bad girls do it well.

Cosima understands–now particularly, though she thinks part of her always has–the depth of Sarah’s fear. The way it lives within her, the way it is her as much as blood and bone and tissue are.

(There are more bacterial cells in the human body than human cells, and Cosima thinks that maybe the same is true for fear, maybe she has absorbed this into her very being. Maybe it is for her own protection, like the bacteria. Maybe she is supposed to be scared.)

She understands because she feels it too, that wash of terror with every two-note beat of her heart. It’s something she works to ignore–is reasonably successful at ignoring. It’s something she plays off with a smile so wide there can’t possible be anything hiding underneath it. (Can there?)

It’s something Cosima doesn’t let herself feel because she belongs, and that’s never been the issue here–it’s what comes next, what comes after being enough that scares her: doing enough.

She hums, lets herself smile. Accepts Sarah’s attempt at humor because what else is she supposed to do? It is funny, all of this, in some utterly unfunny way, for they are both so adamant about what they see in the other. Both so sure of what they don’t see in themselves. ‘Mm, don’t you think you would’ve figured out I’m a robot by now?’ Cosima shakes her head. ‘Yeah, well– I mean, but aren’t they? It’s what… It’s what separates Ravenclaw from the others, you know? It’s just a riddle, but it’s also– Not. Guess that’s what I’m trying to say: like, it’s easy to see the small things, right? And the small things matter–they do–but… Then you don’t see the big ones.’ Her hands wave, carve shapes into the air like they are words on a chalkboard, only these do nothing to illuminate her point.

'I know. Seriously. It’s– It’s why, I think, the hat’s always trying to get the inter-house unity thing going. On a large scale, yeah, it’s probably not going to happen. But individuals——’ Cosima shrugs: the two of them are example enough.

She thinks about that a lot, about how unlikely their entire existence together is: from first meeting onwards, they were as different as the colors on their robes, and yet–

(Blue and red are not quite opposite, not quite complementary. But they’re close. They’re damn close enough for her to cherish the thought anyway.)

They were supposed to be separate. But, then again, neither of them were into following rules.

It’s terrifying to change that, change the tightrope of unsteady equilibrium they have built for themselves. She feels it in the gasping breath she takes before leaning in, feels it in the ring of worry that assaults her ears: what is she is doing the wrong thing?

                                What if she is messing this up?

They’ve been drifting, fighting down this rocky road and it is now that she reaches the end, now that she must jump, and it is different, Cosima thinks, but in no way wrong, for messing this up is not an option when she needs this as badly as she needed to run up the stairs and sit beside Sarah, craves this like her fingers had craved the wand that snapped right to them, the wand that still sits in her bag today.

                                Sometimes things just feel right.

'You’re everybody.’

The touch of Sarah’s lips against her own is magic in and of itself (magic that, she knows, would’ve cast sparks into the air only years earlier, before charms classes quelled the instinctive, excitable jump within her), but it is somehow not as wonderful as the tips of her fingers against Cosima’s cheeks. The kiss is self-initiated, self-brought, but Sarah’s hand–that is all her, all reaction (pleased reaction?), all sensation she hadn’t expected, sensation she hadn’t known she needed.

(Her pulse thrums hot and heavy in her chest, and Cosima wonders if Sarah can feel the fact that each beat is for her.)

She exhales when Sarah breaks away, though her lungs are already starved for air. But she has to, has to sigh that ridiculous sigh of sheer and unfettered happiness, for it is all too rare. Her own eyes stay shut, basking, but she bites her lower lip softly between her teeth.

'And that’s– That’s okay. It’s okay, Sarah. It’s okay to be scared.’ The words are barely audible, barely spoken above a murmur, but they are close enough to carry well. 'I’m scared too, okay? But I’m– I’m not going anywhere.’ Nothing is going to change, she wants to say, but that’s a lie, isn’t it? Everything will; everything already has, though she is not sure when, not sure where the point of no return actually was. (She cannot help but wonder if it was a whole lot earlier than she knows.)

Her eyes slide half open, casting up to meet Sarah’s so very close to her own. 'Being scared– Maybe… that means it’s worth it.’

     She is used to harshness. 

     She will straddle a broom in the same deliberately gruff manner that she speaks. She knows pain, perhaps too well, with each embedded cigarette burn in her shoulders and every criss cross scar that seesaws up her arms. And when pain comes, she fights back. She fights back with a bludgeoner, she fights back with her fists. (She fights herself, used to cause both the pain and the anger.)

