#prompte

Everybody knows. Everybody's heard of it. But there's no fitting adjective to describe just how that is.

Complicated, maybe. Green-to-red madness. 

A cliché.

An everything-went-wrong, somehow.

No mistake though. God, not a mistake. She feels nothing like regret. 

Just somehow, something didn't turn out the way Hannah had thought it would, had hoped, had wished for during the days.

But at night.

At night it was so far from wrong.

"How the fuck did it take us so long to figure this out?"

Grace had asked, one night, and Hannah had kissed her in return, had pressed her back into soft sheets. "Stuff takes time," she'd said, "but doesn't matter, does it?"

And Grace had laughed, grabbing Hannah's head with both hands. "Yeah," she had grinned, and they'd sunken into a sky of pillows, bare skin and drunk tongues and happiness.

Green to red. All red, red hot.

Time had stopped, a bit. And Hannah's standing at the crossing, waiting for the traffic light to switch.

Dreading.

Waiting.

Her phone lights up.

She doesn't want to know. Because messages from Grace don't mean as much as they used to, anymore. Everything changed.

Is changing.

Green to red, red to green. Back again.

Except it doesn't work like that, with friendships.

Hannah walks. She thinks, briefly, about stopping in the middle of this road, to see how long it would take. For it to go red again. And green for the cars. Hannah doesn't stop, though, she has somewhere to go. She still has somewhere to be. 

The noise of cars rushing by behind Hannah's back mixes with memories, in her head, memories from a few weeks ago. And she thinks about how Grace, in a way, had rushed past her and ripped them apart a little. They'd been happy, for a bit. They'd fixed it all up, for a bit.

Hannah smiles.

And feels it stinging in her eyes.

She walks faster.

"Grace," Hannah mumbles to herself, "what the fuck have you done?"

And what the fuck has Hannah done, she silently questions.

The lights are green. All of them, and Hannah walks faster, walks by familiar houses and around familiar corners. Faster. She's almost there.

In a rush, Grace had ripped their little thing of extraordinary apart. Entirely. 

Had admitted to it all. 

Had cried, one night and one morning, in Hannah's arms.

"It's okay, Gracie," Hannah had tried, moving sticky hair from her friend's forehead, sticky from tears and spilled vodka. "It's all gonna be okay. He'll come back, I'm sure-"

But Grace had interrupted her, hiccuping a broken "no, but I don't want him to-"

A broken sentence, rushed words. It had rung in Hannah's ears.

Is still ringing.

Her ears are ringing.

She's holding the pad of her thumb to cold metal.

Of Grace's doorbell. 

And then she opens. Grace opens the door. A smile on her face. A messy bun on top of her head. Chipped nail polish.

"Hi," she smiles, and Hannah smiles back. 

"Hello stranger," she grins, and Grace's smile falls for a second. But then it's back.

"Shut up," she laughs, gesturing for Hannah to come in.

Hell. It's hot as hell inside, and this must be how it feels to burn, Hannah thinks. Looking at all things new. Furniture, photographs. An entire house.

And one photo catches her eye. A framed picture. She takes it in both hands.

"You look happy, you two," Hannah mumbles, hardly intentional.

Grace hums silent agreement, next to her. Stands close. And Hannah feels something sink in her gut.

"Grace…"

"Hey, I made you tea," Grace interrupts, cheerily. Skips towards the kitchen.

Hannah still doesn't know this house very well, she realizes, as she follows.

"Thanks man," she grins, when Grace hands her a steaming mug. "Thanks," she smiles, taking a sip, eyes on her friend's expectant face.

"'S good," she nods, and Grace makes a small victory fist. Hannah smiles. 

They smile a lot, these days. Politely, at each other.

It hurts Hannah's head.

And it rings in her ears.

"I don't want him back."

It had sounded almost apologetic. And Hannah didn't know what to say, didn't know how to help. Because if Grace didn't want that, why was she crying?

"It's okay," she had tried back then, "you'll be fine. I'm always, you know… there, if you want me to. I mean, if you don't want me, I'll still be there. Just. You know. You're not alone. There. Okay?"

All-through Hannah's rambles Grace had just stared, and maybe that should've been a clue, should've made Hannah stop, but it didn't.

So when Grace had come inching closer, breath hot at Hannah's ear, she didn't know what to do. Didn't know what it meant. Until Grace kissed her cheek, once.

