#really moist thread

Things were different with Nova. She had known Constance before she’d ever had the language to understand herself. Before the pain, before the loss, before everything became too much to carry. A part of Constance leaned into that. Wanted to be that girl again, instead of the one who had grown up too fast and never quite been allowed to stay young. And for Nova to be there, in the same way she had always been—showing up without warning, asking her to come out and play…. it was a familiarity no one else could touch. And that was what made it dangerous.

Constance had said too much. Nova didn’t need to know about her failures—how she was terrible at friendships, how they always wanted more, how she failed an engagement, because more never came. It all spilled out too easily and she worried that loose lips would ruin whatever was forming between them. And maybe, in providing her location to Nova, Constance had wanted it. To feel, even if just for a movement, like it was only the two of them, this strange girl from America and herself—against an odd little town.

She’d been waiting, messaging Nova, trying to figure out just how close she was, how much longer she’d take—when she heard the sound of a vehicle pull up along the cobblestone. The place was oddly quiet, but instead of unsettling her, it made the place feel larger. And lonelier. Bare trees crowded the grounds, lining the cobblestone path toward the stone manor. It was strange enough to make most people turn back, if the weathered stone figures along the curve to the house didn’t do it first. Constance pushed open the gate, chamberstick in hand, stepping out to meet Nova. “Come on, it’s dark and cold outside,” She didn’t bother with an awkward greeting. She extended a hand toward Nova, whether to meet her or take hold didn’t matter. Nova was coming in now.

—

Nova wasn’t thinking—that was her usual problem. All it took was the whiff that Constance was a little sad, and might want her around, to get Nova to move; silent calls for help were enough. And, of all people, it was Constance—Nova needed even less of an excuse to visit her. But first: chocolate or vanilla? Constance and her old lady tendencies would probably mean she was a vanilla girl. But then again… “The chocolate one,” Nova said, pressing her finger to the smudged glass of the grocery store bakery display. The options were slim, and she liked Constance too much to subject her to whatever wormfetti was supposed to be (shrimp upside-down cake almost tempted her by curiosity alone; Old Bay spice cake was a culinary crime she had already been subjected to for her tenth birthday). 

The chocolate cake was unremarkable: a moist yellow cake with chocolate ganache spread between the layers and chocolate frosting slapped on as if by a sleepy baker. The cake was small, barely fitting the words “Happy Birthday Constance” across its lumpy surface. Nova grabbed a pack of swirly blue birthday candles and hoped it would be good enough.

Above, Jupiter was heavy in the sky and the moon was bitten into a crescent. She arrived later than she said she would—thanks cake!—and parked close in her inconspicuous van (it said so on the side). Nova didn’t think—wasn’t thinking. She took the cake out of its white box and set the candles into the frosting, as neat as someone like Nova could manage. Holding the cake, she hopped out of her van. 

If she was thinking, she’d think about how beautiful the night was; especially in Nightfall Grove, where the light pollution thinned and hundreds of glittering white motes arced across the ink-dome of Earth. Or Constance herself, standing like a Victorian maiden with her chamberstick and beckoning hand. Or, definitely, the fact that she was wearing sun-bleached, oversized Star Trek t-shirt adorned with an old mustard stain she tried to alchemize out, only to transform into a giant bleach spot and jeans so frayed at the edges that it resembled a caterpillar curled around her ankles. A very sad caterpillar. And if she thought for longer, she’d forgive herself for the fashion nightmare; the novelty of seeing Constance again outweighed rationality. Nova wasn’t thinking because there was nothing else to think about: there was Constance. Right there. Close enough to touch. Take her hand. 

And Nova did, laying her fingers inside the curve of Constance’s palm. With her other hand, she held up the cake. As an alchemist, Nova couldn’t do spells—Granny fiercely emphasized that a transmutation circle was not a spell, but never explained what the alternative word for it was. An alchemist wouldn’t capitulate to the woo woo functions of the world that other spellcasters might entertain. This was hard science, except that it was still magic. Granny was too stubborn to even dabble in everyday magics, those simple spells that casters never had to think about. Nova didn’t have the same reservations. Grinning, she leaned in and blew gently on the cake; her breath a white cloud. One by one, the candles lit.

“Happy birthday to you,” she sang, because she assumed Constance would hate it. “Happy be-late-ed”—she jammed the words in the melody—”birthday to… Oh, hey! What the fuck?” And she couldn’t manage to finish, beckoned to other thoughts by the sight of the house. “You did not tell me you owned a full gothic manor! Okay, Nosferatu. What type of stone is that? It’s gotta be limestone, right? Calcium carbonate?” She didn’t mind the dark, or the cold. 

—

Constance was grateful Nova brought food—that always helped the especially difficult emotions to go down smoothly. Although, in a rush to get Nova inside in the dark, Constance’s mind was unable to get a good look and it was surely playing tricks on her. It couldn’t be–”A cake?” Constance was able to get out before Nova started to sing. The cake was illuminated in front of her by Nova’s dragon breath. Wow. Constance couldn’t remember the last time her birthday was celebrated like this. With so many birthdays and so many people still around, it was really hard to get individual celebrations in. Nobody really cared. Except for Constance it was just another way she was shadowed in the family. Sure, her father still would get her gifts, but… birthdays were the one day you should feel special! Not feel as ordinary as you did for the rest of the 364 days.

Her gaze fell on Nova softer than intended, her thoughts turning to their childhood, to a time where they only had the weight of innocence on their shoulders. Her thumb instinctively caressed the back of Nova’s hand  before her thoughts were interrupted and she was yanked back to being a grown woman, with responsibilities only she could shoulder. “It’s my uncle’s.” But she had full control over his properties for the time being so Nova wasn’t far off. Her eyes followed, running over the stone walls and the decor her uncle had chosen to fill up its spaces. Constance had to remove a lot to prevent it from feeling overcrowding upon entering. There was hardly any rhyme or reason to the decor (frames and tapestries, from medieval frescos to early photographs from the late 1800s) and Constance was still trying to figure out how she felt about it. Again, the last of her concerns, this just had to be livable. And warm. Given that she wasn’t spending time in the living room, it currently was not warmed to her liking. 

“Nov,” Constance called to her distracted guest. She didn’t pull her closer—instead she guided Nova’s hand to her waist and let it rest, her own palm covering it, holding it in place with a firm pressure. A reminder. I’m here. Stay with me. “Thank you for the cake. Let’s enjoy it in the bedroom. It’s freezing down here. Please.” Constance was having doubts on inviting Nova over. It wasn’t a direct invitation, but Constance knew what she was doing. She knew Nova. Knew little changed since she was a girl. Constance called. Nova came. Her stomach twisted at that realization. What was she even doing here? Maybe her ex was right.

Constance dropped Nova’s hand, feeling like she had just guilted the other into getting her a cake, into coming here, probably on the assumption of something else entirely. Nova really wanted to have her cake and eat it too, didn’t she? She couldn’t help the smile that formed with that thought. “Show me your big girl magic.” She challenged, wanting to cut through whatever this fog was. It was ludicrous to believe Nova came all this way to give and get cake. Nova had no sexual interest in her and was simply teasing as grown women teased. Really, Constance should be amazed her huge head didn’t make her topple over.

