On Indefinite Hiatus

It feels like only yesterday that Basil brought her here for the first time, two years ago. To will away a bit of their nervousness about catching hold of Winona Johnson, he'd said.

And it did help. Every fear they'd had that she would laugh in their face, would throw them out, would never even listen...all of it melted away when the delightful coldness of French Lavender ice cream hit her tongue. Basil had playfully swiped a tiny spoonful of his orange blossom scoop on her nose. You could almost taste the promise of so, so many honeyed nighttime kisses in their laughter that day.

Mashti Malone has been their most-visited place in LA, ever since. Sometimes with the Candy Bombs (Damien, Alana and Khaan still grimace collectively at the name), sometimes with Sloane and Kim. But more often than not, it's just the two of them. Her spending an extra three minutes at the counter, taking in the rainbow-range of colours and gleefully tasting samples; him sitting back on his chair to watch her, ice cream sandwich in hand and a twinkle in his eye.

This is a place Sage never tires of exploring, and she always leaves it with a different flavour. It was Persian cucumber the last time, a burst of freshness that soothed and invigorated her sense all at once. And before that, the crystal glow of rice noodles against creamy, rose-scented vanilla, their signature faludeh. And way before that, the treacly unctuousness of date ice cream, so rich she had to take a full pint home.

Basil's order has always remained the same. Bastani Sonnati, offered to him the minute he shows his face at the door. From time to time they take bites of each other's ice creams; the smell of saffron and rosewater is familiar, and divine. This man sticks to his favourites - a principle he applies only to food, Sage thinks to herself, giggling quietly.

Today she finds herself in need, desperately, of the sunny-hued comfort of Basil's bastani. She wants to crack the wafers of the sandwich open, watching as the ice cream stretches and pulls apart. She wants to breathe in the floral scents of rose and saffron, feel the pistachios break in a satisfying crunch between her teeth. At this point when she wants to tell Basil her wish to explore the unknown, she finds herself seeking the comfort of the familiar. So she orders her own Bastani Sonnati.

"Baby," There's a teasing fondness in Basil's tone, as if he knows she has something in her mind that she's struggling to tell. "Something's up. You haven't said a word since we've got here."

Warmth creeps up her neck. Basil knows her too well for a man she's been dating for just two years.

"Um." Sage begins, fake-clearing her throat, " remember that time you and Sloane went to DC to visit Kim, and I took up that rock climbing tour at The Gunks?"

Basil grins. "Yeah...six months ago, right?" She nods as he continues to speak, finishing off the last of his wafers. "That may have been the first time I heard you gushing about Dr Madison Eckhart, but it sure as hell wasn't the last."

She smiles and mock-punches him on the arm, shaking her head as he steals a bite of her bastani sandwich. "You would, too, if you'd seen her normally sweet mouth come up with the most creative ways to shade a cocky guy," Sage tells him, giggling at the memory before she mimics Dr Eckhart's lilting but remarkably steely voice, "Get your head out of your armpits and listen to what I'm saying for once, Greg you asshole!"

For a minute, she almost forgets what she was intending to say, simply basking in their shared laughter. But then the strongest memory she has of that excursion resurfaces - silken brown hair whipping around a weatherbeaten face...almost like a reel in her head that she has watched too long on loop - and the warmth climbs up her neck again.

"So...uh. I met someone there."

"Oh?"

Basil tilts his head slightly, his eyebrows raised in an expression of mild interest. She searches his face for any traces of doubt, or judgement, or jealousy, and finds nothing but curiosity and...a brief flash of excitement? Either he's a very good actor or what she's clearly about to say doesn't sound as transgressive to him as it has to her.

She's been worried that he'd ask her - like he did two years before when she'd moved to her own flat - if her feelings for him have changed. Whether she's lost interest. Basil has identified himself as polyamorous for years, and she and Sloane have had his version of "The Talk" more times than they could collectively count. Don't be ashamed of wanting to be with other people. Openness is key. Honesty is key.

Back then they'd listened carefully, sincerely, but neither understood why any of that needed to apply to them. Sage and Sloane will always love Basil - for all he is and for all they've learned from him - but personally, they could never envision any sort of future with anyone else. And that was fine.

But now Sloane has started to show a sliver of interest in Alana, and as for herself...well.

"Earth to Sage." Sage can barely hear Basil's soft, laughing voice over the clamor of her own thoughts. It sounds like heaven, now more than ever.