     She is used to crass behavior. She will shove and push at any opportunity, use humor that most guys seem to blush at, will never hesitate to speak any offensive comment that flits through her brain like a wildfire. 

     She is used to all of these things, and then -- and then Cosima shatters them all.

     It’s a little weird, how they met by ramming into each other, how they continued talking after Sarah punched Cos in the face. Harshness, crassness, all the things she expects from herself, even now. And now... 

     It’s not like Sarah doesn’t have experience kissing someone; she certainly does. Every kiss has felt like thunder booms, lightning crashes, something that would make a Patronus flash and grow. Sparks. 

     But this fire has burned forever, and she wonders if this is what those people all always meant, that there’s another half of themselves out there. There was a day, in Divinations, once, where tea leaves spelled out soulmates, and they denied it up and down. She still doesn’t believe it, of course -- it’s a load of shit. But -- maybe --

     If anyone’s touch would make Sarah believe in something, it would be Cosima’s.

     Cosima’s gentle touch, the way she’s so fucking slow -- it makes her pause, makes her think on things she never would have even entertained before. 

     Shit, Cos. If I breathe in, do you breathe out? Is that what we are? 

     She lets out a ragged sigh against her lips, not quite wanting to pull away, but terror grips her like a sudden choke. It rips through her, rippling like lightning bolts. (The way Cosima sighs back, Sarah wonders if that’s what makes her stomach suddenly seize up and tie itself into a snarling knot. I’m not good enough for you.)

     “Jus’ means they’re bloody wrong. They’re wrong --” About me. I’m not brave, I’m fucking terrified. And Cosima says she isn’t going anywhere, and Sarah isn’t sure what’s worse -- the fact that she doesn’t quite believe her, or that it might be reality. She might actually not leave. “Cos... shit, m’not -- good fo’ you...” I’ll do nothing but hurt you. You don’t deserve to settle for me.

     “All I’m gonna do is bloody fuck this up, Cos.” She swallows thickly, shakes her head. Her fingers still idle on Cosima’s face, tracing her jaw and chin and neck. (Their pulses are practically in sync. She’s not really shocked at this.)

‘yeah ‘cause he made ye’ sucked his cock into submission,’ his eyes rolled but when he turned his back to Sarah to close the kitchen drawers, a good-natured grin curved his lips. the wood chips and sticks as he jostles them back into place. its amazing the flat is still standing from the way everything is barely hanging on by the hinges, but Felix can’t force himself to be bothered. it’s better than nothing. ‘        who’s to say he’s not plannin’ t’gain your trust ‘fore he can strike? walls up, Sarah, the man’s a dick. y’put way too much trust in him.’

     "You’d know all ‘bout cock n’ submission, yeah?” A teasing, knowing grin tugs the corners of her mouth up, more like a grimace than an actual grin.

There’s a fleeting, brief moment where all Cosima can think is shit, I could get used to this, and then another thought comes–comes and, this time, sticks in her mind: I am used to this. It pushes her, somehow, forward even further, seeking to empty every last atom of oxygen from her lungs before she breaks the kiss. I’m used to this. I’ve got this, and shit, does she cherish that fact.

She feels a bit like a puppet on a string, a marionette whose commands come in the form of ghosting touches against her pulse, stirring kisses against her lips, and she cannot help but move toward every motion Sarah makes. It’s awesome in the best possible way, in the literal definition of the word, hypnotic enough to force her eyes shut for a solid several seconds after Sarah has pulled back, lips left open in a remnant of what has just passed. And when Cosima finally, finally opens her eyes, she’s left staring straight into Sarah’s darkened gaze.

            Shit. 

But, well, if that’s the kind of revenge she’s going to get for calling Sarah cute? Sign her up. Sign her up, keep it going, never, never stop. She strains against the hands wrapped around her wrists, pushes them forward so her hands grip the cushion of the couch behind her, and slowly, tauntingly licks her bottom lip. ‘You’re. Cute.’

     She’s used to this, too.

     It’s weird -- Sarah rarely gets accustomed to anything. Years of uncertainty in her next meal, years of sleeping against benches and stringing herself out like long, ragged threads snagging on a fence at a roadside -- she never allowed herself to be used to shit. Even Kira, the one who means everything to her, has never been a certainty in her life. (You could lose her, too. You could lose anyone, Sarah. Lose them first. Don’t give them the satisfaction.)