Hesitantly.

"Thanks, Han."

And then again.

"Really, I wouldn't know what I'd do without you. So… thanks."

And there had been no stopping the tears from Hannah's eyes, because Grace had looked at her with those big orbs of darkness, and it was all a bit much. 

Until Grace had asked, wiping at Hannah's cheeks with two shaky thumbs, "I need a drink, do you?"

They'd both laughed, because yes, yes.

Hannah sips her tea. She can still taste vodka on her tongue, thinking about that night. She can still taste Grace, when she thinks a little too hard.

"Fuck-"

"Fuck"

Neither knew how they had ended up in her bed. But there they were. 

There they were, in Hannah's bed.

And Grace had been gasping, clinging to the sheets. And Hannah couldn't breathe. Cursed. Head between Grace's legs. Blood pumping red-hot through Hannah's body, thumping in her ears, neck, chest, and twitching, lower.

Sending sparks through her brain.

She had closed her eyes, kissing the softness of Grace's thigh, until a hand grabbed her hair and pulled, slowly, to where Grace was hot and so so wet. And hips bucked, instantly, into Hannah's breathless mouth.

The first breath she'd managed to take had been so full of Grace's scent that it felt nothing like oxygen to her lungs, that no blood could've reached any part of her brain, and everything went fuzzy inside Hannah's head for a few blissful moments.

And things had been good, for a few blissful weeks.

Until they weren't, anymore.

Nothing turned out the way she had thought.

And now she's burning her tongue with too hot tea, and her throat burns when she looks around.

Everything new.

Everything burns.

Grace clears her throat.

"Sorry about being so busy all the time."

Her eyes are dark and scared, and Hannah wishes she could make it all go away. Make it all stop. And go back to being some sort of okay.

"But you're not," she mumbles, setting the cup of tea down on the counter.

Grace turns away. Stares at a wall. There are all these pictures, all these faces Hannah seems to hardly know by now, of her and him and all their friends. 

"You and me, this, it's not gonna work, okay?"

The words had sounded a lot too soft for how heavy they'd felt inside Hannah's chest. Because Grace was right. Because this wasn't working.

"I thought maybe," she ran a hand through messy hair, "but no. This," she gestured, pointing vaguely at the space between her and Hannah, "this, no. It's just, too much? It's not…"

And Hannah had bought flowers. Flowers in her hands, shaking. At Grace's doorstep.

"Sorry," Grace had said through tears, "I don't want everything to go to shit. Let's stop before it all goes to shit, yeah?"

Hannah stares at the floor when she leaves. Half a cup of lukewarm tea on Grace's kitchen counter. Dead flowers by the door.

The door closes.

And Hannah walks.

Walks.

And stops.

The traffic in too many colours, in front of her. 

"Fuck."

She turns.

All the lights ahead are red anyway, so she turns, and runs back.

And when she comes to an abrupt halt at that doorswell, there is an inch of air where it's not closed fully. Hannah pushes, carefully, at cool glass.

And Grace stands there, tears running down her jawline. Trickling lines down her neck. "I can't," Hannah breathes, "it's too late now," she whispers, "I can't stop wanting you."

The words are choked out, pained, and Grace comes rushing towards her, pulls Hannah inside by one wrist, and everything feels too warm behind Hannah's eyes and too hot in her cheeks and too close to Grace she can't think.

She stares into pools of darkness, dark dark sweetness, and feels Grace's staggering breath against her own quivering lips.

And leans in.

One gasped apology into a paralyzed, gasping mouth.

And then Grace kisses, once, and everything's red.

Red.

Hot red hell behind a barely closed door.

"I-"

Hannah shakes her head. "No, I know," she shushes, kisses, holds Grace's hands against the wall.

Slender fingers move in one flowing breath to entangle with Hannah's, and she breathes deeply, against Grace's cheek. Nose pressed to soft skin. "I know," she whispers again, "I know."

Red to green.

And Hannah turns away.

And goes to the door.

"I love you too," she whispers. "Too much." _

Can’t we stop? when we stop My hands will shake, my eyes will burn My throat will ache, watching you turn From me toward your friends What I thought it was it isn’t now What I thought it was it isn’t _

The idea preoccupies Hannah's subconscious an awful lot, but only for a while, along with the inevitable realization that she can't possibly move across country just because of her best friend. 

