I'm not homophobic. I'm sure I'm not.”
“Agatha, what’s this about?”
“I'm trying to say they disgust me, but you don't.”
Genius, this doesn't make it any better.
“I mean the resentment is not for you. I have no issue with the fact that you like women.”
Rio stares at her blankly for a moment. Her eyes search her face for a second, much too similar to how Scratchy did that night. “Thank you? I guess…?”
Agatha shakes her head, grips on the wheel. Sighs. “I'm saying it all wrong.
Fuck.
”
You're one of the most emotionally underdeveloped people in the whole freaking word. No shit you suck at this, Harkness.
“What I mean is that… What I'm trying to say is that…” She closes her eyes, presses her lips together. Traps them between her teeth and adds enough pressure on her jaw to leave indentations on the flesh. “I didn't expect you to be…
you
when I moved in. It struck me.”
“Is that your way of reclaiming your position as an ally? Because if it is, I might prefer to walk my way home.” There's a small edge on her sentences that cancel out the comical air that Rio always uses in her words.
“No.
No.
” She breathes in, “this is me trying to say I didn't–
Damn,
I didn't know I'd like being your roommate so much. Sharing things with you. I didn’t think I’d ever feel truly comfortable. Or that I’d be calling that apartment home. Or that
Scratchy
would happen.” Breathes out. “Or that I'd feel entitled to your exclusiveness.”
The insects are all over the walls of her stomach. No biting, no wound, no licking. Her chest doesn't itch, and her lungs, although a bit rusty, do their best to adapt to the oxygen it has been missing for so long.
Rio's face goes through all the stages of a sugar rush and the seven pits of grief in half a second. Her eyes are dark and she's so obviously confused. She tries to form her own words, but every time she opens her mouth, it's useless work. There's no efficient answer to that, and the only thing that survives the edges of her teeth is a simple question.
“What do you mean by
exclusiveness
?”
Agatha doesn't expect herself to respond to it so quickly. Doesn't expect herself to be so honest.
Sincere.
Or to just hand the words out so easily. “I don't want anyone else sharing space with you.”
That's what makes me sick. That's mine. No one else's.
The other narrows her eyes, “I thought we solved that when we agreed I wouldn't bring anybody else to our apartment.”
“I don't mean just at home. I mean everywhere.”
A deep, almost revolted frown. “Agatha, I'm still your friend. Me hooking up with someone shouldn't interfere in it. Won't interfere in it.” Pause. “I still come back to you.”
Ok. Fuck.
She shakes her head. Looks down at her lap. Smiles a smile that shows all of her pristine white canines. “This is really embarrassing — and it hurts my pride greatly — but I think I acted out of envy. I hated that they were there in the morning, or when I opened the front door.” She rolls her tongue on the roof of her mouth. Clicks it when Rio stays silent. “It's a bit more degrading because I can't even look at you when I say it — I think I want it to be me and you; I think I like you.”
Rio can't help it. She needs it spelled out. “And what does
that
mean?” It sounds too much like a plea. Strained and anguished.
“It means I might be in trouble.”
Agatha raises just a bit to get the full image of her.
Rio Vidal.
Wearing a stupid alpaca sweater, a sage Converse and green sweatpants.
That
beanie from Agatha’s that had been taken as a hostage until Agatha admitted the kidnapping of several pieces of clothing from her wardrobe. (Soft features and rosy lips, and such a perfect jawline,
God
.) A friendship bracelet she can't see, but she's certain is there — under the right sleeve; matching the one she left at her nightstand for some reason.
It makes sense.
‘The unpredictable feelings of a walnut’ — all bottled up.
It makes sense, doesn't it?
After two years of operating in the same system and learning each other's dynamics. Opening the same cupboard doors and preparing the same portions — always
times
two; same seasoning, same amount; ending up on the same couch, side by side. Spending nights together, not talking about anything and wasting a few neurons over alcohol — stoning the windows of a past they can no longer change, but that still brings a lump to their throats; howling over the cruelty they haven't been spared of. Laying on the floor and counting the circles made by the fan blades; concocting plans to finally conquer the carelessness with which they'd often treat themselves. Handing each other embarrassing bits that they'd much rather never see again. Holding each other —
because it's cold, or it's spring, or they just happened to become a victim to the other's gravity.