—

The lightheadedness from the spell was worth it for the expression on Constance’s face… which Nova couldn’t exactly see in the darkness but she assumed it was positive since she wasn’t getting a faceful of cake and demands to never come back ever again. Though, she was starting to regret the cake. The cake carrying process had to be the worst part about cake—Nova’s attention happily meandered over their surroundings, and then had to be dragged back to the cake to make sure she hadn’t dropped it. It was like babysitting a fragile, delicious child. There was a reason Nova’s babysitting career had lasted only one day, during the autumn she was sixteen. The Campbell’s were still trying to get Nova to pay for that hole in the roof. She wanted to pass the cake off to Constance, but suddenly her hand was on Constance’s waist, and they were walking, and she stopped caring. 

She squeezed Constance’s hip, and shifted closer to her as they moved. Her skin buzzed—she’d forgotten how good it felt to be close to someone again. Constance was warm, the night was cold, how could she want anything else but to squeeze in closer? “The decor is… uh… eclectic,” Nova said; if you have nothing good to say… She looked at the cake, the candles still burning valiantly. She nearly dropped it. “B-bedroom?” she squeaked and then looked at Constance, who was so close. When had she gotten so close? Oh, right. She did that. She cleared her throat, ignoring the heating in her cheeks. “Right. Duh. Too cold anywhere else.” She could very clearly see the usable furniture in the other rooms, but she wasn’t going to comment on that. Constance probably had some stupid reason for the suggestion, which would smooth over the inherent suggestiveness in leading a girl to bed. It was kinda cold in the house, after all.

Almost to the bedroom, she nearly dropped the cake again. This time, out of excitement. She gave up any notions of keeping that cake intact and set it down on a box. Probably not great in a place this old and rundown to leave open food. And open flames. Nova wasn’t thinking about that—her thoughts were concerned with the usual: the present moment. Nova shifted in front of Constance, hands behind her back, grinning. “Trying to get the show early, Connie?” Her voice was an amused rasp. She stepped closer and closer, tilting her head up to Constance’s. “I thought you were going to take me to your bedroom first?” she challenged back. Nova loved playing with fire, but she never realized she was doing it until she looked down and noticed her blistered palms. Her eyes met Constance’s unflinchingly. 

—

Nova neared and Constance remained planted, eyes tracking her as she came close, tilting her head back slightly to look down at Nova. It was something to get used to, no longer staring up at her old friend. Really, she could still see that little girl in her face, only elevated with age. Not even time, however, got rid of her insufferable smirk. Had it always been this way? Even as young girls—all the touching, the wrestling—had there been something charging it even then? God, did Nova really want her cake… The cake.

“What did I say—” She moved away, turning toward it and lifting it carefully with its platter. It wobbled but she quickly found the balance. With a huff, she turned back toward Nova. “There are important things in there that cannot take weight.” At least, she thought so. She already forgot what was inside but she wasn’t about to tell Nova that. She was grateful for the break in eye contact. Bringing the cake closer, Constance quickly blew out the candles, the light dimming until only her chamberstick and a few candelabras illuminated the hallway.

The cake was an important third party of this. Until Constance could figure out exactly why Nova showed up, the cake would stay. “Come along, I’ll let it slide this once. Next time you don’t follow my instructions, I won’t be so nice.” Her lips pursed and she was grateful for the darkness. It was all just normal harmless teasing. That’s all Nova has been doing all along—she’d even admitted to it. Yet, Constance couldn’t stop. She had pushed too far. And instead of putting up a boundary, Nova let her right in. The shame came quickly at her own need for intimacy, at how easily she’d accepted what Nova offered without stopping to question it. 

As they entered the bedroom was indeed warmer, the fireplace already lit. It was where Constance slept, after all. It wasn’t decorated so much as finished—plater walls, tapestries—but large doors opened onto a balcony, with the mossthorn forest pressing close. The bed was wide and unmade, Constance had clearly been laying in it earlier. Nearby, Constance set the cake on a table near the fire, between two chairs positioned toward the fireplace. “Well, here it is. My bedroom. You can get a full tour when you finish turning me on.” —

“Did you make a wish?” Nova asked, following behind Constance. “It’s bad luck to blow out birthday candles without a wish.” It wasn’t, and Nova also knew that even though she asked, Constance wouldn't share what her deepest desires were. She’d probably say she wished for a heater. Nova’s eyes traced the curve of Constance’s spine—freaskishly tall spine. Well, not-so freakish, just personally irritating. Well, irritating, but better to think about than the… flirting. Okay, so, Nova was definitely the last person to call flirting flirting. She’d been accused so often of leading people on that she vaulted right over any self reflection on the issue and accepted it as a quirk. She liked teasing, she enjoyed joking, if she tip-toed into flirtation land it was accidental. 

But also not. Sometimes, less rare than Nova wanted, there was a bead of genuine attraction nestled inside the words. Nova compared her love life to a dying house plant for a reason: she never knew what to do with it and the only person she had to blame for the state of it was herself. She wouldn’t learn; in a week, she’d be buying another pretty succulent telling herself that they were hardy. She didn’t even need to water them! There was no way she’d fuck this one up—her and the metaphorical plant were on the same page this time. Except that they never were; you had to know what page you were on, or wanted to be on, and usually you had to say it out loud. 

The issue with the flirting wasn’t that she was doing it, but that Constance was entertaining it. Her friend’s mind was a mental fortress, and Nova gleaned zilch from Constance’s tone. There was also the fact that Constance definitely sounded like she was still thinking about her ex, which Nova wouldn’t poke even if her finger was ten feet long. Oh, and the whole childhood friends thing. Oh, yeah, and let’s not forget the almost-dying-almost-every-night thing. Flirting was a horrible idea and the worst part of Constance letting her was that, actually, Constance was kinda hot (okay, more than kinda). Nova had eyes and was famously beholden to terrible ideas. She was thankful she was walking behind Constance. 

The bedroom was huge. Nova, who was accustomed to the cramped space of her van, thought the room was an apartment unto itself. No wonder Constance wanted them to go here—the crackling fire was welcome too. She moved towards her friend and from behind, wrapped her arms around her waist and laid her cheek between Constance’s shoulder blades. “It’s big,” she said softly, ‘big’ sounding a lot like ‘lonely’. All this cold space where the warmest thing around was an untouchable fire. Nova leaned up. She’d meant to kiss Constance’s cheek—spurred by sympathy—but the impulsive charge and angle meant her lips met Constance’s neck instead. Which was—and even Nova had to admit this—and overly intimate spot to friend-kiss. Oops? Moving on… 

Right, and now the magic portion of the exam. She really should have been thinking harder about this. Nova cleared her throat, a faint flush on her cheeks, and stepped back. She crouched down, pulling white chalk from her pocket. On the ground, she drew a circle, then lines and symbols—a transmutation circle that only another alchemist would know was on the beginner-friendly transmutation circles list, slightly modified. She took off her necklaces, and the ring on her thumb, and placed them in the center of the circle. An alchemist’s greatest weapon was jewelry, according to Granny. Nova preferred steel: versatile, more durable than pure metals, cheap and readily available. She pressed her fingers to the edge of the chalk and the circle glowed. The metal convulsed and collapsed into a ball, then danced to shape. 

“Ta-da!” Nova picked her alchemized sculpture. “It’s a…depressed cat?” It was trinket sized, no heavier than her jewelry had been, of course. “I guess my big girl magic still needs work. How turned on are you right now?” She laughed and held the sad cat up beside Constance’s face. “You could be twins!” Her laugh was nervous. Nova’s intention was to make a happy, cute cat but what she got was a chunky, sitting cat with a big frown and beady eyes. It was ugly, to be blunt. “In hindsight, I should have made us a spoon for the cake. Or a knife. Or a plate. Or a fork—do you eat cake with a spoon or a fork? I never know. Personally, I just go in with my mouth and munch like a… Okay, you’re supposed to stop me when I start rambling.” 

