﹕ ꒰ა lou .ᐟ ֹ ₊

The curtains of the miniature and rural; yet somehow still comfortable apartment had been hastily yanked shut many, many hours prior to even just the rising of the golden morning sun; forget the evening's epilogue. By then, it had just passed 10pm; not so early that the streets were bustling, but not so late that there was a lack of all life whatsoever. 

Cowardly, the scintillating moon took shelter behind numerous motionful swathes of clouds. Granted, they were shallower than puddles of rain that were majoritively evaporated; so it didn’t exactly make a difference; but they did their best. Regardless, the orb's cowardice was so pathetic, so atrocious, that it resembled that of an infant trembling in the warm embrace of its mother. In its unilluminated absence, there perched occasional streetlights which beamed brighter than the toothy grins of innocuous children and flickered like smothered flames hanging onto oxygen.

Alas, whilst the shabby building itself sat more towards the outskirts of its local city, it was still an incredible, pulchritudinous and lively spot. Both tourists and locals passed through as often as their leisure see fit. Many were simply there for the first floor’s Chinese restaurant; commonly known and exceptionally rated for its equally as exceptional food and its equally as exceptional owners. A family restaurant; formed by a woman and her beloved; The Yanssons; and whilst the woman had been on a temporary maternity leave until their daughter took to nursery, the establishment still thrived. It was locally distinguished; and tourists were frequently advised to pay a visit which they certainly wouldn’t regret.

The residents of the flat above; Chariot and Croix; had found themselves embedded in the pleasant, comfortable warmth of their weekly ‘bonding session’. Movie night. Granted, it more often than not culminated into one or both of them dozing disinterestedly due to a horrendous film choice (cheap rents, am I right?); but it was still a tradition of theirs.

This especially was the case for Chariot; who spent her days performing in appallingly niche bars; hoping to find some form of recognition for her talents and failing to do just that. It was worse when she returned home; as her bubbly facade dropped and somehow left her more drowsy than someone dosed up on an illegally strong narcotic. Croix dreaded Chariot’s shows for this sole reason; mainly the feature that the rubyette would frequently collapse on the sofa in her clothes rather than in her bed and in pyjamas.

Expectedly, this frigid February evening (likely the 22nd or the 23rd, yet unemployed little Croix hardly checked the dates) was not divergent to the rest. They had loaded up their nonsensically written, cheaply rented movie and predicted just how atrocious yet enamouring it would be. They placed their bets (although no money was involved; they had no more than two or three bucks saved between them; it was simply verbal) and prepared for the worst.

And whilst it wasn’t so bad, 45 minutes was all it took for the rubyette adolescent’s yawning saga to begin. She hadn’t performed earlier, no; quite the opposite. She had nothing in her calendar for the following few weeks, so it wasn’t like she had a reason to be so weary other than her minimum wage retail job in their local co-op. ‘Roommate bonding’, yet somehow she misheard ‘naptime’ every single opportunity given to her.

Then their popcorn was discarded. It was merely a cheap pound store find; that was soggier than a shore that was lapped at by the luscious liquid of its surrounding ocean. The plastic bowl (not ceramic, as replacing broken dishes would be much too expensive if they were pot) stomached only kernels that were chewed before the realisation of their presence and their being spat in abysmal disgust. It was simply left for future Croix and Chariot; abandoned much like an Croix herself by her parents on their chipped-but-not-enough-to-justify-the-purchase-of-another-one wooden coffee table.

The film droned on; an uninteresting scene which had fizzled into the background for Chariot several minutes prior. Yet.. Croix stayed watching. She had somehow formed an incomprehensible infatuation with it and was unable to tear away her gaze regardless of how many of her roommate’s yawns passed her by. Like she was entranced, like an Etsy witch cursed her with enamouring interest and a lack of spacial awareness, all she could do was watch.

Therefore it was no surprise when she was unaware of even the newfound weight in her lap. It was soft against her bony, underweight and underfed thighs. Even with the faded purple-haired (ongoing mental note; she needed to redye it) one’s infatuation with the film, all it took was a relatively quiet scene and a half-asleep mumble from the subject treating her like a pillow for the trance to slip.

“mhhn..” A soft whine fell from her lips. “sho comfy…”

And then Croix looked down.