It makes sense.
Agatha has never enjoyed anything fully. Never wanted anything without guilt. Never dared to own something without blood being spilled.
Rio Vidal just became inevitable.
Easy.
“Agatha.” She licks her lips.
Trouble.
“I need you to repeat everything you just said like I'm a five-year-old. Like I don't know anything about nothing. Chew it out for me.
Please.
” She's begging. She's
begging.
(She can’t run from it.)
And the way her voice is brought to Agatha's ears is making the termites stir. The ants
are
retreating.
“I have no problem with you being gay.” Each word is said carefully. “I enjoy having a home and a
bunny
with you.” Her molars are a bit sensitive. It hurts to close her mouth. “I don't want you having a bunny or a home with someone else. And I hate that you let Scratchy meet anybody else but our friends.” The glass over her lungs, almost nonexistent at this point, shatters a bit more. It had mostly been taken away when the last grain of sand was carried out, but the shards that are left sting. “And I think I'm in
deep shit
because you're my bunny's Ma, and I like you.” They break over sensible areas. It stings. “I might also have just screwed up our relationship — and made a fool out of myself — because you might not feel the same.”
She's certain she did —
first
, because Rio seems frozen before her;
second
, because she has her fists tightly shut.
Whole minutes pass, and Agatha is heavily considering turning the ignition, driving off and pretending this never happened, when she hears something — the smallest opposition to ever fall from Vidal's mouth.
“But–
I… I thought your type was douchebags with dog names.”
And then — because
something
in this universe must pity Agatha, and fully
excuse
her for her pathetic existence — a smile starts growing on Rio's lips.
“I think that was a lapse of judgement.”
Wild and honest and all teeth. Like a starving animal who
finally
gets to have the carcass all to herself — have the first damn bite and the last freak nip at the cold, lifeless bones.
“Is your judgement
okay
now?”
Amazed and unique and breathtaking. Like being allowed to touch a painting to trace the brush strokes; dissect it through touch alone; understand what its beauty is made of.
“Maybe.” She swallows the wreckage left by the previous alphabetical shells. Tries to smile as charmingly as she can — and fails;
terribly.
“Did I ruin everything?”
“Depends.” Rio bites her lip. “Are you coming out to me?”
Agatha frowns. Her cheeks flush a little bit. “I’m not… certain of that. I’m not
not gay
, clearly, but…” She trails off. Receives a
hum
for that. Takes it as a cue to elaborate. “But I–
Well,
it seems my type has changed quite drastically. No douchebags, just Biology Major girls who happen to share an apartment and a
son
with me.”
There's a chuckle bubbling on Rio's lips — which is terrifyingly enticing, like fizzy drinks at the age of six.
Prohibited,
she thinks.
(One more thing Mother would try to exorcise from me.)
“What about Biology Major girls who are insanely good at cooking, and very good at writing down proper grocery lists to put an end to the apocalypse?” Her body tips forward, and her tone changes — low and controlled, as if she were dictating the syllables of a great secret. “Is there any bonus points if said
girl
has been crazy about you since you moved in, and has almost crawled up the walls because falling for a straight friend is like digging your own grave — the worst crime a lesbian could ever commit.”
“
Falling?
” She fishes the word out — her voice strains.
“
Anyways,
” she goes on, ignoring the other. Moving an inch closer — enough to rest her elbow on the console. “Good thing you filtered out a better type than
Rupert.
”
Agatha goes to slap her shoulder, but the actual hit never comes. (She'd later argue it's a simple miscommunication between limb and spinal cord, but she knows it might've been her calloused heart who changed routes.) Her hand rests on Rio's clavicle, all of a sudden, eyes looking for signs of discomfort.
In the absence of it, Agatha herself leans closer, and her hand moves up to Rio's neck — making her breath hitch and her pulse quicken.
Cheek —
caressing the soft skin with her thumb and causing a blush so strong that it radiates heat;
so strong that Agatha could look at its glow from underwater and reach for it; warm up, burn her whole palm with it.
“I was an asshole.” She whispers.
“You were.”
A short smile.
Rio's eyes shine as they reflect her own.