—

The touch shouldn’t have caused any kind of reaction. It was Nova, after all. It was Nova. Nova, the one who treated touch like punctuation. Hugs were given without ceremony, arms thrown around shoulders or waists. If Constance stood still too long, Nova would come over and lean against her. Growing up, her parents hadn’t been especially affectionate. That didn’t mean she loved them any less, or they her. It was just how things were. She wasn’t used to constant physical touch. And then there was Nova. Holding hands happened without warning. They were children—it wasn’t romantic, just connection in its barest form. Even their play fighting felt like an excuse to stay in contact. They’d pin each other and laugh, call a truce, and when they got up it was always Nova who’d wiped dirt from Constance’s cheek with her thumb, like it was her job.

And now, as adult women, there was an intimacy to it that Constance wished didn’t exist. She wished her old friend’s arms around her waist didn’t make her stiffen almost immediately. It hadn’t as a child—then, it had been grounding, comforting, something she missed when she had to go back home. She looked down, reminding herself that this was just “handsy” Nova and it didn’t mean anything more. It never had. Right? She turned her head, not wanting to look when another touch sent a jolt straight to her core. She took a sharp intake of breath, hoping it was lost to the crackle of the fire. Did she just kiss my fucking neck? In what world was that friendly?

Constance couldn’t quite name what she was feeling. Nova had been friendly, teasing and yet it felt as thought Constance had pushed something too far. She’d flirted. She’d invited her over, subtly but intentionally. And now Nova had just kissed her neck. She was grateful when the focus shifted to magic, but found it impossible to concentrate. Why would Nova want to sleep with her anyway? They knew each other as children. Shouldn’t that have erased any possibility of attraction? And even if it hadn’t—what would come of it? Any thread they tried to tie between them would eventually fray if they indulged this. Constance wouldn’t be able to sustain it. And Nova admitted her relationships died like houseplants.

Why would they do that to each other?

Nova comparing the cat to her thinking face and calling them twins, only registered dimly. Constance took the cat trinket in her hand, inspecting it. It peered up at her with a faint frown as if able to tell what she was thinking, and disapproved. The truth of it was simple. Nova was touch-forward. Constance was touch-starved. And somewhere in between those truths, a habit formed between them as little girls. One Constance was realizing they never fully outgrew.

She took Nova’s wrist in her hand, lifting it to return the cat to her palm. “I’m not sure it enjoys its new form.” She said, trying to smile, though she couldn’t really meet Nova’s gaze. Instead it lingered on her friend’s hand, her own fingers absentmindedly brushing Nova’s skin. This time a more genuine smile graced her lips. “I never minded the ramble,” Constance admitted, glancing over at Nova. “I’m not ‘wow you turned all my lights on’ turned on.” A pause. “But why don’t you show me your munching skills and we’ll see how I feel then.” The smile widened as she took Nova by the wrist to the chairs by the fire, only letting go once Nova sat. Constance dragged her own chair closer until the wooden arms knocked together, then settled in herself, leaning on one elbow as she made the first advance to the cake.

“God, I love chocolate,” Constance muttered as she reached out, meaning to use one finger—just enough to steal a bit of frosting. The memory of Nova’s mouth at her neck intruded instead, uninvited, and when her hand reached the cake it was two fingers that pressed in. “I’d eat chocolate off of anything,” she added, almost idly. She brought the two fingers to her mouth, slow and unhurried, sucking the frosting free before dropping her hand. Only then did she glance at Nova. “Tastes really good,” she said, voice low. “You chose well.” The words were harmless. Complimentary. But she didn’t look back at the cake.

—

The return of the cat to her palm, even though it was tender, was a sure sign Constance hadn’t liked it. Nova matched the pout on the cat as she looked down on it. It was a rudimentary, lumpy shape. If Granny were alive, she’d remind her that a skilled alchemist could braid hair-thin strands of metal, shifting atoms like a harpist plucking the strings of their instrument. Alchemy was a science, a math, an art, a philosophy and Granny’s hut had been full of intricately woven metal sculptures. Nova could make a chunky, depressed cat. Yippee. No wonder Constance evidently thought she had the sex appeal of a wet sock. 

Dreams of impressing Constance were dashed as she plopped down on her seat. Nova squeezed her fist over the trinket. Part of her had hoped to show Constance the magnitude of her change: she was not the same girl dashing through life like it was chasing her down, haphazardly reaching for whatever she could grab on the way. Part of her had hoped that in showing Constance, she could believe it for herself. She didn’t run away. She hadn’t run away. Oh, but—

She ached to touch Constance again, the same way she had when they were children; the constant poking, grabbing, holding. Even back then, not a thought passed through her thick skull. The only thing Nova had over her childhood self was an iota of perspective: she did it because Constance wasn’t, well, constant. Nova never knew when the girl would visit, or for how long. She had to touch Constance into existence; define her through the reaching, the grabbing. Create her shape. Sculpt her. Make her real. Keep her in the warmth of palms, and the memory of skin, so that if she could not have Connie, she could have her imprint. 

She’d been a lonely child. Nova opened her fist and met the dead eyes of her sculpture. She was a lonely adult too. No, she hadn’t changed. There was just a lot more baggage. She was grateful that Constance kept the suggestive thread at the same level—no escalation, perhaps even a slight pulling away, though Nova was a bad judge of that. Good. She had to subtly slide this whole thing back. Okay! And she was totally committed to that! No more sex jokes! No comments about munching other things! She perked up, tearing her attention away from her palm, set on the path of being a good—

A good…

Nova’s eyes widened. Her mouth was inexplicably dry as it hung open. Her stomach fluttered and her eyes were locked to Constance’s lips, her fingers, her fingers against her lips—two of them. Two fingers. Oh god. Nova hopped over the magma-buildup phase and crashed into the erupting portion. The skin from the tip of her ears to the top of her breasts was a bright, burning crimson. She closed her mouth and swallowed. “I...” She stuttered. “That—you—it—the cake—the—” She blubbered. “The—and the—you—” She floundered. A squeak, like a mouse trapped inside her throat, bubbled between her lips. Nova set the sculpture down on the table, got up, turned away from Constance, crouched on the ground again, pulled her shirt up over her mouth, and screamed into the fabric. 

She flicked around, energetic like a newborn star—or a dying one. “You!” Nova jerked her finger at Constance. “You’re doing this on purpose! Inappropriate! What happened to telling me it was inappropriate?” She waved her hands in the air. “War crimes! War! First of all you show up—tall! Like a fuckin’ supermodel, first of all. And then—You!” Nova’s words transformed to impassioned grunts as she gestured. “Talk about your engagement and then—I’m not—Second of all, then your skin is soft and warm and it’s so cold in your stupid gothic, vampire mansion. And I’ve missed you so much. And then, actress hot, first of all. Secondly. Third of all—” Nova groaned and buried her burning face in her hands. “I’m in hell,” she mumbled. 

—

Nova’s blubbering was… cute, Constance had to admit. Especially when she knew it was because of her. It wasn’t something that happened every day—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted to straddle that line between flirting and teasing. She didn’t go to bars to chase the most attractive woman she could find; it usually ended in situations she didn’t want. Casual sex never helped. It never filled that void. If anything, it made the hollow ache more, its presence sharper for days afterward. Constance craved the intimacy, not the act.

She didn’t want sex.