All through this little trip, Sage had taken care. Touches. Kisses. The nicknames they use only on each other. An admission like the one she's making today could be taken the wrong way...and never, never, not even in a million years - not even after they are dust particles and rusted metal beneath six feet of earth - would she want Basil to ever believe the impossible. That her love for him would stop.

She puts what remains of her ice cream sandwich down, and steals a glance at him. Crinkles of laughter around his eyes, a corner of his mouth tugged upwards. A corner she will always want to kiss.

So he does know. He does trust her.

"There's a picture of her from that trip," Sage says, biting back her own smile, "You wanna see?"

"Mmm," he puts a hand over hers. "but let's get home first."

The trip back to Nadia's friend's place takes fifteen minutes but feels like hours, and they both drop with a thud on the couch rather than actually sit.

Sage has to slide the lockscreen upwards to unlock her phone. They both share a secret smile: the picture on the lockscreen is a silhouette of two people kissing, against the backdrop of a moon so abnormally large and golden that you would assume it was photoshopped in, if you didn't know what supermoons were. Only they (and Sloane, who gleefully clicked this picture just minutes before Sage took a similar one of her and Basil) know that it was real, that it was taken last year, that it's them. In this cozy, slightly messy sitting room - much like the one they own at home - Basil's hand moves from the small of Sage's back to cup her shoulders, and his head leans against hers.

The picture she shows him doesn't seem like much: a young woman, long brown hair loosely tied back, her dusky skin taking on a golden glow from the light of the afternoon sun. She's still wearing her climbing gear, her helmet on the rock beside her, her smile both tired and full of mischief. It reminds Sage of the very first time she looked at the woman - windswept hair whipping around her face before she tied it up and put on her helmet - and fell head over heels in love.

Sage had felt the gut punch of that realization the minute their eyes met - knew it was love with a terrifying certainty that was at once not at all like the way she fell for Basil, but also exactly like that.

Basil studies Sage's face for longer than he looks at the picture, his smile soft and knowing. "What's her name?" he asks as she flips through her gallery in search of other pictures, lacing the fingers of her other hand with his own.

"Nilukshi," She finds what she's looking for - a picture of the both of them against the backdrop of a stage. Sage sitting over a crate strumming guitar, Nilukshi singing, her hands spread out and her feet apart, her face a portrait of pure joy. Even here, in this quiet, cozy living-room sofa, far from the chaos of that stage, Sage relives the moment she realized they were both auditioning for the same play, just two weeks after that excursion. How their eyes locked for several skips of a heartbeat once they were done. "Small scale production for Rent. We were jamming on Seasons of Love backstage."

He chuckles. "Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes...how do you measure, measure a year." His voice is pitch perfect, as usual, and Sage has to bite back the urge to finish the verse with "Measure in love, sweet love". This is not the right time for an impromptu acapella.

But he turns serious a minute later, adjusts himself slightly to face Sage. His brows furrow in that way they do when he asks a question they both know will have answers that scare the shit out of you. "Does she know you're..."

"Yeah. I told her about Eros. It...didn't go as badly as I thought."

He sighs in relief. "Does she know about us?"

"Yep." It was funny how that was the harder conversation to have. Nilukshi's face had been studiously blank when Sage told her about her boyfriend, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. At least for the first five minutes. But the words "open relationship" loosened her up for some reason, and suddenly her gorgeous, long, artist's fingers were stretched out in front of her, eyes laser-focusing on them as if checking out her brand new manicure was the most important task in the world. Cool, she'd said, her voice almost squeaky, cool.

Basil's other hand lightly rubs her arm, encouraging Sage to sink into his embrace. "Did you only realise you wanted to date her now?"

She shakes her head, flushing. "I wanted to believe it was just a crush, not gonna lie. I just didn't think having my feelings returned was possible till now."

He frowns, almost like he's going to say it isn't like you to lack confidence in your charms, Sage. "Why not?"

Sage sighs, slowly inching forward and kissing a corner of his mouth. She looks down, training her gaze over their fingers tangled together.

It hasn't been easy, reliving the last five months of pining and awkwardness and just...the tendency to get ten times clumsier in Nilukshi's presence. Or reliving the last five months of tension and worry and (maybe misplaced) guilt, hoping against hope that she wasn't doing her relationship with Basil an injustice by getting even one step of this revelation wrong. But she'd still do it all over again - for him and for Nilu. For the two people who own her whole heart, the one that doesn't even physically exist in her body.

