#in2fics

"Let’s just get this over with. What flower do you want?" "One of your favourites, please." Sophia reaches down blindly, grabbing a stem from the bucket of roses at her feet. She usually gives them away as gifts, standing outside her shop and handing them to whoever walks past on slower days. She tries to rationalize that this is the exact same situation, except they’re indoors, and it’s only one person. Who refuses to leave her alone. "There," Sophia tosses the rose onto the counter. It’s already wrapped in a thin plastic sheet, so at least she doesn’t have to do any additional prep. "It’s on the house. Happy Mother’s Day." "I didn’t know you were so open about that, Sophia." Manon raises her eyebrows. "I mean, I’m not opposed to the whole mommy thing, I guess. You don’t have to give me a discount for—" Her eyes fall onto the chalkboard stake that sits in the bucket. "—two dollars. Okay, maybe that’s a little too low." "The two dollars is to get you to shut up. Please leave." (Or: Sophia is a florist, whose only qualm in her routine is sharing a block with a tattoo artist. The fact that she’s kind of attractive, and constantly flirting with her is no one’s business but her own.)

“You know Sophie and I aren’t, like, together right?” And, well. Sophia kind of knew that, but she didn’t expect to get confirmation so early. She’s trying to flip through the pages in her head, only to find that her script is unfinished. Manon has a tendency of diverging from the original plot, anyway. “Oh really? Could’ve fooled me.” She improvises. Sophia used to be a theatre kid, so she thinks she’s decently good at that. “I don’t think we did, though.” Sophia forgets that Manon is better at knowing her. The whisk slips clumsily from her hand. Bits of green splashes onto her sleeve. Manon sighs. Sophia can hear her move behind her, but she doesn’t know where she’s going. She’s about to turn when she’s interrupted by gentle hands pulling at her sleeve. Manon is wiping at her sleeve with a wet paper towel. “You were the one who broke up with me, Sophia.” (Or: Sophia and Manon break up in their first year. Two years later, Manon shows up as Sophia’s new roommate. Sophia is definitely, completely okay with that.)

She imagines being on stage, muted cheering, heartbeat loud in her ears. The spotlight, moving, searching, finally landing on her. She thinks of vaguely shifting outlines of girls. Her future members, maybe. The shadows begin to give her vertigo so she shuts her eyes to focus. One singular figure. A partner. “I want to keep dancing, I think. Well, I know I do—” She pauses, tries to catch herself, when that person keeps shifting into Daniela. She’s a beat too late, freefalling into glimpses of her hair, her dimples, the way she moves in the corner of Megan’s viewpoint, always placed near her in choreographies. (She tries not to think about her eyes, the way she always wants them on her, how her mind goes into a mantra of look at me, look at me, look at me, look at—) “I think I like how warm it feels under the spotlight.”

Sophia wakes up, and it feels like something is missing. (Or: Sophia is stuck in a timeloop. Does it still count if she’s the one who won't break out of it?)

She tastes ash on her tongue at the mere thought of lying to Megan. A voice in her head that sounds oddly like Sophia tells her that omission is the easiest form of lying and it’s, like, so not good for team bonding. She knows imaginary Sophia is right, but she also used to insist on not drinking coffee, or milk, or anything fizzy before singing because she says it dries out your throat. Daniela mentally goes through the motions of pre-performance rituals and tries to picture doing each one without a coffee. She thinks she’ll make it to makeup, maybe, if she’s being positive, before she gets overwhelmed and crashes out. She decides then, that omitting some details from Megan is just as much a means of survival as risking a voice crack to get through the day.

“I don’t take orders,” she drones, toeing at a body on the ground. “I’m a devil. I make contracts.” “Okay,” Sophia relents. The girl in front of her has shown no signs of selfishness or greed. It’s uncharacteristic of a devil, but perhaps that’s why she’s a special case. “What do you want in return?” “Call me Manon, from now on.” Her halo glints, almost like it’s winking at her. Sophia scowls. “Okay, Manon. Go clean up the bodies.” (Or: Sophia is a devil hunter living on borrowed time. Manon can take that time away with a single touch. Somehow, they work quite well as a pair.)

“Don’t you think it’s kind of problematic—” Manon pauses, craning her neck. Sophia mouths at the skin, trailing kisses downwards. Manon can feel the scrape of her teeth. At this point, Manon’s pretty satisfied with where they’re headed. She wants to prod a little more, though, turn that scrape into something that’ll leave a mark. “You get to know all the questions.” Manon squeezes her hips, moving her head to look her in the eye. It stops Sophia’s assault on her neck—she mourns the loss, but it’ll be worth it in the long game. “That’s got to be a little unethical.” “Do you wanna interview me instead, then?"

Sophia, she thinks, hovering her finger over the shutter button. Manon wonders if Sophia can feel her in Los Angeles, the way she always does in New York. I want to get to know you again. She presses the button, capturing the frame. (Or: five times Manon takes a picture for Sophia and the one time she takes one of her.)