     But here, she does feel used to this. She’s accustomed, she’s -- fuck, she’s trained, like a damn dog constantly coming back. (Circle back around, back around, just running in a circle. Can’t stay away.) 

     (She doesn’t want to.) 

     She gives Cos a half lidded gaze, a full and wolfish grin, all canines and darkness. She can only watch in smug satisfaction when it takes Cosima moments to calm down, to open her eyes in a slow pry. But when Cosima meets her eyes, equally dark, equal in everything except how the entire galaxy is shrouded there in Cos’s gaze, Sarah takes pause.

     Her eyes are impossible, they can’t get any darker, yet Sarah feels her pupils swallow her irises when Cosima’s tongue darts to wet her lip. She lets out this low, carnivorous rumble, and she can’t tear her gaze away. She leans up, forward, tightening her grip on Cos’s wrists again. Stay there. 

     Teeth graze and sink, achingly slowly, into that spot on her lip -- it’s a strangely gentle thing, the way she tugs forward, pulling her back. A teasing brush of their lips again, and she’s backing off, lips quirking into a sneer.

‘I mean—— I am.’ Cosima all but preens as she speaks, throws her shoulders back and raises her neck–it would be haughty, almost, this confidence, if it weren’t so stupidly goofy, hinged entirely on Sarah, Sarah. (She’s never craved to impress someone like this before, and maybe impress is even the wrong word, for it runs deeper than that. She has no need to appear perfect–Sarah has already claimed that role. She simply… Wants to make Sarah happy. Wants to make her laugh. It’s gross, really, the type of sickly sweet she’d’ve laughed at not entirely long ago.)

         (God, Sarah has ruined her.)

         ‘Yeah? Like to see you try.’

Thankfully for Cosima’s back–and her heart–Sarah doesn’t try; instead she tightens her grip on Cosima’s wrists, and it feels all the world like handcuffs, only Cosima is willing–wanting–to submit. Needing to, even: cuff me, chain me, just don’t let me go. She’s already so close to Sarah, but it’s still too damn far, and god, she’s not complaining, not complaining at all when Sarah closes the distance. If anything, the mm that escapes her lips is the opposite: this is good, and that’s as far as her mind can take her. Good, great, holy shit it’s great, and rational thought fades to leave behind only the way her back arches to get closer, a magnet pulled to its opposite, its pair, the way her eyes flutter shut, the way her hands fight halfheartedly against their enclosure, aching to touch, to thread their way through Sarah’s hair, pull at and under the hem of her shirt. Holy freaking shit.

     It’s sensory deprivation -- the way Sarah’s fingers curl harder and harder around Cosima’s wrists until she can’t move them. You’re only allowed to feel with what I’m giving you. It’s Sarah’s own version of a blindfold, of headphones. She knows Cos will submit to it, as she always does -- sometimes with a playful challenge, but always willing. There’s this sound, a low rumble, like a lion who purrs, lays down her paws and rests her head in her lap. A lion who stays still, who wants her to do the same.

     She rubs her thumbs against Cosima’s pulse, feels it pulse and thunder beneath smooth skin. It’s a heady knowledge, that she’s the one to make that pulse quicken. It makes another sound come forth, a shaky breath, some sort of harsh sigh. (Nothing about Sarah is gentle, but Cosima at least softens it.) 

     She pulls back, eyes dark as they open. Hands are still locked around her wrists, shackles. (That would scare Sarah, but Cosima seems to crave it, almost.)

‘Didn’t need to ‘cause I know I’m right.’ She’s so smug, too smug by any measure other than her own, and it’s written all over her–not simply in her face, though the scrunch of her eyes, proud smirk on her lips are telling enough. No, it is in the cock of her head, appraising, affectionate; it is in the stretch of her arms overhead and then down, down to tickle and touch and learn Sarah, learn everything about her. It is in the sing-song of her voice as she giggles, ‘No you won’t.’

And if this isn’t pure contentment, pure and utter goodness, Cosima could not say what it truly is. Now, admittedly, she’s the one doing the tickling, and it’s easy to think this is peaceful and nice, even, when her laughter comes of her own volition, but… Still. Still, this is– This is love if she’s ever seen it, and she stops tickling only when Sarah grabs her, but the motion does not prevent Cosima from leaning in so that her face hovers only millimeters above Sarah’s. She’s tempted, for a moment, to say something stupid, snarky–some kind of you, ‘m laughing at you, loser, but she can’t. She’s grinning too widely, and her heart is thudding too loudly, and her voice is deeper than she expects, more honest, somehow, when she instead murmurs, ‘You’re so cute.’