"Didn't think she'd be interested. Thought it would be a thing I'd tell myself to get over at some point. I'd have told you straightaway the moment I thought I stood a chance." Her eyes are darker and more shadowed as she raises them to meet his. "I did okay...didn't I?"

She feels the rumble of soft laughter from against her as he pulls her closer. "Oh honey. You did better than just okay." Sage sighs softly against his mouth as he draws her closer. "You were perfect."

His hands cup her face, his nose nudges softly against her own, making her giggle. The flavour of the ice cream they'd just shared half an hour ago lingers on his tongue. A bouquet of saffron and rose and clotted cream, coating her palate and making her feel like she is lying on a bed of flowers, sunlight streaming in rays of butter-yellow down her hair.

--

Two weeks later

Nilukshi is here before time at Brooklyn Bridge Park: binoculars, mat, amateur astronomy 101 booklet, backup garbage bags and snacks at hand. Chose tonight because of the new moon, she whispers excitedly. Even in the pitch dark, Sage can see her eyes light up as she approaches.

Comet Hasegawa is best seen in the early hours before dawn, where the sky is dark and unfettered by the thick veil of New York smog, preferably with no moonlight to obscure the intense glow of the stars. It was discovered only last month, by the Japanese scientist it was named after, and they have just this month to capture it in its full, emerald-green glory. This Saturday is the last time it will appear in the night sky. It'll take another 500 years for anyone on Earth to ever catch sight of it again.

Sage knows this because Sloane told her. Because Sage and Basil may have joined her in her backyard stargazing sessions, her trips to the planetarium, taken turns gazing into her humble home telescope just for the smile that lights up her face afterwards...but somewhere along the line they started to look forward to stargazing. Cherish it. Treasure it. It had become their thing.

Nilukshi had stared blankly at Sage the first time she'd yapped on and on about space - something stupidly jargon-y bullshit about Mercury's greatest elongation and seeing Jupiter at opposition. It got so embarrassingly obvious that she was confusing her crush that she'd apologized and backed away, whispering to herself since when did you become such a fucking nerd, Sage!

Nilukshi knows the basics. Orion. Meteor Showers. Total solar eclipses that make the sun look like an enlarged diamond ring; a nighttime sky at noon. She's the kind that would sit out even the major astronomical events because she's so used to city skylines veiled in smog. She, of all people, wouldn't have the time to squint at the night sky searching for constellations and planets.

And...and she set this up. Probably looked up this month's (maybe even this year's) calendar of astronomical events on Google, checked out amateur stargazing clubs, did her research, figured out the perfect timings, the perfect place, even the perfect gear. Chose a suitably dark night where they would need only binoculars. Sage has been through enough of these kinds of trips to know how much work goes into one like this.

And the way she sneaks glances at Sage, from underneath those impossibly long eyelashes of hers, you could tell that the success of every minute of this picnic will hinge on what Sage's own face gives away.

Nilukshi did this. For her. Dove headlong into this...this thing that she barely knew much about before they met, for her.

Goddamit. It should be criminal for that hum beneath her skin - the one that usually tells her that everything in her body is in tip-top shape - to keep running this...this normally. Not when her brain and her soul and her (mechanical) heart feel so out of whack.

Ignorant of the way Sage's thoughts are running riot, Nilukshi rummages through her backpack, not stopping until she takes out a ziplock bag filled with crispy, yellow, star-shaped snacks.

"Koki," her teeth gleam in the darkness. "Amma made these for me when she came over to visit last week."

Sage nods. She remembers Mrs Sigera from the first time she'd come with Nilukshi to the backstage area of the theatre, meeting the cast, clicking poloroids of them all on her cute pink FujiFilm. Sage can almost imagine Nilukshi's features maturing out to look exactly like her mother's when she reaches that age - warm brown skin with faint lines showing, fine crinkles around those wonderful brown eyes, streaks of grey peppering her dark wild hair. She shouldn't hunger for that sight the way she does now - the way she did when she first imagined Basil and Sloane and herself, rocking gently on armchairs, their wizened gnarled hands on her still-youthful ones, watching sunsets - but she does. She does. She wants all of those images to combine and become the truth of her future.