Then, she does. 

For her best friend. For Grace. All awkward limbs and shattering laughter and happiness. Rainy days in New York. Sunny days in Los Angeles.

Hannah turns up the music in her car, turns her head to the side, and briefly glances at her friend's concentrated features. 

"What's up?"

Grace looks up from her phone. "Mail," she mutters, "I'm just gonna respond real quick, just a sec."

"Do you want me to lower the volume?"

Grace chuckles, shaking her head. "No, it's fine. I like the song." _

Los Angeles is very pretty at night, she has to admit. 

Hannah sighs contently, letting her gaze wander across glittering water. 

The beach is pretty, and as Hannah looks left she can't deny that Grace is looking pretty as well, tonight. 

It makes her laugh, because no, Grace isn't pretty, tonight. 

Grace is gorgeous, always.

"What," she mumbles, leaning back against the side of Hannah's car.

"It's pretty," Hannah responds, vaguely gesturing at the ocean in front of them. Not her. Not looking at Grace.

"Yeah, I know," Grace grins, "that's why we stopped."

They briefly lock eyes, both trying not to smile too hard. 

Because they did.

They also didn't, at all.

Grace is grinning. The back of her hand nudges Hannah's fingers, once. 

Hannah looks up at her and Grace is staring ahead, mouth curved in a shy smile.

Their fingers intertwine, unceremoniously.

Everything feels a bit warmer. Grace's digits squeeze Hannah's, thumb stroking soft lines. 

It's crazy, how this always happens. How this always starts. How did it start in the first place? 

Oh right, Hannah moved across the country, because her best friend did. Because Grace did. But that's not what best friends do.

Grace's head comes to rest on the shorter woman's shoulder, and Hannah is sure that the way Grace's neck awkwardly bends can't possibly be comfortable. 

So she tugs her friend by the hand until they're sitting on sandy asphalt, side by side. Toes curling in anticipation. This is probably bad, Hannah thinks, as her heart audibly thuds through tight veins underneath every inch of her skin, this can't be healthy. 

It's not how best friends feel.

Warm breath tickles her neck when Grace leans closer again.

The best feeling, Hannah thinks.

"Grace…"

A silent hum vibrates against her shoulder, Grace's nose close by Hannah's ear. 

"Grace," she tries once more, but then her hand gets squeezed and her neck gets kissed and she gives up. Gives in. Turns her head, and looks at Grace. 

Flushed cheeks, pitch-black eyes. The best.

A hand curls into the side of Hannah's shirt, pulling her closer. Closer. And something inside her turns.

Again.

Cartwheels in her chest, performed by a jumpy, nervous heart.

She inches forward, the tiniest movement enough to touch her lips with Grace's. 

Once.

Softly. 

And then again.

Cartwheels.

The beating of Hannah's heart explodes, it jumps jumps jumps, when Grace pulls at fabric, pressing her mouth to the corner of Hannah's. 

And then a full kiss.

And then her heart turns around and around and topples over in its rib-cage.

Hannah kisses back. Hard. Breath in gasps, pulse beating a sped up version of some drumming song she hardly recognises. Pumping faster. Breathing harder. She's kissing at quivering lips and it tastes like sunshine.

And everything prickles.

"Grace," she breathes when they lean back for air, smiling, "we can't?"

She gets kissed again, for that, feels gravity pulling her down, and Grace pulling against every single part of Hannah's thoughts. 

So Hannah grips at her friend's waist with one hand, the other going to softly curving collarbones, shoulder, neck, stumbling over bumps that race across Grace's skin, trying to get a hold of something, as gasped little breaths hit Hannah's ear.

This is mad.

This is absolutely mad.

It happens fast. When Hannah looks at Grace again, she gets to stare at kiss swollen lips and flushed cheeks and those dark dark eyes, and maybe it's all a little bit okay. Because there's stars in this girl's eyes and sunburn on her lips.

She leans back against the car, breathing once. Twice. Calmly.

"I think I like Los Angeles," Hannah grins, glancing sideways.

Grace laughs.

And everything's a little too new in this new city, but as Hannah's heart tumbles about inside her chest Grace's head falls onto her shoulder, and everything falls a little bit into place.