     “Wh-- y’bitch, quit actin’ like you’re right about everythin’!” She wishes it was more of a jab than it actually is -- her voice still has that low and rough quality to it, like sandpaper coated with molasses. She can’t fucking help it, though, not with Cosima letting out those small giggles and the way her fingers are wriggling. (She gets it, she thinks, that Cosima reads her like Braille and Sarah doesn’t want that to stop, ever. It’s terrifying, the way it happens, but she lets it.) “Don’t bloody tempt me, you’ll be on th’floor in a minute.”

     She thinks so, too. Weird, how that works. 

     She only ever feels this way around Fe, around Kira. Safe. Safe, she feels fucking safe, like she doesn’t have to let her feet pound on the floor as she runs runs runs. And it’s nice, but it’s terrifying.

     But Cosima stops, stares down at her, and -- Sarah is not someone who holds hands, so her fingers merely curl further around Cos’s wrists. She’s just inches away, and it’s like Cosima’s voice and words both move to close the distance. (She feels like those cartoons, with scents manifesting in the air to crook a tempting finger, that’s all it takes.) There’s just the slightest rumble from Sarah before she lets their lips meet, her fingers only tightening and dragging just to bring her flush. 

She almost feels bad for even mentioning Sarah’s ticklishness. Almost, because Sarah’s leaning down and Cosima’s craning up to meet her touch and it can’t be comfortable for Sarah, that position, but Cosima would be more than happy to stay there forever. There’s something so simple about it, just the faintest touch of Sarah’s nose against her temple and the way Cosima’s eyes slide shut without a second thought.

But, well– Tickling.

‘I was right! I was so right!’ Whatever comfort, whatever cuddliness she had possessed before is suddenly, excitedly replaced by a need to prove this point: Cosima sits up, swings so she is half straddling Sarah–prime position for her fingers to once more find Sarah’s stomach, and she isn’t even the one being tickled, but she laughs anyway, a lighthearted, easy giggle that only Sarah seems to be able to spur.

     She thinks for a moment, foolishly, that she’s in the clear, that Cosima is just too comfortable in her arms to even move, let alone entertain the thought of torturing her with jabbing fingers. But, of course, she’s horribly wrong, and the advance of Cos straddling her makes her only try to squirm away. “I didn’t say shit about you bein’ ri-- Oi! Geddoff--! Y’shithead, I swear, I’ll knock you--”

     A peal of laughter follows, interspersed with more hissed swears. She attempts to bat Cos’s prying fingers away, the ones that can play her like a damn flute every time. “Stop, stop, shite, I’ll kill you-- I’ve hid a bloody body before, I’ll --!” She’s laughing too hard to really get the words out, until she finally is able to wrap her own hands around Cosima’s wrists. She lets out gasping sighs of relief, staring up at her.

‘I don’t care.’ Only, because her face is half pressed into Sarah, the words come out muffled, barely discernible; truthfully, though, Cosima couldn’t care less. ‘Y’bein’ mean,’ and wow, she’s almost impressed by just how needy she sounds. It’s some kind of instinctual thing, some weird evolutionary recognition that this makes Sarah’s voice sound all sweet and affectionate and good, and she’s already comfy, already sleepy, but there is nothing–nothing–more wonderfully soothing than that.

She bursts into laughter, shifting to look up at Sarah from under eyelash-hooded eyes, and it’s impish, her expression, almost proud. ‘Mm, is someone ticklish——?’

     “No shit.” A hand moves to run gently through textured dreadlocks -- she’s always been fascinated by them, how they hang like the beads in her flat with Fe. She shifts, just enough to let Cos sink into her. It’s pathetic, really, but so is Sarah, so she can’t speak on it. And, somehow, the pathetic puppyish whine in Cos’s voice is enough to make her melt. She presses her nose against the top of Cos’s head, arms instinctively tightening.

‘Stooooooooop.’ God, when did she get so whiny? When she realized that it worked, probably, or somewhere around the time when she realized it make Sarah look at her like that, which is certainly no bad thing. (Cosima can’t really tease; she’s just as deep here as Sarah is.)