The rice cookies break apart in a satisfying crunch against her teeth, before dissolving into a sweet-savoury blend of coconut milk, and turmeric, with the slightest hint of red chili. The turmeric is perhaps the most prominent flavour - peppery and bright, slightly bitter and earthy and balanced out perfectly with a bit of sugar. If she were to guess, it's the turmeric that gives the koki its distinctive yellow glow, pretty much the way saffron stains Basil's favourite bastani this exact golden hue.

They sit together in a silence that feels both comforting and way too heavy, pretending to focus instead on the emerald glow of Comet Hasegawa, Earth's guest for only a few days before it disappears for another half-millennium. Sage points to the constellation of Leo it passes across; they both smile, recalling the surprise birthday party Dr Eckhart and her team threw, mid-August, for Nilukshi at their rock climbing gym. The comet looks like a streak of glow-in-the-dark phosphorus paint, brushed against the canvas of the sky.

Nilukshi has packed more food than that - maybe too much for this trip - but it's the kokis Sage keeps coming back to, their sweet-saltiness and that mild nuttiness that likely comes from the sesame seeds hidden beneath the surface. She eats slowly, conscious of Nilukshi's expectant gaze.

"Man," Sage whispers, "I could eat my body weight in these, they're so good. Don't tell your mom."

Nilukshi tears her gaze away from her, swallowing as she gazes again at the comet. "Amma only makes them for special people in our lives...and we don't have that many. She'd be pissed if I gave those kokis to anyone else..."

If Sage had any ability to think before she said that, it disappears completely when she hears what Nilukshi says next. "...if I didn't give them to the girl I've fallen so hard for." Fuck. Fuck. Holy shit. She'd been hoping and wishing and terrified of this moment and now it's... "The girl I want to spend the rest of my life with."

Nilukshi says the last one in a terrified whisper. She looks down now, at the grass. Her fingers tremble as they fiddle with a loose thread on the mat.

"Since when?" Sage can barely breathe.

"Since the minute Dr Eckhart dragged Greg Jones' arrogant, trip-sabotaging ass, and then someone let out a belly-laugh that made me think it was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard."

Slowly, swayingly, as if they're both in a dream, Sage inches herself towards her, whispering her name like it's a prayer. Balances herself on her knees, cupping her left cheek, making her look up so Sage can bask in the mixture of desire and fear in her eyes. Her fingers have combed through Nilukshi's hair often enough in her dreams that their softness against her fingertips feels like coming home. Sage feels Nilu's breaths turn shallow as she traces a line of kisses, from temple to jawline to corner of mouth, before covering lips thinner than her own. But the moment Sage's tongue brushes hers, Nilu sighs and almost sinks into her. As she is ready to be absorbed into the pores of Sage's skin, if that's what it takes to get closer.

On Nilukshi's tongue she tastes the creaminess of coconut milk and the slightest dusting of sugar, the light heat of the chili powder and the welcome, golden bitterness of turmeric. She tastes like heaven.

Sage can't bear to move away - even as their lips part - so she keeps her forehead against Nilukshi's and her hands buried in her hair.

"You too?" Nilukshi breathes.

"Goddamit, Nilu. Since the minute we met."

"What about..." Nilukshi flushes and looks away.

Sage understands perfectly, smiles softly at her. "Basil knows. He'd probably cuss me out if I didn't stop moping over you and actually do something about it. I bet he'll get along with your mom like a house on fire."

Nilukshi lets out a watery giggle, then gasps as they stop talking altogether. They kiss again, and again, and again, moaning as Nilukshi catches Sage's lower lip with her teeth, as Sage grabs fistfuls of her dress so she won't fall over.

In the sky above them, Comet Hasegawa is close to completing its journey across the constellation of Leo, ready to continue its path across the universe and out of the solar system. Neither Sage, nor Nilukshi, nor any of the people Sage has loved or will ever love in the future, will see such a sight again in their lifetime.

In their minds, that comet has already passed, already streaked its way through their orbit and faded in relevance. All that remains is starlight and quick gasps and hushed kisses and the taste of spicy-sweet kokis.

Tomorrow, Sage promises herself. She and Nilukshi will need to talk, once this afterglow has faded and they have to think about the reality of their situation.

This is a first for Nilukshi, just as the relationship with Basil had been a first for her. Like Sage, there are going to be things that will scare Nilu. And like Basil, Sage will need to take on the lead a bit. Will need to ask the right questions, say the right words to reassure her, read her body language and listen to her voice and understand at least a little of what Nilukshi's boundaries are. Will need to ease her into the realization that as long as they're honest, as long as they trust each other...this will be okay. They will be okay.