"Yeah. I like it, too." _

She searches herself for a response, something that isn’t shut up, because, well, she’s not rude. Maybe drunk, but not rude.

"I’m sorry, what?"

Sarah smiles, and shakes her head. “Nothing,” she mumbles, squeezing at Grace’s waist in a move that pulls her in, making them dance closer. Dance? They’re swaying, really. Because holding one another does seem like the greatest of ideas. Because they really, really like each other, and have become great friends these past few years, and they’re about the same height, which makes this perfectly easy. Like two trees that slowly interlace their branches in a mindless pattern. Grace chuckles at the thought.

Almost unseen through blonde hair, she spots Hannah’s face, her own hazy vision blurring the colours, the lines on Hannah’s forehead. Is she frowning at them? Grace can’t tell. She feels Sarah’s nose close to her ear, hears hushed words. When Sarah lets go of Grace, and looks at her, she just grins, once again having not payed attention to the actual words that have been said. “What,” she mouthes, but Sarah is already dragging her by one hand, towards the bathroom. Ah. Bathroom. Okay.

A door closes behind them, a door Grace slumps back against, with Sarah in front of her. She’s being ogled, eyed in way she can’t quite distinguish. Grace smiles a crooked smile, her heartbeat speeding up for no apparent reason. What even is going on? Swike laughs, and Grace laughs, and her pulse thuds against the roof of her mouth.

And then Sarah steps closer, before the last thing Grace can see is a grin on lips she’s trying not to stare at, before they are upon hers. Softness is making her gasp. The gasping leads to more soft kissing. Wait, they’re kissing, she is kissing Swike. Something inside Grace screams that this isn’t okay, something inside her wants to pull at Grace, and remind her of who she is and who Swike is, but the softness and the gasping and the kissing is so all-encompassing, mixed with drunken carelessness. 

She doesn’t remember to stop. It feels like being back in College, and being one of those girls, for a change. One of those girls who kiss other girls, when drunk. Just for fun. Sarah is fun, Grace thinks, as her bottom lip is being tugged at gently. She doesn’t mind this breathy sensation in her reeling brain, doesn’t listen to the voice that is yelling things about how she isn’t into girls, she’s never been one of those girls, and she isn’t Hannah. And this is Swike.

"She looked at us funny," Grace slurs against a warm mouth.

"Who?"

Sarah sounds a bit breathless, which has Grace’s body warming up some more, in response. “Han,” she mutters, leaning in again. She doesn’t even have to lean a lot, because being the same height is extremely convenient, and Sarah’s just there, meeting her lips so softly. Maybe there should be a different word in her head, something other than soft, to describe this, but Grace can’t think of a lot. Hot, messy, prickling. But mostly soft, in a very clumsy way.

Until teeth tug at Grace’s bottom lip sharply, and suddenly, the softness is secondary. Grace feels on fire. This is fun. Alcohol is pumping through her veins, the muffled beat from behind closed doors thumps loudly in her ears, along with the staggered jumps her heart is performing, making breath hitch in her throat. And Sarah’s touch burns, buzzes, pulls her closer. 

"Fuck," is being mumbled into the kiss, "Grace, we’re drunk," smiles the other woman. 

Grace nods, because yeah, they are. 

"You’re hot," she states, touching at the other woman’s waist, beneath a thin shirt. When did her hands go there? Grace laughs, because she has no idea. The skin against her fingertips is hot, and Swike is hot, undeniably.

"Grace," laughs Sarah, "I don’t think this is a smart idea."

It’s weird, because wasn’t Swike the one who kissed her first? Grace wants to voice that hey, you started this, but instead she settles for hummed agreement.

Arms are around waists, and they’re swaying again, to music that neither can really hear. It’s all just muffled noise, and muffled giggles, and noses nuzzling while teeth chase after hot skin.

"Who cares," chuckles Grace, and the answer is obvious. Nobody cares, at this point.

Sometimes, accidents just happen. Just like that. And nobody cares, because nobody notices. Nobody stops their cars at the sight of two girls kissing, right? Because it’s not the kind of accident that involves blood, demolished cars, or anything that people would stare at, with all their inherent sensationalism. It’s just two girls kissing. No big deal.

It’s just one of those accidents. _

Grace wakes with a start, the next morning. It’s all a blur. She touches at her lips. 