(That fact doesn’t stop her from poking Sarah right in the stomach, and it doesn’t stop her from scrunching her nose in what has to be the weakest grimace she has ever offered someone.)

(But it does make her snuggle up closer to Sarah and giggle, and that’s something.)

     “Shit, Cos, y’lucky you didn’t live with me n’ Fe an’ Mrs. S. She’d smack you over the head for whinin’ like that.” Still, her voice holds that warmth, that liquid adoration. It’s frankly fucking embarrassing, and she feels the need to offset it, so she does with a gentle flick of her finger against Cos’s forehead. “Whiny twat.” 

     “Y’bloody demanding, yeah? I’ll move if I damn well please.” She does, just to spite her, bumping her leg up and jostling the other who currently is monopolizing her lap. “N’you’re hefty as shit, too.” There’s no gruffness in her tone, despite wanting it -- it’s all honey, slow and soft, absolutely warm. She inwardly rolls her eyes. 

There was always a chance this was a bad idea, and by bad idea, Cosima knows, she probably means awful, awful, terrible idea, because this isn’t something she can take back with a grimace, a stumble of words spilled from over-eager lips. This is a song, crafted. Made for Sarah, only Sarah, with words, with soul only she can get.

(They all shushed her fears, claimed that there was no way this was a bad idea, that this was good, great, even. Maybe it would stop their lovesick staring, Felix said. Probably not. But the fear was still there, raw. Centered somewhere just above her heart, somewhere where both blood and air pumped through it: her own life, and the life of everything, for this felt bigger than simply her no matter how much she told herself otherwise.)

The stage lights are bright. Obnoxious, gleaming against the lenses of her glasses that only seem to magnify the glare, but Cosima can still make out the flush of Sarah’s face, the shock of her features. It’s too much, too much thinking and not enough answer, and Cosima beat beats on the drum when there is only one note, stumbles, catches herself before she falls into utter failure territory, but barely. Too close. It’s too close.

(What is she doing? This is supposed to be a performance. For the audience. For Sarah, and yet Cosima’s– Cosima’s messing it all up.)

(She doesn’t notice Sarah’s missed notes. The thought of Sarah missing a note is all but impossible.)

Recovery comes with the thought of got to do this, got to do this for Sarah, and Cosima is hitting hard, then, banging out the beat like this is all she has, because if she’s going to go, she’s going all in, and it’s over before Cosima realizes it is even ending, and the last note seems to echo, seems to pound again and again against her. Please, Sarah. Please. Please.

And– Nothing. Just a stare. Because she knows and– And doesn’t want this? It’s an all too easy answer to grasp at, so Cosima does so, pulls it into herself and, after a long, empty moment, breaks eye contact, looks down at her drums instead because they, at least… They cannot hurt her.

She’s so entirely, completely focused on the ache of her own heart that she doesn’t look up, can’t, maybe, if she’s feeling dramatic about it–which she is, always does. She’s always had a penchant for drama, for emotion that ran too hot, too deep, and while her love for Sarah is no exception, neither is the broken heart that comes so quickly now.

Her eyes fix on the edge of her drum, at the way the light fractals off it in fragments of color, and she misses–doesn’t even notice–Felix staring at her, Felix pointing. No, Cosima is lost.

     Never once does she hear Cosima go off the beat; that woman is a deeply flawed one, one that is very capable of making mistakes, but never on that drum set. (It’s kind of weird, how Sarah knows each flaw like her own guitar strings and doesn’t feel any sense of -- of love waning. Fuck, obvious faults and all, she...) 

     Sarah has always thought they were all good -- together, they’re incredible. They’re a team, something she never once wanted but now can’t live without. They’re a ragtag group of twats, but they somehow work, they somehow fit. But Sarah has always been too fast to just stop and... listen. No, even when she had first heard Cosima practicing until her palms bled, she didn’t really listen at all. She just saw Cos, someone she’d been -- admittedly admiring from afar for bloody forever. And she was playing the drums and their ratty ass band needed a drummer, and -- and --

     And now she’s actually listening. For once, she’s listening, and she -- almost would want the song to keep going in her brain for the rest of her life, but she learned at quite a young age that nothing good actually lasts. (But if Cos looks at her, here, now, maybe, maybe -- maybe she can believe, maybe she can at least try --)

     Nothing.