“Nova,” Constance softly spoke, watching her rise from her seat. Was she leaving? She didn’t want that either. She watched as Nova crouched and started screaming. Constance got to her feet, unsure what was happening. She had flustered her friend, evidently, but it had all been fun and games. Right? Unless she screwed it all up somehow. And as Nova continued, finger pointed at her, Constance realized she had.

Shame hit her the hardest. She couldn’t even look at Nova. The shame kept her rooted, it kept her eyes low, her head turned, her throat tight. What Nova was saying was filtered through. Constance felt only blame. So, she did what she always did—she shut down. Tugged her sweater closed, crossed her arms, and let Nova speak. Even when she stopped, Constance let the silence linger. What could she say? That she had only been teasing Nova the same way Nova teased her? That she wasn’t flirting—except she was. But she didn’t want to have sex. So then what did she want?

What do you want, Constance?

Constance felt small at that moment. Even with Nova crouched and herself standing—Constance felt no taller than she had when she was a child. Her eyes burned. “I’m sorry,” her tone betrayed nothing, and she didn’t lift her gaze. She’d always struggled to apologize, more so when it meant meeting the eyes of someone she’d hurt. So often her apologies came off ingenuine. This was her only friendship in so long and she’d gone ahead and ruined it. “You’re right. This was very inappropriate.” Her knuckle pressed against the corner of her eye, coming back damp.

Great.

She turned to the fire, away from Nova. Rude, but better than letting anyone see her cry. “Follow the light to the door.” A pause. “Thank you for the cake. And the cat.” She crossed her arms again, the warmth from the fire keeping her eyes dry, but she knew once Nova left she’d be the one blubbering. She stared into the flames, waiting to hear Nova’s footsteps retreat. She didn’t blame her—wouldn’t. Constance wasn’t thinking. She was enjoying the illusion of familiarity, a false intimacy with someone she hadn’t seen in years. Knowing her as a child didn’t mean she knew her now. Nova didn’t know what she did. Nova didn’t know her at all. No one did. And that was how it should be.

Her mind was telling her to stay calm, to keep the distance, to preserve these rules she’d always lived by—but another part, the part that had been ten years old in a strange backyard, reaching for a hand she trusted like she’d known forever… it rebelled. She wanted Nova to stay, to fill this quiet house with something human, something messy. Something Constance could pretend she understood. She hated that need. Hated how much it made her feel exposed, unguarded. And yet, she found herself wishing Nova would linger, even if just to remind her what it felt like to not be completely alone.

___

Confusion hit Nova in the head, she looked up at Constance’s back, vision swimming. What was happening? She’d excpected—wanted?—to be teased more; have the energy flow between them heat the air like the thick current before a lightning strike, positive and negative colliding. Instead, she was on the ground with her blush crawling away and Constance—Fuck. Was she crying? Nova swallowed. No, it wasn’t inappropriate. I mean, I don’t mind. I didn’t mind, the words jammed in her throat. Her cheeks heated again. This time with embarrassment. 

She’d wanted to expel whatever feeling she had from watching Constance… uh… do that thing she did. With her fingers. Nova didn’t need to think about it again. In fact, she was promptly—for the sake of their rekindling friendship—forgetting it. Step one of having friends: stop thinking they’re hot. It was a dangerous thing for Nova to mix the two, as she so often had in the past. She understood intimacy as well as she understood how to fly a plane. She had this habit—a flaw, really—of running away the moment a feeling entered the equation. Even being incompetent at sniffing out when someone had any genuine romantic notions for her, the second she caught wind, she needed to get out of there. Nova couldn’t say what it was, or why, only that she happened to do it every single time. 

She wanted to keep being Constance’s friend, and to get there, she had to stop pretending they were still kids. Constance was right, it really wasn’t so simple anymore. If they were still kids, Nova would drag Constance to the chair and force her into a hug time-out-slash-apology. Two adult bodies couldn’t even fit in that chair, and it was harder to imagine the intentions were innocent while entangled. God, she’d been so stupid. Two days had to be a personal record for imploding a relationship. Nova got up and dusted herself off. Time to prove she was a big girl… Okay, note to self: find a way to say that that didn’t make her sound like she was in a Huggies commercial. 

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Constance again, holding her from behind. She nestled her head between her shoulder blades again and spoke into the fabric of her shirt. “Hi,” she whispered. “I’m Nova. It’s nice to meet you. I like your house.”

—

Constance heard Nova stand and expected the sound of receding footsteps. They never came. Instead, they drew closer. She kept her back turned until Nova’s arms wrapped around her, warmth settling as Nova’s head rested along her shoulder. She tensed on instinct, then softened, eyes closing as she let herself enjoy her friend’s closeness. Somewhere along the line, wires had crossed. Constance had been so sure Nova came here wanting sex. Now, she knew she misunderstood—and knew what she wanted instead. This. Warmth she could melt into without worrying about strings.

A quiet sniffle escaped her as Nova spoke, a smile ghosting on her lips as her memory pulled her back—to scraped knees, dirty hands and careless laughter. “I’m Constance,” she said over her shoulder, not quite turning. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nova. I like your name.” This was her old friend. Of course there was a familiarity, of course there was a fondness. Her last clear memory of Nova lived in that earlier version of herself. A version of herself Constance had long since learned to restrain. Unintentionally, Nova had ended up being tethered to that time. To a version of Constance that hadn’t yet learned vigilance, hadn’t learned consequence before comfort.  Being near her now loosened something, just enough that the girl she’d been once had room to surface. Not loudly, Not recklessly—but softly, the same way a caged animal does when it realizes the doors are finally open.

Constance turned, careful enough to remain in Nova’s hold and ultimately face her—well, chest to face. She tightened the embrace, resting her chin on Nova’s head. Eyes closed she let herself enjoy the warmth of the fire and the grounding scent of Nova’s hair. When she shifted to rest her cheek against Nova’s head, her eyes opened and landed on the cake still waiting nearby. Food had always been her comfort. A hug without the arms. “Can we eat my cake, now?” She asked, smiling without making any move to pull away.  “I’ll do my best not to give you a nosebleed while I do.” A small laugh rumbled in her chest as her arms finally loosened.

—

“Thanks, I picked the name myself,” she said. The first time she’d used it was on Constance, plucking it out of the blue when she couldn’t stomach another red-faced admission that her real name was Venus and yes, she knew what it rhymed with. Her brother had to explain that one, which he did while laughing at her. She shouldn’t have asked him while he was with his friends—six years her senior, the boys had thought it was the funniest thing. Shame was a very efficient teacher. Since then, always, Nova. “Can I call you Connie? I think I’d like to be your friend.” 

Constance turned and Nova nestled into her like a blanket; she wasn’t holding another body, she was returning to a synapse that traveled beyond time, to primordial space. To when all of everything was an unfathomably dense point. She closed her eyes. “Asshole,” she snorted, squeezing Constance tighter in response. “Try not to finger the cake.” How did it feel when The Big Bang started? For those progenitor subatomic particles, was it like the slackening of Constance’s grip? Nova’s fingers curled into the fabric at Constance’s back. Did they miss the heat, when it exploded from them? Was the eternal expansion of the universe a heartbreak? A dirge for a moment that could never be returned to? “No,” Nova mumbled, turning her face into Constance’s shoulder. “Not yet. Just… a little longer. Let’s stay like this a little longer.” 

The ghost of laughter kissed her ears. Grass, freshly mowed, tickled her nose and above, the star they named the sun grinned. Her muscles hadn’t fathomed the essence of pain and her knees happily bent and slid across the ground. A tree branch was a lightsaber, a sword. The rock beside her parent’s plum tree was the Mountains of Moria (yes, all three, somehow). Their mission was noble, and critical, and valiant but also in no hurry unless they felt like it. Time was infinite and age was a construct defined but how many fingers they could hold up. The voice of Nova’s mother curled from the patio, beckoning them inside. Five more minutes, Nova whined. 