Sage breathes in the smell of fresh grass and rice-coconut cookies, smiles at the stray thought of Basil looking at her, with that proud grin, raising his mug of coffee to her like he's making a toast. Baby, you did perfect.

Tomorrow, Sage promises herself, as the comet they came to watch slowly inches its way, half-seen, out of their orbit. There will be other starlit nights, other fantastic things to see and experience together. They will have so much of tomorrow left to savour.

For tonight, the kisses they share will be magic enough.

--

References:

Basil is my polyam MC, and he dates everyone in the group. Sloane and Sage, too, wind up having other relationships and the three of them live together in the current timeline of this fic. Sage is the Adventurer Hayden (Mysterious, Rebellious, Humourous and Impulsive) but she sometimes showcases opposing traits due to the Double Ripple Effect.

Mashti Malone - A Persian ice cream shop, v popular in LA. I used this video about them as a reference

Bastani - Iranian ice cream which is golden and made with saffron, rosewater and pistachios. Bastani Sonnati is the same, sandwiched between wafers.

Faludeh - A traditional Iranian cold dessert similar to a sorbet. It consists of thin vermicelli-sized noodles made from starch in a semi-frozen syrup containing sugar and rose water.

Koki - An all-time favorite Sri Lankan deep-fried snack made specially during festivals such as Sinhalese and Tamil new year, weddings, and ceremonies. The basic Kokis batter is made of rice flour, salt, turmeric powder, and coconut milk.

Sage's lockscreen in this fic (of Basil and Sage's silhouettes against a supermoon), is a reference to the next fic I'm writing, Harvest Moon

Yes the Dr Eckhart I mention here as the rock climbing professional trainer is Madison from The Freshman. I HC that she went on to do her PhD in Volcanology and runs adventurer courses. 😄

Tagging @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW, and @choicesseptemberchallenge2023 for Day 14: Poloroid Picture/Clicking special photos of S/O(s) and @choicespride for Bisexual Awareness Week

Iris doesn't know how long her body will last. How long her creators will allow her to exist. How long her friends may be able to protect her.

All she does know, is that today will forever remind her of how she will see change. It will carry the scent of chrysanthemum tea and sakura blossoms, it will look like a newborn butterfly, it will sound like Hazel's bright laughter.

Change will be the moment you stand in the middle of a tea garden, feeling like your insides are stitching themselves together into newer shapes, but behaving nothing ever happened.

--

Tectonic Plates

That feeling remains. It's not an entirely uncomfortable one, but it's a struggle to get used to. And a hard one to articulate. Reactions she assumed she'd never have begin to bubble into surface. Things she'd never even thought of doing before now gnaw at her, begging for release.

Inside she feels something shifting, like tectonic plates. Not sudden like an earthquake. Slow, subtle...so invisible you wouldn't see its aftereffects until centuries later.

She's almost afraid to put this change into words.

She gazes at Hazel's sleeping face from time to time. Memorizing her sweep of her long eyelashes, tracing her hands across her smooth skin (Hazel is very particular about her skincare). Her mouth is always slightly open in slumber.

Iris never allows herself to forget that she existed because of Hazel. She was the shy, sweet, sentimental, overthinking Galatea, who emerged out of Hazel's desires and Sloane's talent. But already she can feel the urge to just go up and talk to a new person. Already she finds herself wanting to just...jump into a new hobby without too much research or overthinking. And these were once changes she hardly gave a second thought to. Not until Hazel began to notice.

But now that she has, Iris can't stop thinking about it.

So Iris distracts herself on the plan from Tokyo to San Francisco. Flirts with Hazel and blushes when she teases her with "a frog called She Park". Listens patiently as Sloane recounts her time with Eros (up until now she's only heard about Sloane's final few weeks there, but listening to her initial starry-eyed worship of the company makes Iris hurt for her). Nods her head at the latest digital art Nadia created (to her it's a riot of purples and golds and reds - Nadia understands, and discusses her techniques with Iris instead). Passionately debates Hawaiian pizza with Steve, contemplates asking Alana about forged certificates the next time they meet. Takes turns with the others to comfort Damien on the plane - he's been trying to hide the way he searches their faces to see if they're all even real. Iris tries equally hard not to search his face for traces of Dames.