     Cosima looks down, and Sarah can’t even hear the cacophony of the crowd. Her lips are drawn into her mouth before she darts her gaze back. She doesn’t know what she was looking for, what she expected, but that -- it feels like a slap in the face, like Cosima’s just trying to let these feelings go so she can finally be over them or some stupid bullshit like that. 

     She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know. But she’s about to throw herself into the next song, about to try and quell the embarrassment and the fear that creep up side by side in her lungs. (It’s only now that she realizes that there’s -- there has to be thousands here, thousands that are witnessing this. Do they even know? Are they paying attention to this?) 

     Fuck. All she wanted was a look, but all Cosima looked at was the ground.

     But now Felix is saying something about taking a break, and Sarah’s startled expression signals that she’s somewhat snapping back. Back to normal. They could just ignore it, right? Fe looks at her and rolls his eyes until they’re practically in the back of his head. “Ho-lee shit, Sarah. Go.” 

     Sarah frowns, turns, walks off. She expects Cosima to just -- follow. Like always. But when she doesn’t, when she’s still staring at her set, Sarah swallows and turns right back around.

     She grabs Cos by the wrist, hoists her up, leads her offstage. “Takes two to tango, yeah?” 

     And then they’re backstage, mics off, din of the crowd gone. Sarah turns Cos to face her, and -- she’s trembling, just a little, in the wrists, but she hopes Cosima won’t notice. (She will, undeniably.)

     With a voice that is trying far too hard to be even...

     “Say it.” I just need you to say it. 

She knows she’s not supposed to feel bad about this–dramatic declarations of love and all, she thinks, are as good a Get out of Jail Free card as she’s going to get–but she… She does. Every time she hears the door to the practice room click shut, and every time she realizes again that Sarah isn’t there– Cosima’s gut sinks.

It’s just more proof to add to the pile that threatens to overwhelm her thoughts entirely: she needs Sarah there. Can’t concentrate without her, which is especially odd given how much she stares at her when she is there. (At least that can be turned into love songs, stupid, sappy love songs. This– This is all Felix rolling his eyes, snapping his fingers. Oi, earth to lovebird.)

She wants to burst out and say it–ramble it, probably, fill the space with more words than it can possibly hold, saturate it with I love you, and I– I’ve been meaning to tell you or, or– but I didn’t know how, and god, Sarah, god I–, but she’s never been good at that. She’s good at motion and action and drumsticks against taut fabric to form the rhythm of her heart, and it’s better this way.

Except for the whole possibility of rejection in front of a shit ton of people thing.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I know,’ Cosima says a second too late, a second after the opportunity to reply has passed, but she doesn’t want Sarah to think she’s ignoring her, or anything. ‘Just, uh– Kind of jittery, I guess.’

Those kind of jitters continue on to the song, through the song, and Felix sounds good–always does, though she’s never going to say it–but Cosima isn’t even thinking about that. She’s done that, done enough wondering about which word to place where and how to say it and that’s over. That’s the past, and the present is all Sarah, Sarah, because she’s looking right at her, and Cosima’s staring back, and the chorus is coming up. The chorus, the time where, if Sarah’s going to figure it out at all, it’s going to be then, and holy shit, okay, Cos. Get it together and– Smile. She manages it, somehow. Manages a slow, real grin, right at Sarah. No nervousness, no fear.

                   Just this, because it’s happening.                               (Just them?)

     She still flutters, in and out, though it’s approaching -- just as the chorus begins to draw close, Sarah starts to listen a little harder to the lyrics instead of focusing on the notes. (She’s always focused on the technicalities of the music, finds it too naked to bear her soul on stage like Cosima always seems to do. She’s never understood it, wants to understand it, just -- can’t.)

     Cosima’s staring at her -- always does, nothing unusual, really. They exchange glances constantly with each set, with each concert, each piece that they spit out to the world. Small smiles, encouraging quirks of their eyebrows. Occasionally, Sarah sticks her tongue out. It’s all the same. 

     Except now.

     Because now, there’s a slow, slow grin, one that seems to take up the entirety of Cosima’s features. It’s something brighter than the stage lights, and that’s -- the first time. There. That’s where Sarah first falters with a note, one that makes her wince and look away quickly. (Not because she’s frazzled, she just has to concentrate, yeah?)

     And then there’s the -- lyrics.

     And there’s --

     She -- she can’t even describe it other than someone opening up her rib cage like double doors, swinging them out and rearranging everything inside. She feels hot, burning, and suddenly this and the adrenaline and the people everywhere are becoming too much, and she -- falters. Again. Fucks up.