How many times had Nova been told to grow up? The occasions were incalculable: if not said, then thought. She’d wished someone would have told her that she would crave endlessly the blindfolded bliss of innocence. How did a human cope with the looking down, the noticing of the tightrope underfoot? It was bad enough to grow, worse to grow here of all places; this infected town in which nurture was a word that could make no sound. Dirt. Laughter. Her hands on Constance’s face—when touch meant only to touch and to hold a hand was only to hold it. When the town was just a town, and most things were new and everything was wondrous. Were you meant to sprout up or be ripped from childhood? 

“I did miss you,” Nova murmured, her eyes still shielded from the world. “I wrote letters.” She couldn’t remember what was in them, it probably didn’t matter. She’d addressed them with the confidence only a child could have: “To my friend Connie J. Eades, in England (I think!). Please make sure this gets to her. Posthaste!” For a very long time, she’d thought posthaste was an incantation to make the mail fly faster—she wasn’t exactly wrong, but either way, no one corrected her. There was no address to deliver them to, but she labelled them that way, always: “To Constance! Posthaste!” And then Rachel had died—was killed. “To my friend Constance, in England, I don’t know how many stamps this needs. I don’t know where her house is. Her family is Eades, there can’t be that many. Please. Posthaste.” All of her letters had been stamped the same way, the post office’s own posthaste: “return to sender”. Her father pitied her, letting her buy the stamps to try even though he knew better. That was Rachel’s gift: by dying, people let her pretend. No one had the heart to tell her that she needed to move on, until it seemed—all at once—to change. Then, like it had been since: “act your age”.

What Nova wanted to do was act eight again, knowing that in five minutes her father would run out of the house in his Chewbacca mask and chase the girls inside, where her mother would’ve just finished setting down their dinner—to the Yangs, it was a given that Constance would stay to eat. Her brother would ask—with a snideness undetectable at her age—whether they had finally taken the ring up to Mount Doom. And Nova—with that dire excitement that marked childhood—would explain again that the mission of Kirk (her) and Spock (Connie) was delayed by such-and-such and they’d get to it next time. Their hodgepodge make-believe of shows, books and movies they liked had no real narrative structure, or reasoning. To be a child, you didn’t need one.

It’d been four years since she’d spoken to her brother or father, six for her mother—after she moved to California. Nova opened her eyes. There was no sun, no plum tree, no rock, no dinner, no family, no grass. Her muscles ached from holding Constance for so long, the arm closest to the fire prickled with sweat. The room was suffused in a gloomy chill, loosely warded by a fire that needed to be stoked five minutes ago. They were no longer children and never would be again. 

When she let Constance go, the world would form and there would be the labor of adulthood. She couldn’t touch her like this anymore, because to an adult, touch had consequences. She couldn’t crash carelessly into her jokes, because to an adult, words held meaning. When she let Constance go, she had to let it all go. Nova’s arms loosened slowly. She looked up at Constance—remember, she had to look up at her now. She leaned in and pressed her lips where she had intended the first time: to her friend’s cheek, which had lost the fat of a child. “Happy belated birthday, Connie,” she said as she pulled back, smiling.

—

A friend. Constance could remember the first time Nova had offered to be hers. It was a concept she’d heard about, one she’d seen in movies, television shows, but never something she thought she could have. Her parents guided her toward children her own age, but Constance found them annoying and dull. They, in turn, also found her too blunt, and didn't like how she questioned their parents’ instructions instead of accepting them. So when a girl came up to her—noticed her—and introduced herself with the confidence that could only belong to an American, how could Constance say anything but, “I would like a friend.”

She quietly listened to Nova, tightening her hold once again. No one ever got the chance to hold themselves as a child. Even in a world as magical as their’s, a childhood couldn’t be repeated. You were a child. Then you weren’t. But finding Nova in all this felt like more than remembrance. It felt like not only getting to hold that younger version of herself, but to step back into those memories. When she counted down the days to family vacations to Wicked’s Rest, when her mother told her to stay still as she brushed her hair in the mornings and Constance never could. Nova had been waiting. And when she heard her voice carried on the wind, Constance remembered leaping out of the chair, the brush clattering to the ground as she ran down the stairs, meeting Nova at the door before she could even knock.

“I missed you too.” It honestly felt like an entire lifetime had occurred since they last met. If someone asked, she could hardly describe her vacations in Wicked’s Rest all. And if anyone asked who Constance had been before her mother died, there would be no easy answer. It seemed the moment she decided to tuck her mother’s memories away, Nova had been locked away with them—her childhood, along with her, a thing Constance wanted as far from herself as possible. Her mother’s absence left a void and within it, any happiness she’d known before.

Her eyes stung as Nova’s hold loosened and Constance followed suit, lifting her head reluctantly. Nova leaned in before Constance could react, a soft kiss brushed against her cheek, a quiet birthday wish carried with it. Constance smiled, small and unguarded. “Thank you,” she murmured. Her hands rested on Nova’s shoulders, fingers sliding in the hair at the nape of her neck and stayed, buried in her hair like they’d always known where to go. A comment Nova had made earlier came back to her—Letters. “You—wrote me letters?” Constance reached up and tucked Nova’s hair back, a quiet gesture, familiar, like something she learned long ago and never unlearned.

They had never exchanged contacts. They were young, they never thought they would need to. Constance looked forward to the visits every time. She’d ask her father when they were going to see her uncle again, and ask her mother if they could go to the place with the pancakes next month. Her parents humored her, knew it wasn’t pancakes or her great uncle that she was so excited to see. The pancakes maybe had a bit of truth to them. She especially loved it when they’d visit more than once a year. There was a year they visited three times. And on those three occasions she sought out Nova every single time. Happy to see the look on her face when she showed up at her door. One time her mother made her finish her entire breakfast before having them take her to see Nova. It was a very early breakfast and Constance hadn’t understood why it mattered. If you were awake, you were awake. If Nova was her friend, then of course she’d want to see her. Six in the morning didn’t feel early to a child—it was just now. And for Constance, now only meant one thing. Nova.

The fact that Nova had been here writing letters—for how long? And how many? Meanwhile Constance’s world blurred and she even forgot who she was as she grieved. Her eyes softened as she looked at Nova, wondering what she told herself when Constance just… disappeared. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. If I had–” maybe then she would have had someone to talk to. Maybe she wouldn’t have resorted to burying it, locking it away and reacting violently when anyone came too close. In a single moment, Constance became all nerves, nerves that everyone wanted to touch, to hold and all she wanted… was for her mother to return like they said she would. “I should have come back sooner.” Her voice cracked and her lips pursed as she tried to steady herself. “I–I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Constance’s hand hadn’t moved from the back of Nova’s neck, her fingers pressing gently into the warm skin there, tracing slow, familiar paths. —

Nova hated the low, involuntary whimper—please don’t call it a whimper—that rumbled against her throat while Constance touched her hair, her scalp. Nova had always liked people to touch it—Rachel did it all the time, complimenting how soft her hair was. And Nova had grown it out long just so Rachel would touch it more; braid it, as Rachel so often did. That was the child, who didn’t exactly understand why she enjoyed touch, but knew that girls seemed to touch each other’s hair and wouldn’t realize what the flutter in her stomach was until her mid-twenties. At which it would finally occur to her that she, definitely, liked women. Really remarkable that it took that long to piece it together, when she thought about it. 