All the while, she avoids looking too much at Hazel. The question she's too afraid to ask still bubbles beneath the surface.

Will you still love me when everything that you loved about me is gone?

--

Wave Organ

Iris half-walks, half-runs through the streets on San Francisco, not caring where her feet take her. She's amazed at the waves of sheer rage welling up in her gut, the quick, fierce desire to say the worst words, to fling random objects at the next passerby. Hell, to fling the harshest words at poor, sweet Hazel. She can almost smell her resentment - burnt and charred and acrid - and she hates the feeling. She'd give anything for it to go away. She'd give anything for Hazel to never be touched by it.

There are other ways she could drain all this energy without destroying someone. But the only ones she knows of involve her friends, and she cannot stand to even look at them right now. A walk alone will have to do.

It's too much to take. All these changes that seemed so small before. All these things she could stop and wonder about for just a moment, before moving on to the next big task. In the face of meeting the Maker (literally) who abandoned you, of the knowledge that everyone around you has a family and you don't, in the face of your best friend treating you like a thing...they've all piled up into this force that's bigger than her hopes could ever be.

I thought I could handle this, Iris thinks as she tastes saltwater on her tongue, as her feet unconsciously follow the rhythm of waves crashing against the shore. Khaan's the one who agreed to help me. Sloane's the one who stood by me. Hazel's the one who protected me. Damien's the one who is trying to understand me. There was a time when that would have been enough.

The old Hayden would have been grateful. The old Hayden could only afford being happy to be alive and have people around her. Everything else was just a bonus. And demanding more would make her the ungracious one.

It's not as if being treated like an object didn't hurt her then. It's not as if these constant remainders that she wasn't human enough, person enough, didn't haunt her dreams then.

The old Hayden would have cried for days if she'd heard her closest, dearest friend speak of her as a thing. But she wouldn't protest. Because wasn't that the truth?

But she isn't Hayden anymore. She isn't that shy, overthinking woman who once believed she had a mother out there somewhere, waiting for her next call home. Who still clung from time to time to the hope that that belief might be real. She is Iris: a woman who is painfully aware of how much of her life is a lie, and unsure of what about her constitutes the truth. Unsure of what even that truth should be. Unsure of whether even this Iris will ever be real.

She stands at the steps of San Francisco Bay, eyeing one of the large pipes that form the Wave Organ.

They look nondescript, and rough, and grey. Dull and ordinary and cumbersome. At their feet she can just about notice the waves crashing, and she cannot imagine they'll sound any different if she presses her ears to the pipes.

And then she presses an ear against one of them.

She can only hear the deep gurgles of the water first. Swishing their way around the pipes before retreating, then returning in full force. The sound feels deeper, fuller, almost physical...like she can feel their vibrations in her chest. She's about to leave, fully convinced that that's all there is to it.

That's when she hears it. A constant, rumbling hum, emerging from the depths of the massive pipe. The sound is quiet enough to be missed if you weren't paying attention...but there's no way you can ignore it once you notice. The hum becomes a constant, then a rhythm, then the foundation on which the wave's song is built. And suddenly, it's just the song that Iris needs to hear.

How does the simple, familiar sounds of crashing waves transform into this? What miracle of science allowed for this journey, from the fluidity of sea to the harshness of hard rock, from irregular gurgles to this otherworldly sound? What magic makes sure that underneath this symphony of chaos, a low undetectable hum is what holds it all together?

Iris stays there for a long time, listening. Her mind is blank, save for the sound of gurgling water, for the peaceful hum that says so little, yet feels like an anchor. She places a trembling hand on the place where a heart should be, feels the steady hum from within her body, from the metals and polymers that sustain her. That she tries so hard not to hate. It's the last place she can think of, to find that same constant comforting hum...but it's there. It's there.

This. This is what's real. This is how she knows she is real.

She stands up. Straightens. Smoothens her hair and runs a hand over the non-existent creases on her skirt. She begins to walk, the walk turns into a light jog, the jog turns into a run.

All she knows is she is now ready to talk to Hazel.

Hazel holds her extra tight that night, almost afraid she will disappear. Iris clings to her with equal fervour, running her hands along Hazel's sides, breathing in the freesia scent of her hair. She remembers Khaan's words from when they both returned home. Something about how her own body is beginning to rewrite it's own codes.

I may not be the same person tomorrow, she tells Hazel, already half asleep.