     They aren’t loud or obnoxious ones; anyone who plays a guitar could pick them out, sure, but anyone ignorant to such stuff would be deaf to it. Still, she’s -- floundering. She feels -- she feels.

     Because the words that are laced in these lyrics are things all their own, a language that they’ve woven into their own tapestry. This is something only they will understand, and it’s -- it’s so bloody obvious that it’s meant for her and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

     There they are. Clear. Bright. And Cosima is smiling. 

     Holy shit. She -- how? Why? What the flying fuck? I don’t deserve it, how could I?

     And the second verse is reading her thoughts, as if Cosima knew she’d think this, immediately putting them to rest. Her face is red red red. A third fumble. This time, because of trembling hands, fingertips barely able to hold her pick in place. Felix glances over his shoulder, raises his eyebrows. The bridge. 

     She floats through it like she’s not even there, like this is some out of body experience. How does she -- how -- she doesn’t --

     Over.

                           starter for livefastdieycung

She’s always nervous before gigs. It’s just– It’s a fact, a law of nature, a truth that she can not will away with any amount of frenzied bouncing or chattering teeth.

(Other facts: the sky is blue. Two plus two equals four in base ten. She is hopelessly, desperately in love with Sarah Manning.)

               (The scariest fact of all: she’s about to tell her.)

So, well, she’s pretty sure she’s got a right to be nervous here, even if that right is kind of sketchy, not really written in any law books or anything–but no, it’s there, all right. It’s there in the sheet music held tight in white-knuckled fists. It’s there in the drum sticks that would usually be twirling, spinning, but now hang down by her side. 

It’s there in the reality that Cosima has been working on this song for weeks, months, maybe, if she were to count the seed of the idea that was planted so very long ago. She’s a perfectionist, always, but this is a whole new level. This is every word, every note, needs to be right. For her. For her, and she’s still not sure it is right, but it’s gig time, and she’s walking out onto the stage and forcing her face into something like a smile (what if Sarah doesn’t get it; what if she does), and sitting harshly onto her stool. She vaguely hears Felix’s ‘next song, written by our very own Cosima Niehaus—’ and then she’s going, going and panting while she does so, not out of any exhaustion, but out of nerves, out of a hastened heartbeat that feels like it will run her ragged before the lyrics even begin.

Funny, how the song she’s put the most into is the worst for her to play. Funny, how stiff she is, how she’s staring right smack at Sarah’s back the entire time rather than at her music–she knows the notes like she knows the curve of Sarah’s waist, the way she stands with the strap of her guitar around her neck. She doesn’t need to stare at either, but– God, is Sarah enchanting. And then Felix starts. And then the words start, and this is it, Cosima thinks. Either Sarah gets it or she doesn’t, either she accepts it or she doesn’t, but it’s written, it’s there, and there’s no taking it back now.

     Cosima’d been acting weird -- weirder than usual, that is -- for a few days now. Of course, Sarah is entirely attuned to each waver in Cosima’s usual personality, knows each twitch of her brow like the back of her hand. She can read her with ease, but this -- this is a whole other level, one that’s almost frightening.

     She hasn’t been allowed to be in the practice room when they’d come up to this particular song, and it’d been starting to piss her off. The fuck’s so important about a song that it needs to be kept secret? Shit, I have to fucking play this, I can’t fly by the seat of my arse, Cos. Still, no amount of protest even swayed Felix, which only served to make her even angrier. She hates when things are kept from her, hates not being in the fucking loop. 

     Aren’t they a team in this? Why is this being kept away? And why the hell is Cos acting like a scared rabbit now? 

     “S’just a pint venue, yeah?” She offers the words in gruff acknowledgement, still a little miffed, but at least caring. She can never turn that off, no matter how hard she attempts to when annoyed with the drummer. “Don’t bunch your panties up, Cos.” A slightly stiff pat on the back, and they’re both out.

     Blinding stage lights, and she’s already sweating. She -- weirdly doesn’t feel much of anything but pure adrenaline in front of crowds. There’s no fear, not of fucking up or, shit, dying or something. It’s a different feeling, like hopping on a roller coaster. She’s addicted to it.

     The set comes and goes, and Felix is talking, our very own Cosima Niehaus, and Sarah resists the urge to roll her eyes and bite with a oh, so now I get t’hear it, huh? Fuckin’ wankers.