The adult did like getting her hair pulled, but there was absolutely no reason why Constance needed to know that. Nova shook her head softly, not wanting to disturb Constance’s fingers. “Don’t be sorry. You were a kid, we both were. It’s not like you had a choice or the power to buy a plane ticket.” She shrugged, then leaned her head on Constance’s shoulder. So much for trying to be a big girl. In her defence, Constance was the one holding on. “I’ve just… always been overly sentimental, or something. I guess. Never ask me to throw anything away.” Nova looked up at Constance. Where was her mind? Transplanted into the past? Nova frowned. Constance seemed to her, in that moment, to be young again. To be lonely. To need this, the memory, because there was nothing else. 

Step two of having friends: maybe don’t psychoanalize them? It would be real rich coming from her if she claimed they needed to move on, grow up. But what was the alternative here? Letting Constance cling to her because it was easier than explaining to her that the memory hadn’t gone away to camp like she said, actually, but was dead? The present moment had to be enough by itself. Wasn’t that the reason for it? Wasn’t Nova fighting to make now feel better than back then? Nostalgia was a glue trap.

She could wrap around Constance and stow away inside memory again. If Nova went back, she’d stay there—because it was better back then, for Nova it always would be. If she went back, she might as well grab Constance and jump into the fire for as useful as it was going to be to them. Yeah, yeah, and why not go all the way? Fall into her usual patterns? Make out with her now, drag her to bed, never comment on what this was and if Constance dared bring it up, Nova would simply stop talking to her. What was another broken friendship to her? They were easy for her, and the shattering was even easier. Her mind called for it with the subtle insistence of just one more—drink, cigarette, body against hers. Why deny herself a good thing? And didn’t the good thing feel so, so good? Yes, take it. Who cared? Hurt Constance. What the fuck did it matter? Not like she could fuck anyone up more than Wicked’s Rest could, or would.

Nova stepped back, fully, out of Constance’s grip. She hated the soft whimper—fine, call it a whimper this time—at the loss of touch; her body mourning. Not Constance. Anyone else and it would’ve been easy to toss caution to the wolves and stomp into emotions like a fresh puddle on a rainy day. She did it a lot. She knew exactly how to do it. But not to Constance. “No. Doesn’t matter. What you should’ve done: come sooner to not. You’re here now. That’s the important part.” Nova hopped to the chairs and sat down, a distance from Constance—respectable but not unfriendly and definitely not like how she’d tried to jam their bodies into one seat as kids. 

“I think the fire melted the cake.” It was definitely a little droopier. “Should we just throw it out? I know you have a special relationship with the frosting… which is probably why it’s weeping." She looked at Constance, inviting her with a smile to sit and figure out the rest with her. 

—

Constance felt the subtle shift as Nova stepped back, her own fingers reluctantly untangling from the soft hair at the nape of her neck. Every nerve seemed to remember the warmth, the pressure, the quiet weight of Nova against her. The connection was slipping too soon, leaving a deep ache where it had been. Like a warm blanket being pulled off out of reach on a cold morning. She caught the soft whimper that escaped Nova and, for a brief heartbeat, allowed herself to notice it—the same reluctant pull, the same desire not to let go. So why should they? Why can’t they stay in this moment? Just the two of them. Time couldn’t stop, unfortunately. They couldn’t stay here forever. Constance didn’t reach back, even as the memory of Nova lingered on her hands, heat tracing along her skin, fingertips still tingling like they hadn’t moved at all. Constance let the sensations fold into herself, just like she did with everything else that made her linger. She’d keep this safe for the both of them, until the truth of it could be met again.

Here now. Present. That’s what Nova wanted. So the child had to be put back inside, for her own good. It wasn’t easy. The feeling had lingered too sweetly, a warmth left on her skin different from the warmth of the fire beside them.  She swallowed it down, steadied herself. Some things were better preserved than indulged. Some things deserved care, not momentum. A long exhale escaped her and her eyes went to the mess of the cake that Nova had pointed out. It was definitely melting—too close to the fire, idiot. “Yeah, that tends to happen.” Constance tried to keep her expression neutral and definitely did not look at Nova as she said that, but a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of amusement lingered at her lips. “A little mess never bothered me.” Constance muttered, still refusing to look at Nova. Really, she had been dying to eat the cake since she saw it. You do not come between a girl and her sweets. Ever.

She inspected the cake trying to get the best piece—certainly warm goopy chocolate frosting had to taste the best didn’t it? Boy, was this thing a mess, even the icing that had once said “Happy Birthday” had been melted into something illegible. Quickly, she put up her hair and squatted. As she leaned in, her eyes flicked to Nova. Wrong move. She moved back immediately. “Are you really going to make me sit here and eat cake alone on my birthday?” It wasn’t her birthday, that was a few weeks ago and Nova knew that, clearly, but Constance wasn’t against guilting her friend to try and make this situation less awkward by just… being silly. Certainly Nova was well prepared to be silly. It wasn’t a silliness Constance entertained frequently, or at all. But Nova had known a different side to her and maybe Constance had been waiting all this time to finally let it show.

Honestly, Constance just hoped this feeling would eventually fade. She shifted slightly, keeping herself upright. She wasn’t going to eat it yet, not until she could get a handle on the way her body remembered the proximity, remembered touch. Not until she could meet Nova’s eyes and see nothing but her silly friend. Because that’s all she was. A funny, unserious, charming, friend. That was all she ever was. Constance pouted, looking at her cake. She wanted to eat it. Had she been alone she might have just buried her face in it and only came up for air—if she kept that train of thought going it would get more inappropriate and she wouldn’t have Nova to blame. Time for the train to return to its station. She had to make a decision, now. She reached for the cake, gripping it to pull off a chunk. Her eyes flicked back to Nova, determined.

With a quick move, Constance sent a chunk of cake flying to her friend's direction, destined to hit the bullseye that was her face.

—

Nova sighed when Constance moved. It was a sign that things were hunky-dory (Which was totally a phrase she never understood. Who was Dory? And why were they so hunky? She’d like to meet this Dory. For… reasons). God, but she wished she could read her friend’s mind. She’d become so inscrutable. At one point, Constance was like a book: Nova knew when she was getting frustrated, or bored, or wanted to stop being touched, or wanted to be touched more (most of it was very touch-based). Maybe it was the sincerity of childhood, not yet muddy with the cost of adulthood. Why did a child need to pretend to be anything but what they were feeling? Nova frowned. Then again, Constance had always been precocious. Maybe it was a honing of skill; she’d gotten better at hiding. 

Or maybe it was a lack of understanding. The thought made Nova shiver. What she remembered of her friend wasn’t months ago, or even years ago. It had punched into a marker of time large enough to get its own word: a decade (and some change). What if she didn’t know Constance anymore? What if she couldn’t tell if she was angry, or sad, or whatever the fuck was happening? Nova glanced at the depressed cat trinket. She should turn that abomination into a spoon; Connie would’ve been thinking about sticking her whole face into the cake, and as sensible adults now, they really couldn’t be doing that. Ugh, but that was exactly it! Constance probably totally-completely understood that she needed cutlery. And then she’d laugh at her for wasting her time making a spoon when, of course, she had a… bedroom spoon. Nova had bedroom spoons, her living space was multi-purpose. Other adults probably also had bedroom spoons. What the fuck did Nova know? Quick, what was Constance thinking right now? 