“I feel so stupid when you look at me that way.” A pause. “
So
stupid, it makes me want to ask you dumb things.”
“Like?”
Agatha bites her lower lip, “like
‘did you separate Señor Scratchy's vegetables from ours’
and
‘is it okay that I really want to kiss you on the mouth?’”
Rio turns her head slightly. Moves her hand to rest on top of the other's. Holds it there as her lips meet the crazy pulse on Agatha's wrist. “
Yes.
”
“To which question?”
“Both.”
Twenty-nine seconds are enough this time.
(Although they did expect much more desperation and restlessness.)
The hollow of Agatha's stomach tingles when lips touch halfway.
It's experimental. Cautious. Attentive.
Serial.
It's like Rio knows Agatha has never known a touch this gentle —
like she needs to show it to her
. Like Agatha knows that Rio has been waiting for this moment for eons —
like she’s more than happy to let her have it all
.
Rio's hand delicately tangles in Agatha's hair — a string of
‘is this okay’
falls from her mouth almost as easily as the smiles form whenever they part just to collide again. Agatha's mind sends flares to all of her body to remember this very moment;
take notes of every small reaction observed after entering Rio Vidal’s gravity and translation
— she follows her lead; short kisses and nose bumps; whispered words and a heavy gaze; small nips and a bit more of
pressure
.
They're frozen right here.
“You taste like soda,”
she thinks out loud.
“What?”
“Nothing. Come back here
.
”
A light drizzle outside; a backseat full of groceries; a rabbit that has known it all along, and a defeated pantry.
They
win
.
r/relationship
karaokefreak
:
UPDATE: I [24F] feel sick whenever my roommate [22F] brings a girl home. Am I being homophobic towards her?
tl;dr: It turns out I don't feel nauseated at all when I'm the girl Riley's kissing. Or the one she's holding. And touching. And saying corny shit to. So — we talked like
adults
— we decided she might have to make out with me (
exclusively; indefinitely
) to keep me from developing a reflux/ulcer situation, y'know?
PS: Scarlet opened her big mouth and mentioned a little guy. That would be my rabbit. Riley and I share the custody of him. She's Ma, I'm Mom and
yeah
, maybe it was obvious from the start, I was just being stupid.
>Comments:
u/thefruitykind:
you really,
really
thought that sharing the custody of a pet with your roommate was not the epitome of lesbianism? hell-o?
╰
u/kaleeater:
may I interfere — the epitome was feeling like this and thinking it was HOMOPHOBIA and not a fucking CRUSH
u/apothecarywhittch:
Why am I learning about this through here? DONT YOU OWN A PHONE, YOU UNGRATEFUL B*TCH?
╰u/karaokefreak:
keep yelling and you won't get the dirty details
╰╰u/apothecarywhittch:
about you stupidity? ID RATHER NOT
╰╰╰u/karaokefreak:
fuck you
╰╰╰╰u/apothecarywhittch:
─( -_•)︻デ═一
u/kaleeater:
f.i.n.a.l.l.y
no more moping on my couch
╰
u/cantchoosemyfig
okay wtf? I did not mop
╰╰
u/kaleeater:
whatever helps you sleep at night,
riley
u/sosscarlet:
I'm not even sorry for blurting it out; I'm just glad you got your thoughts in place and saw the whole picture.
╰u/karaokefreak:
There is nothing in place, not even the groceries. She messed up everything. She messed
me
up.
╰╰u/sosscarlet:
Isn't that wonderful? That's chaos in its core, and you know what is tangled in it?
Love
.
My predictions are, you're going to pick the lovey-dovey duets from now on. Say the three words before Thanksgiving. (The whole queer agenda will come to bite you in the ass until the end of the year, if Riley's lucky.)
╰╰╰u/karaokefreak:
First, you're the number one reason why I hate mathematicians.
Second, ew.
╰╰╰u/cantchoosemyfig
u/sosscarlet
, she won’t last a month
╰╰╰╰u/karaokefreak:
get out of here. dinner won’t make itself
╰╰╰╰╰u/cantchoosemyfig
you’re so bossy
╰╰╰╰╰╰u/karaokefreak:
you love it
╰╰╰╰╰╰╰u/sosscarlet:
Ew.