"What the…" 

She sits up, immediately aware of a certain buzz, a sizzling of her skin. And a headache. A painful one. 

"Jesus Christ," moans Grace, weaving slender fingers through her hair. She looks around, and thank god there is no other person in her bed. Thank fucking god. 

Her stomach churns, and Grace cringes. Her lips feel kiss-swollen, and she smiles. 

A few minutes later she has managed to make herself some coffee. She stands in the kitchen for a minute, touching fingertips to her mouth again. Her lips feel kiss-swollen. Who did she kiss? All those images from last night are hazy, she remembers slurred words and… Hannah’s crinkled forehead. Oh no. 

"Hannah," she mumbles to herself questioningly, cocking her head to one side, but soon she dismisses the thought. No, she didn’t kiss Hannah. But the name prompts another memory. Hannah had looked at her, at her and Swike, in a weird way. And then it hits her. Sarah. The dancing. Hannah, on the patio. Her and Sarah, against the bathroom door. "Oh shit," she exclaims, setting her coffee cup down on the counter top. "Oh shit, shit, shit."

She briefly wonders whether this is an appropriate response, whether her old college-self would just shrug and go about their day, or freak out. But she’s never been a girl who randomly kissed beautiful women in bathrooms. She wonders-

The door bell rings. Grace sighs, attempting to calm herself down. She kissed Sarah. Sarah kissed her. Last night. And her lips are still tingling, in the best possible way. Oh shit. _

"It was an accident, right?"

Grace has to remind herself that her jaw isn’t supposed to hit the floor the way it does, right now. “Um,” she stutters, “hey, Sarah.”

The woman steps inside, walking past Grace without the slightest glimpse of hesitation. She’s got her phone in one hand (because when doesn’t she) and a coffee-to-go in the other. And she’s talking. Grace remembers that paying attention to Sarah’s words might be important.

"I mean, hey, you’re a great kisser, but we really, I mean, we can’t. This whole situation… you didn’t tell anyone yet, did you? I think we shouldn’t tell anyone. I mean, Hannah… She kept looking, but I’m sure she doesn’t know and… Grace?"

Sarah has realized, apparently, that her words aren’t registering with Grace. Because Grace is still standing in the door, with messy hair and mascara on her cheeks, the lines of a pillowcase imprinted into her neck. The patterns are forming around two small bruises, purple ones, connected by pillow-case-lines like tiny stitches. Sarah sighs, walking towards her, and closes the door behind Grace’s back. 

"Wait-"

Sarah stills. “Huh?”

Grace huffs out a laugh. The door falls shut, and Grace’s back comes to rest against it. “Just shut up for a second, okay,” Grace mutters, instantly feeling a lot too rude, but this is all crazy, and she still feels like there’s more alcohol than blood running through her aching body. Swike looks at her, an unsure smile playing around soft lips. Grace remembers the softness. She tries to collect her thoughts.

"I didn’t tell anyone," she begins, and Sarah’s shoulders sink in relief. "I also just woke up, and my head is aching, so can we please… can we please not talk too much, right now?”

Sarah glances at her wristwatch. “Grace, it’s two. Did you seriously sleep until two?”

It makes her laugh, because only Swike would consider this a waste of time, when, obviously, sleeping in was the only thing Grace could have done after a night like that. But not Sarah. 

"Shut up," chuckles Grace, nudging the other woman with knuckles against Sarah’s shoulder. 

Her back is still against the door, and Swike stands in front of her with eyebrows raised in disbelief, a smile beginning to form. They grin at each other, as Sarah steps a little closer. Grace’s lips are still tingling, and at this close proximity she could swear she can spot little bite marks around Sarah’s bottom one. Oh, and there’s a hickey on the other woman’s neck, too. Did she do this? Grace raises a hand, putting one finger to Swike’s pulse-point, where a small, purple bruise is blooming.

She can feel the other woman’s heartbeat, and the warmth of her skin, the quick rhythm. “Sarah…” she begins, “you gotta cover that up.”

The grin on Grace’s face is cheeky, and Sarah laughs once, breathlessly. Grace remembers, clearly. The dancing, the door, the lips.

"Oh no, I like you," Grace whispers, and blushes at her own honesty. Because since when is she that girl?