She looked at her friend. She was… Nova squinted. She had her hair up? Why was she eye-fucking that cake? Hold on, was she going to…? This time, Nova had better luck tempering her flush. She cleared her throat and snorted. “Were you seriously about to go down on the–”

And then the cake was on her face, in her mouth, dashed across her nose. Nova blinked and for a moment, was stone-still. The cake sloughed off her face and plopped on the ground. What the fuck was happening? How was she the one trying to be an adult right now? This was the Twilight Zone, any moment Rod Sterling would pop out: “The word that Nova Yang can’t put into the cold, soiled air is ‘fucked’. Because the event you’ve just witnessed is the karmic fallout designed for every noncommittal slut”—Rod Sterling wouldn’t call her a slut, but this was Nova’s mind, shut up—“who refuses the lesson: flirting isn’t fun and games when you’ve seen them have pepperoni pizza food poisoning.” They’d Freaky Friday switched personalities, but not height, which was the tragic part. 

Nova lifted her hand—just one finger, then looking at Constance through chocolatey lashes, two fingers. She dragged them down her cheek, collecting bits of frosting and cake, keeping her gaze locked to Constance. She pressed her fingers against her tongue and closed her lips around them. With an overdone moan, she sucked them clean. Nova couldn’t manage being as alluring as Constance, she wasn’t trying. She also didn’t have whatever trait made it possible to do something like that with a straight (bisexual) face. Nova smiled lopsidedly around her fingers and then laughed, drawing them out. Constance was right, it wasn't a bad cake. “I refuse your invitation for a food fight, you dork. You’re gonna get rats and roaches and I respect your renovation efforts too much. Also, fuck you. Also, yum. Also, is this in my ha—” Nova’s voice caught. “In my—” Her chest ached.

First, there was a sniffle. Then, Nova’s hands clapped over her quivering, cake-painted mouth and she hiccuped. The hiccups transformed quickly into sobs. Nothing had done it, really, she swore. There wasn’t a particular thought. She’d just looked at Constance—the determination and the mischief on her face. Fuck. Constance was going to think it was about the damn cake, she didn’t mind the fucking cake. No, no, it was that, she’d looked so young. Nova knew her, remembered her, and there she was: her Connie. 

Nova pulled her shirt up and wiped her face. Sorry, Picard! “I’m sorry,” she blubbered as she wiped. “I’m sorry, I’m okay. It’s not the cake.” Her bra was… Honestly, just don’t look at that worn thing. She let her shirt go and it fell back over her chest, reeking of sugar. “I missed you is all,” Nova sniffled. She lifted her head, smiling, tears and cake still streaked down her face. “Let me make you a spoon, you idiot.” 

Nova grabbed the steel cat and pulled out her chalk. She sat down on the floor, beside Constance, like a kid with her legs tucked under her.

—

Constance lifted her arms in victory as the cake made contact with its target. Not that she’d doubted herself—she never missed—there was always something satisfying about hitting your mark. She could remember the first time she had been handed a bow. The first time she tested its draw. The first time she let go. It had gone embarrassingly. The arrow barely got any air time before dropping uselessly to the ground. The instructor, however, had been patient and the woman encouraged Constance to keep trying.

Trying and failing was something she hated. Constance hated failure, she hated mistakes, she hated—most of all—looking stupid. When she couldn’t make her arrows strike the target, she handed the bow to her instructor without a word and stalked off toward the jungle gym her parents had installed in the house. A home filled with children of every kind demanded outlets for excess energy. When Constance lost her temper, the whole house felt it. Doors slammed. Wood rattled. She climbed and jumped until the anger burned itself down to something manageable. She didn’t know yet how to hold anger quietly. Later, she would learn, the anger never left. Her siblings, of course, chose those moments to make it worse. It was their favorite pastime after all.

Her father tried everything to help his daughter. Every counselor told him the same thing. She needed to redirect her anger and grief into something positive. Or else. No one ever explained what the else entailed, but her father believed discipline mattered more than comfort. So he gave her something that demanded control, something that would be dangerous in careless hands, but stabilizing in the right ones.

When she finally learned to hit the face of the target, she didn’t want to stop there. Accuracy wasn’t enough. She learned how to control her breath, how to wait, how to let it pass through her—she learned restraint. She learned how to see. And as she learned, as she grew, she gravitated to firearms. Her father didn’t mind. His child was finally orderly—at home, at school. But for Constance, it had never been about obedience. It was about mastery. About proving, again and again, that precision was power. She learned early on that control was never given. It was earned. Once she understood that, good enough was never going to be able to satisfy her.

Control was something she trusted.

At least she did when her friend wasn’t having an orgasm eating cake. The moan, while exaggerated, sent something low and traitorous through her stomach. Her eyes broke contact first with an eyeroll—definitely not because she had to look away. She really hated the way her own body could betray her. Her face, however, remained loyal. Really, she wasn’t the one you wanted to play poker against. She reasoned the feeling instead of indulging it. It had been a while. Her body, unhelpfully, chose now to remind her of that. Actually, now that she thought about it, Nova intentionally exaggerated her actions to mock Constance. Nova had found her earlier act a joke.

Well, fuck me (not literally), here she was thinking she actually excited Nova with her display earlier and now it was being turned into nothing more than the punchline. That was the better of the two outcomes wasn’t it? She didn’t want to excite her friend; they were only friends. It only would have served as a pitiful ego boost. If Constance was looking for that, she would need to go find it with someone else—not a friendship whose thread was still weaving.

She glanced down at her fingers, had half a mind to lick them off to fight back—and also because she wanted to eat the damn cake—but instead wiped it against her clothing as she narrowed her eyes at Nova. They widened when she started to… what was she doing? Was she crying? Constance started to go over her actions, wondering what she had done wrong. The cake? She was just trying to lighten things up, not make her friend cry. She didn’t know what to do when people cried. She hated it, not that she didn’t have empathy for others, but the display, the unpredictability, the rawness of it—it all unnerved her. Constance was the one who kept everything locked away tight. She didn’t cry. At least, not around anyone.

“I’m… I’m right here, Nova.” Constance attempted to reassure, something she’d been told she wasn’t very good at. Although, she’d insist she was good at everything. “I’m not going anywhere. I do live here.” She moved closer to Nova, careful to respect her space, while also wanting to give her room to work her magic. “I’d like to make a note that you’re doing this on your own accord. I don’t need a spoon to eat cake.” A fork would be needed. You ate solid things with forks and while the frosting on this poor cake was practically liquified the cake itself was still solid. But she wouldn’t say that. Now wasn’t the time to correct her. Not after Nova just finished crying. She was thrilled at the chance to see Nova do magic the second time around. There would be no distractions this time. Just her, the steel cat and Nova. 

But it wasn’t the magic that drew her eye. It was the calm in Nova’s grip, the unspoken assurance that she knew exactly what she was about to do. The chalk rested in her fingers like something familiar, something already obeyed. Constance had seen confidence misused, worn loud and sharp—mistaken for dominance. This wasn’t that. This was competence. Earned. Comfortable. Her attention lingered on Nova longer than it needed to. She told herself it was a habit, her instinct to catalog details before they mattered. Like the angle of Nova’s wrist, the steadiness in her posture. Something in Constance responded to that restraint, the same way her breath would fall into rhythm before a shot.

—

“Yeah, you’re right here,” Nova sniffled, smiling. She felt messy, and sticky, and all she could smell was sugar and chocolate. She probably looked like an idiot. Gee, here was that wet sock sexual appeal—add sticky as an adjective now. It was a wonder that Constance even wasted her time moving closer. “Live here,” she repeated with a slow nod. “Yep. That.” Her smile twitched. The words that burned on her tongue remained there, eating at her flesh. 