She jolted.

And then panicked. Her pale incel-owned cheeks flushed out of fear. Then surprise. Then bashfulness. Then endearment. And slight… disgust? It was the germophobe in her. Probably.

There lay Chariot; face down in the fabric of her burgundy (and polyester; cotton was quite pricey these days!) pants. Red hair flared out and her breathing was soft, slow and sombre.

Forget Croix being hexxed by some random Etsy witch that somebody hired for five bucks on a whim. It was clear that Chariot was the culprit and she had cursed Croix with some kind of illusion! There was no way that any of what was happening was real; even if witches themselves weren’t. Hell; Croix wasn’t religious, but she wouldn’t doubt it if God had come to take her in this moment. 

So, yeah; her belief was that she was surely in some kind of dream. Potentially a nightmare. So forgive her if (even with her wish to respect Chariot’s being asleep and not wanting to make unnecessary contact for that reason - see, she enjoyed somnophilia but she wasn't actually willing to do it) she wanted to make the most out of whatever chaste aphrodisiac was at war with her mind like a poison tainting her blood. Forgive her if her hesitant fingers were to card through the silky carmine tresses beneath her (which, she noted, were so much softer than the texture her wet dreams had conjured). Forgive her if her whole face (even the tips of her ears) were to burn a harsher red than the spotlights that blared in Chariot’s performances. Forgive her for holding her breath out of fear that this moment would end. And forgive her for being mildly, really deeply down; irritated.

Because the truth was, Croix had never necessarily enjoyed physical contact.

Not when she was five and being caterwauled at consoled and shut into her bedroom hugged better when she cried. Not when she was seven and being demanded encouraged to join the “other boys” in football because “boys play sports so you should too!”. Not when she was 11 and coming out to her parents; shaky handed and teary eyed at the thought that maybe a boy wasn’t what she was and maybe she wouldn’t be accepted. Not when she was 16 and being sent off to the furthest boarding school; shoved into the car with very few of her belongings and being escorted somewhere far from home and somewhere far from what little friends she had.

Chariot made it better effortlessly; healed a part of her that was so deeply broken that Croix believed was irreparable. It was so, so different with her best friend; conversation came naturally when she was with the rubyette. The physical touch came within a week of them being friends; a reassuring hand on Croix’s shoulder. A head resting on any part of her ever. Fingers intertwined with hers. No matter how scrawny, how bony, how conventionally unprepossessing she looked; Chariot never cared. All she ever did for Croix was be too perfect. A lot of the time it made her feel very terrified that maybe the little part of her subconscious that whispered loving songs of hatred to her wasn’t as wrong as she liked to think it was.

The purplette’s struggle was interrupted by a newfound dampness on her thighs and a recollection that Chariot had a severe habit of drooling in her sleep. A tight feeling in her chest built up; not painful yet irreparably uncomfortable for Croix. Her dilemma was that she was unable to pull away without waking the anthropomorphic cat (Chariot; although she was a mix of energetic puppydog and orange feline) that was using her as a pillow; but she was unable to stay there without potentially upsetting herself. What if she got ill from this? Her thoughts seemed to race faster than multi-medal olympians; and maybe her breathing seemed to pick up, but if it did then she hadn’t realised.

Even in her sleep, Chariot was Croix’s knight in shining armour. The rubyette stirred, shifted onto her right side; ever so slightly conscious. Her chubby arms snaked around the oddly scrawny (and not at all squishy like the stuffie she was used to? What happened to her giant rabbit?) waist of her “plushy” and she nuzzled into it. Though, what the sleeping beauty hadn’t paid attention to, was that maybe what she was snuggling so contently wasn’t her beloved Francois.

“..love-looovee youuu,, cois-cois…” Uttered the drowsy one. Her grip tightened for just a moment before dying down again. She went limp under Croix; steadying and making it blatant she wasn’t planning on waking up any time soon. Not without some form of true love’s kiss, anyways.

Even being fully aware that that wasn’t aimed at her, Croix’s face reddened for what felt like the millionth time that evening. She had completely forgotten the film by then. Her hands hovered miscellaneously in the air above Chariot; not sure whether to touch as she so did wish or to respect the dignity of the gorgeous princess beneath her. After so long of procrastinating, one planted itself back in the crimson locks (she wouldn't be able to tell you her mind didn't wander to something.. else), and the other on her back, tender yet gently ensuring that her idea of heaven didn’t fall off the couch.

