anatsuno / pitchercries, comfort food and languages
Before leaving the car, anat grips Marina's hand. "You don't have to anything to be nervous about," Marina says, smiling conspiratorially. "Trust me."
It's hardly the first time anat meets a new group of fangirls, but usually they at least speak a language she understands. She voices that worry, and Marina laughs.
"Oh man, no, everyone's gonna be talking English anyway. Fannish circles." She shrugs.
"I suppose," anat says with a small smile of her own. She grips the bag of cake she brought - an old, familiar recipe, easy to make even in Marina's tiny kitchen.
The apartment where the meetup is held is easy to find. anat can hear the squealing all the way downstairs, and she can't help but smile. It carries her through the first discomfort - everyone is so young, that girl on the couch doesn't even seem legal - until she's ambushed by a fangirl with a pounce that wouldn't shame a Labrador, enthusiastically greeting her.
After that, it's easy. The flow of conversations around them moves from English to Hebrew, lightning speed, but there are so many conversations in the room that keeping to the ones she can understand is no hardship.
One such conversation slides into a heated debate on the merits of meter in poetry. Pleasantly exhausted from a lively discussion about translation to Hebrew vs. English and the terrible lack of Russian-speaking translators, anat leans back.
Marina is just there, soft and warm, her arm sliding around anat's waist. She nuzzles anat, doesn't bother to disguise it from anyone, and nobody seems to be paying attention anyway. "Aren't you glad you came now?"
"Yes," anat says. If she's a bit short of breath, nobody can hear her above the escalating ship-war in the corner anyway.