"That’s too bad," teases Sarah, bringing her hands to Grace’s hips. It makes her heart beat faster. 

"It is bad," Grace echoes, the hint of a question in her eyes, while her arms sneak around a slender waist. "Very bad," she grins, then. Because maybe she needs to do some more accidental stuff like this, maybe she needs to be exactly that girl, for a change. It’s so fucking exciting.

They’re kissing again, in a matter of seconds. There is none of that drunken giddiness from last night. And still, everything else seems to blur. Hands wander and teeth tug as they stumble away from the door and into Grace’s living room. “We can’t tell anyone about this,” breathes Swike, hot air against hot lips. “Uh huh, okay,” mumbles Grace, pulling her own shirt up a little. Clothes start piling on the floor, and with every newly revealed bit of skin their breathing turns into panting some more.

It all happened accidentally, but when they’re in Grace’s bed, and Sarah looks up at her, nothing seems to be out of place. It doesn’t matter how they got there, or who might get hurt, or what they’ll say in the morning. Sarah is just there, breathing heavily into fluttering kisses as Grace moves above her, bursting with confidence. Because this might be a very, very bad idea, and she still isn’t Hannah, but fuck that, fuck everything.

Sarah feels good, beneath her fingertips. And around her digits, fuck. Grace leans her forehead against the hot skin of a heaving chest where she can still peck at skin, and lick at puckering flesh.

"Shit, I didn’t think you’d be so," gasps Sarah, and fingers grip Grace’s hair harshly. A moan sounds through pursed lips, echoing in Grace’s head. It echoes loudly, because her mind is blank, absolutely empty of any other thought than Sarah just moaned and how do I make her do that again. The woman’s sentence hadn’t needed finishing anyway.

"What," Grace grins, catching her breath, "so you’ve thought about this?”

She bites playfully at Sarah’s collarbone, before moving up, hand continuing to move in between them. She also bites at the woman’s shoulder, because there are these tiny freckles, and she’d like to see the imprints of her teeth next to them.

By the time they’re kissing again, Sarah has laughed at Grace, and then moaned another long moan at the twist of slender fingers, while Grace’s head has remained an empty void with empty walls, where the noises bounce around restlessly.

Then, Grace is being pushed away a little, and all of a sudden Sarah is on top, and Sarah’s hand is in between them, too, and fuck, Grace is caught entirely off balance. Her head lolls from side to side, her eyes have fallen shut, and she just lets Sarah do what Sarah does until Sarah’s saying words, again. “Hey, you’re not allowed to stop now,” she breathes, grinning down at Grace’s flushed face. Grace can’t help but moan gutturally at the way Sarah’s free hand tugs her wrist back down, guiding Grace’s hand to where it was before.

The mutual touching is complete and utter madness, Grace thinks. Because how is she supposed to concentrate when- 

"Fuck," she gasps, as hips rock down into her, pushing Sarah’s fingers down, harder. Maybe madness is okay. Maybe madness is just what she needs. It sure feels that way.

Grace can feel her wrist cramping up a bit, and she’s too hot. There’s a stickiness to her skin where it rubs against the other woman’s heated flesh.

"Don’t stop," Sarah whispers, searching Grace’s lips in a hungry kiss. And that’s really all it takes for Grace to keep going. That, and the twist of Sarah’s hand, a different angle and fuck, Grace gasps.

When she arches up to capture swollen lips with her own, it’s with deliberate intent. She kisses Swike, and then their mouthes just stay against one another, panting loud breaths into humid air. Grace’s free hand goes up to clutch at a slim shoulder, once, before sliding up into blonde tendrils. She holds Sarah there, feeling the other woman tense above her, and her stomach tenses as well, and then it’s rushing up from the tips of her toes which are curling into the mattress, up to where their breathing mingles. 

They’re like trees, limp branches entangled as the panting evens out into a slower rhythm again. Holding each other seems like the only way, really.

And when Sarah nudges her nose to Grace’s cheek, silently asking for some kind of reassurance that they haven’t actually gone mad, Grace kisses her softly. This time, it’s not accidental. Because when accidents happen and people drive by, they stop to stare at the blood, the demolished cars. They want to see all the wrong things. But Grace looks at Sarah like she’s something perfect, and maybe she is. Maybe she is. 

All Grace knows is that she’d happily put her car into park, at the sight. _