It hadn’t completely eased her self-antagonizing mind, but it didn’t make her any worse at the very least? 

Then she found herself yawning for probably the first time in her life; short-lived yet oddly exhilarating. Croix had suffered with raging insomnia for years; only ever truly felt weary when around Chariot. Whilst she would love to have grasped that sleepiness with both hands and clung on, a part of her still felt deathly insecure. What if Chariot woke up and thought she was a freak? What if she made a weird face in her sleep? What if she snored? What if-

By that point, her blinks had grown longer. She then passed out against the raggedy arm of the couch that sat beside her; one hand under her cheek in a puny attempt at comfort and the other on the rubyette's back.

-

Kitchen fans from downstairs blared out their morning songs as if they were the hens of Chariot and Croix’s urban life. Cock-a-doodle-doo? More like… ffff… haha… get it.. cause… cause it woke them up…. hahaha…

A lack of pressure on her lap and a newfound presence in her hair led the unconscious Croix to stir. Whatever dream she was having reached its denouement as a shockingly deep groan fell from her mildly parted lips. She parted her eyes just enough to be greeted by the orgasmic hand on her head being ripped away faster than a bandage and Chariot scrambling to the other side of the sofa.

Her cheeks were almost as crimson as her now messy hair. Croix made a mental note (that definitely would not at all infiltrate her headspace the next time she touched herself) of just how adorable the sight was. Like a puppy that had just been scolded. It was no news that Croix was unaware as to what elicited this reaction from her roommate; perhaps fear? She did seem tense. How bemusing.

“Ah! Croix! Good- Good morning!” Chariot stammered. Definitely afraid. Just how was she so energetic after presumably having just woken up, anyways? (Although what Croix did not know was that Chariot had been sat staring at her sleeping face for the past minimum of an hour. Freak.) “Um..” Croix blinked. “Did you.. sleep okay.?” Why was she so nervous?

It was almost like background noise to Croix by then. As much as the sound of Chariot’s voice turned her on; like a five star meal to a starved child (like Croix when she was younger, and to be honest, now) in the eyes of the purplette; she was still trying to process the blocks in her cognitive function. An aching sensation in her neck (nothing new, courtesy of horrid posture) and she felt both.. hot and cold. Almost feverish. It frightened her, honestly.

An almost awkward period passed between Chariot’s inquiry and Croix’s spacey reply. “Oh-” But it came out raspy; deeper than she wanted. Her heart dropped. “Er.. I did get some rest.?” Compared to the two or three hours she’d barely survive with on a typical day, Croix figured she did well. On another note, she hated how masculine her voice was in the morning - and although Chariot had either not noticed or just never pointed it out; it was like having a dream about being ass naked in public. What if Chariot knew that Croix wasn’t-

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you..” As if damp with tears, her eyes sparkled; and her bottom lip jutted out. Did she not hear Croix? “It’s my fault you're hurting, I’m sorry..”

Apprehensively, Croix peeled the crimsonette’s hand apart to distract her from picking at her thumbs. A habit of Chariot’s; yet a new factor for Croix. She never initiated. Ever. And whilst it was embarrassing, Croix held on tightly. Reassuringly. Yet she couldn’t pinpoint if it was for Chariot or for herself..

“Chill. Stop freaking out.” Croix was not, never had been, and never would be a morning person. “‘Sides, superstar. I slept better than I usually would, even if my back’s a little sore.”

Somehow Chariot’s complexion pinked even further and she winced away; even if her hand stayed where it was. Why did Croix scare her so much? It was so odd that even when she was trying to be nice, Chariot froze and seemed to stammer.

“I still.. feel bad. You didn’t even wanna do movie night ‘cause you were busy- and- i kept you all night.” Her pout returned.

Clearing her throat, Croix awkwardly brought Chariot’s soft, underworked hand to her mouth. She chastely (yet nervously, this was probably the most romantic she had been with a girl) kissed the knuckles. Fuck. Was that weird? Play it off. Play it off! Croix was scaring her!

“Serious. It’s okay.”

“But-”

“Chariot.”