How much good was being here when they’d only reconnected by happenstance? If Nova hadn’t found her, would Constance have ever looked? The Yangs were at the same address they’d always been, though it was just her father now. Would Constance have ever gone back and knocked on that red door with the peeling paint and the same hole her brother had kicked into it a decade ago? Would she have tipped her head to the side, looked over their fence, and found the plum tree still there, still flush with fruit—an ageless monument? When her father opened the door, would Constance explain who she was and let herself be hugged by that thinning old man? Would she let him lead her inside, let him insist on fruits and tea, let him explain with tired eyes that he hadn’t seen Nova in years, but she worked at the gym—here, hold on, he’d write the address down. 

Constance was here, close enough to touch, but for how long? Was Nova meant to believe that Constance wouldn’t fix up her shriveled, lonely giant of a house only to sell it? Make it warm, happy, and then leave? How long would Nova get with her this time? And if it wasn’t Constance moving away, maybe it was her dying. Wicked’s Rest, the insatiable beast, wasn’t picky about what it tore up and swallowed. With Constance here, the probability of her early death shot up from unlikely to an image of a skeleton shrugging. Sure, she knew the work Constance’s family did wasn’t safe—even if she didn’t have exact details, the hush-hush nature forced her to draw conclusions a long time ago, for the sake of swallowing her ever-burning curisoity—but it had to be safer than this ravenous town. 

Nova turned her attention to the ground, simpler to look at than Constance. She drew the circle, the beginning of a transmutation—a circle as perfect as a human hand could get it. She sliced lines and symbols inside the circle—the array carved in as straight as the floor allowed. She set the cat down in the center and touched the edge. The lines glowed and the cat flattened and twisted, one of the eyes stretching, its body smearing into a smooth shape with no memory of the object it had once been. Nova held it up: the infamous spork. Not a spoon, not a fork; terrible for soup, ineffective at pasta. The handle was shaped like a curvaceous woman, reminiscent of the early historical Venus statues. And in her bush—the colloquial bush, this time, used the right way—was carved in, as if shaved, CJE. Just in case anyone thought the spoon belonged to someone else. The spork was gaudy and uncomfortable to hold, but it’d been made with Constance in mind—love wasn’t quantifiable, but to Nova, it was the magic. What else was care, but understanding? What else was alchemy, but the force of that understanding? It’s all just atoms, until you give them names and shapes and reach for them. 

Nova moved closer to Constance’s side, and because she hated to knock shoulders—it was always like two rectangles bashing into each other—she shifted. Angling towards Constance, she slipped her arm under hers.

It was impossible to touch anything, as physics would like to point out. Touch was electrons repelling against electrons, an electromagnetic cloud of delusion—always hovering just above, slipping past. No misnomer was more real to Nova; the rough weave of fabric under her fingers, the sea of Constance’s muscles she could chart to the open curve of her palm. Inside Constance’s palm, with the tip of her finger, Nova slowly traced a pattern. Only another alchemist, paying close enough attention, would know the transmutation circle—to merge, to tether, to make two coalesce into one. Nova’s circle was an incomplete sentence, there were only the simplistic lines, over and over again, naming a fantasy: to touch.  

She held the spork out. “Be civilized," she warned. “No making out with your cake—you’ve traumatized the bugs in your walls.” Nova looked down at their hands, her finger still writing the same wish into Constance’s palm. She stopped, frozen at the start of another circle. Slowly, she slipped her hand down until her fingers were resting between Constance’s, and then she curled them, pressing their palms together. This was fine—she could hold a friend’s hand. She wanted it. If nothing was to last, she wanted it. “I’m stealing one of your shirts, by the way.”

—

Constance watched as Nova drew a circle, then lines and curves that began to spell out a language she couldn’t understand. The chalk moved with pure intention, every mark placed like Nova knew where it belonged. Magic had been done in her presence a handful of times, but never had she seen an alchemist at work. Never had she watched someone build something out of symbols and pure will with careful, confident hands. And never had she seen her childhood friend, all grown up, moving steady and certain, literally working her magic. 

A sense of pride surged in Constance, unexpected and unwelcome in its intensity. It wasn’t the polite kind, the one you offer out of obligation—no, it was the kind that swells and fills your chest entirely, the kind you don’t announce, not verbally. Constance’s eyes said it all. Seeing Nova like this made something in her tighten and lift all at once. As if the little girl she once knew and the woman before her had finally aligned and Constance had been so lucky enough to witness it.

When the cat’s form started to twist and pull, Constance's breath caught in her chest as she watched it form into a… spork. A soft, disbelieving laugh slipped out of her, her smile spreading as Nova held it up, completely proud of what she had created. Constance took it carefully, like something fragile, turning it over in her hand. Her thumb traced the curve of the handle, registering the body of the woman a few strokes after. Her brows lifted faintly as her touch paused over grooves of her initials, which was conveniently where her bush was. It was cheeky—and completely Nova. That alone made her love it more than any object she currently had in her possession. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Nova. Thank you.” She spoke with restrained admiration. “I’ll cherish it forever.”

Nova had shifted closer. Close enough that Constance could feel her warmth along her side, the subtle brush of fabric against fabric. Nova’s arm slipped beneath Constance’s, an easy, familiar motion, and her fingers found Constance’s palm, stroking it lightly, seemingly thoughtlessly as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And wasn’t it? Touch was the first thing you experienced coming into this world. It was simple, instinctual, unavoidable—wired into every single human being from the start. To crave it, desire it, hunger for it wasn’t weakness, nor a failing; it was pure biology. Fingers brushing fingers, warmth pressed against warmth, it was all natural. Necessary, even.

And yet.

When Nova let their fingers entwine together, Constance’s hand offered no resistance, slipping naturally into the spaces between Nova’s as if they had been made to fall into place. Inevitable. She could feel the same ease in Nova’s grip, the same certainty. Like magnets, finally returning to a home that had been waiting all this time. It wasn’t just biology anymore. It was deliberate. It wasn’t another warm body. It was Nova. The way their hands fit together, the gentle strength behind the grasp—it anchored Constance in a way she hadn’t expected. Biology demanded a warm touch. Instinct called her Nova.

Constance scooped a piece of cake, which had absorbed most of the frosting already, and instead of putting it in her mouth first, she let Nova take it. “I think the bugs in my home are properly entertained.” That is, if she ever found any. So far, none. Cobwebs, sure, but not a single living thing had crossed her path since she moved in. It made her curious, but grateful. She wasn’t one to kill an innocent mouse or spider, but capturing them was always awkward and she’d be lying if she said she liked the feeling of things crawling on her. Constance then took her own bite—from a much bigger spoonful—and let out a contented sigh as it settled on her tongue. She shut her eyes for a moment, letting it take her somewhere else.

The moments when it was dark out and they lay in Nova’s backyard, staring up at the sky, stayed with Constance. She had listened intently as Nova traced constellations with her finger, telling stories that made the stars feel alive. Constance would tilt her head, trying to follow the lines, sometimes lying about seeing a shape just to feel for a fleeting second that she and Nova were looking at the same thing, sharing the same world. She remembered not wanting to ever feel like she and Nova were misaligned, disconnected. Even as a child Constance knew there was something anchoring about Nova, a gravity that drew her in and never fully left. In that pull, Constance didn’t have to do anything, didn’t have to hold back—she simply leaned into Nova’s pull, letting it steady her, ease her, and hold her close.

Years and distance fell away in that movement. The pull, the gravity, the orbit they had always shared then, had now settled into something unspoken, but finally complete.