Nor will I, Hazel whispers, her own hand cupping Iris' cheek, but we'll love each other anyway.

Iris smiles in her sleep.

--

Shifting Sands

The nightmares leave her raw, exposed, stripped of any power. Even more so since they've arrived in LA.

She's used to all kinds of changes now. Changes in landscape, changes in her friendships, the loosened threads in her psyche making way for newer patterns. The multiple codes that - as Khaan reminded her - the quirks her own system had overridden!

Nothing ever prepared her for the most dangerous changes of all. The ones that made her fear herself. The ones that made her want to never fight again.

She hates how this makes her feel. This helplessness, every time Hazel pops over to her room to check on her, or when she holds Iris' clammy hand long after the worst has passed. This should be her role. Caretaker, nurturer, sweet angel of mercy.

"You'll have all the time in the world to do that," Hazel grumbles by the third night that she hears Iris protest.

"Not if you have anything to say about it," Iris mumbles, rather waspishly. She's fast beginning to realize that Hazel revels in taking care of her. But more than that, she seems to revel in this dynamic shift, in how much more comfortable Iris is in letting things not be perfect. Every time Iris acts a little less patient, a little less polite, Hazel grins.

Iris feels this shift in their relationship the way you feel sand grains slip from under your feet. You're afraid you'll slip in the beginning and hold on to the grains. They'd slip anyway - your foothold along with them. Then you'd find firm ground. Then your feet would learn where to grip, without holding on to the sand.

The next time the nightmares come, and Hazel holds Iris' clammy hands again against her smooth ones...Iris hesitates for a moment, then doesn't let go. Even after sleep takes over.

Hazel welcomes the change.

--

Home

When Iris stands outside USKEA - three days after the meeting with President Thompson - and contemplates buying whatever primary-coloured furniture catches her fancy...she isn't entirely surprised.

She hasn't been, for a long time now. Even before Sloane explained the double-ripple effect to her, she's lived and made peace, even enjoyed, some of these transformations.

On the days she still feels uneasy about the new her, she reminds herself that the world didn't transform into seven continents, several tiny islands and numerous nations in one day. It took countless subtle shifts, unseen and unfelt, unnoticed by generations of creatures, over millenia.

She stands outside USKEA right now, still a little in awe of her ability to choose. She could go in right now and order furniture and knickknacks without even looking twice. She could call throw away her meticulously planned menu and follow her cravings for cheetah cakes. She has the freedom of choice, and her body nor the codes Sloane had painstakingly built her personality on, can stop her.

It is by that same freedom of choice, that Iris turns away, heads home, opens the dusty magazine on minimalist furniture, and marks out her top picks. She is free now, and sometimes that freedom means sinking into the comfort of the familiar.

She settles into the familiar comfort of Hazel's arms that day, in the spacious warmth of her minimalistically-furnished flat. Her kisses taste like cherry blossom, the lipgloss sweet and smooth on Iris' tongue. This is home, she thinks. This won't change.

Or at least, she will hope it doesn't.

Hazel's feet shift uncomfortably when Iris explains the changes. She's still smiling, still joking around, still teasing, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. Her voice trembles for a moment before she asks back the question Iris had posed to her, so many months ago.

Could your feelings for me change, too?

Iris knows better than anyone how fickle transformation can be. But she also knows the two fixed constants of her life. The two women to whom she owes her existence, the first two people she can ever remember seeing, the most important two women in her life. Hazel, and Sloane.

Even if they never had a romantic relationship again, Iris knows that she cannot stop loving Hazel - in any way, in any form, in any relationship - any more than she can stop breathing.

But change is an inevitable part of everything in their lives, and this can't be any different. Hazel is comforted, more by Iris' honesty than by anything else.

That year, Iris gifts her a conch shell, one that would allow beach-loving Hazel to hear the sounds of waves crashing even when she isn't close to the sea.

That year, Hazel frames a photograph for Iris. Of a black-dotted red butterfly, barely visible beneath its cocoon, still believing it is a caterpillar. Even within the grey of that cocoon, Iris can still spot the bright scarlet of the butterfly's wings. It experienced its own changes, grew its own wings - it just wasn't ready to come out yet.

Just like her. Her metamorphosis is still ongoing, still incomplete. It will probably remain that way forever.

And now, after all this time - after all these confusions and resentment and tears - that's exactly how Iris likes it.

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