It's become routine for him now, and he finds that if it wasn't so disheartening it might be irritating. He walks into the briefing room with a badge on his chest and a cigarette in his hand because he's dealt with her for so long, he knows it's the only way she'll calm down enough to talk freely. It might be unorthodox but he's grown not to care, to swerve in and out of the rules laid out before him in order to get by. She's eighteen now - it's strange that only a few years ago he'd dragged her, kicking and screaming, for her first offense (that he knew of) at the tender age of fourteen.

The file under his arm has grown heavy over the years and he sits down to flick through it, coming across pages and faces he knows all too well.

Even in the picture Whirlwind looks up at him with dark eyes like ocean storms and a bored expression painted across her lips. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to see through her gaze, to feel through her fingertips. Everything would have a rough, jagged edge because she needs Bentley's touch to feel right again, to align herself on her axis and not be thrown off center. He sighs and rubs the sleep from his eyes - 11pm, just another day, just another delinquent - before getting up and opening up the small dark door that leads him out into her den.

It might as well be a second home for her (the first is Bentley's; her house isn't anything close to a home) because she visits so often, ratty shoes thrown up on the table and chair wobbling precariously on its hind legs. He doesn't say anything and simply offers the cigarette to her - she looks at it almost as if it had offended her before taking it and using his lighter (hold on, when did she get that?) to light it. Smoke curls from her lips and her whole frame seems to relax, muscles losing that hard edge that stands out so vividly from her skin, rubbed with honey but bleached from absence of the sun. "Thinking you can buy me off now?" She chuckles, though her tone is dry. She has a razored tongue to her, a voice that hurts as much as it heals, but he's learned how to steel your skin and turn them into glancing blows.

He snorts and mirrors her stance, legs crossed and head tilted back to watch her through narrowed eyes. "More like knowing. What's another misdemeanor?" There is a hint of a smile before it vanishes, but he sees the dimple tucked away under her regal cheekbone. She tilts her delicate jaw from him to spiral the fumes away and he traces the pattern of her bones, up to the wide forehead covered by messy curls. Judging from the tangled, wild mess that hasn't yet been tamed into softer waves, he realizes that she hasn't been home in a few days. Alyssa always knows when he's watching and turns her gaze to his, chocolate eyes flashing an inquisitive challenge. The sultry stare comes without her realizing, but it's rimmed with something angry. He isn't sure how Bentley can find something to love in there, because every time they lock eyes it feels like Hurricane is going to sweep him away. It's ridiculous, how uncomfortable it is to keep contact with a teenager. He glances away, and the spell is broken.

"What was it this time?" He sighs, flipping over to another page on her (expansive) repertoire of tricks. She scowls and her pointed nose flares, smoke rushing out of the narrow nostrils. Slowly the room fills with the stench of stale regret, but she takes her precious time. She always does. In return, he watches the sharp angle of her jaw trail down to defined shoulders, how the muscles of her arms brace with every slight twitch from long hours alone in the gym with ragged gloves tied to her slender wrists. Her chapped and broken knuckles talk of a lifestyle that the others frown upon, but Bentley always tapes them up with a quiet smile and a thank you in the dark of her room. And it's enough.

Alyssa inhales and her ribs follow along, stomach taut from the strict diet of the underground and constant vigilance bordering on obsessive. Her breasts push out from her simple white shirt and he finds himself wondering if she's ever gotten implants before, where it seems normal for a child to hide herself away in the body of another stranger. The tornado clears her throat and his eyes snap back up to hers; the glint of her large teeth as she smirks crookedly is almost dangerous, but he fights back the rush of embarrassment and raises an eyebrow in question. "He was starting shit with me," she mutters angrily, swooping brows drawn together in a frown. Her lips wrap around the cigarette almost sensually, but he can see the bitterness she swallows. "Trying to make me do things I didn't want. I might have slept around, but I'm no common whore."

"So you cut him," he says bluntly, eyebrows traveling higher until perched precariously on his hairline. "with razorblades that you pulled... out of your hair?" Alyssa smirks again - but this time it's feral and unkempt, satisfaction after a kill - and nods, head dipping down a moment so he sees the flash of cold metal woven into the strands. "Never leave home without protection, officer." She purrs, amusement thick in her voice. He feels a headache approaching and pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the smile from crawling up his lips.

"Okay," he starts, and the muscles in her slim thighs; tight from running and days out late at night tense when she curls her torso forward to expose the skin of her not-quite-wide hips, still growing and learning how to be full and heavy with age. Whirlwind watches him so intensely he loses his train of thought but comes to his senses and swats her shoes off the table so he can lay down his papers, bony ankles hitting the corner of the metal to make her hiss. Short, stubby nails reach down into the thin socks to massage the throbbing shoes with too-high arches, glaring subtly at him through thick lashes. "usually we'd go through the whole booking process again, but you apparently have a hearing for something else in four hours." her face falls at that, thinking of angry eyes and midnight black hair, "But if you stay here the night without fighting, I'll put a good word in with the judge for you." He halts and she bounds to get up, ripped jeans showing the strong curve of her calves and the long gash running thick and ugly up from her right ankle to the middle of her shin, a result of childhood pranks gone awry. "But Alyssa," he says as she nears the door, and his voice is so serious that she pauses and turns to him with clouded eyes and nervous fingers. "if you put up resistance, there's nothing I can do."




She keeps her head held high and eyes forward as they parade her into the almost abandoned courtroom at three in the morning. There are circles under her eyes from whatever small amount of sleep she had managed to catch with the four hours spent in a jail cell, but her jaw simply tenses and she bares it with all the dignity she can muster. Hardship is no stranger to Alyssa, so she keeps her heart guarded and tongue razor-sharp to compensate for the ones they took out of her hair. From the other side of the room there is another figure, bulkier with cropped hair and a decent suit. Her lips curl up into an angry snarl but the guiding hand of the officer on her arm pulls her away, mumbling a constant stream of reassurances in her ear that penetrates through the brain and sinks down deep to calm the rising tides.

They spent ten minutes twisted away from the figure who she can feel glaring into her back, fingers twitching in time with the clicking of the clock. "Are you okay?" he mumbles, long since attuned to her moods ever since their first encounter years ago. "I'm perfectly damn fine," she growls in response, sarcasm dripping from her tongue where it splatters all over the floor. "I have a mountain yeti staring at me like he either wants to fuck or kill me, and I'm running off of two hours of sleep. Never felt better."

"All rise for the Honourable Judge Payne." comes the command and she lifts herself mechanically with the others, capable of pacing through the movements in her sleep. Once the imposing figure in black is seated and calls the room to order, Alyssa rests herself again and sets eyes only once on the boy sitting across from her. Their gazes rest but he takes in the ferocity of her gaze and untamed hair and glances away, nervously scratching at the worn wooden table and playing with the ends of his tie.

"We call Alyssa Rocciano to the front." Hurricane rises with the power of a gathering storm hidden in her footsteps and sets herself before the judge, defiant though the slight tremor of her muscles betray her to others.

"It seems you have quite a violent reputation, Ms. Rocciano." The judge notes, glasses perched on his nose to scan her sheet. She doesn't reply, simply bobs her head and crosses her arms around herself. If he takes in the churning of her eyes he doesn't say anything, simply lets the ruffle of papers be the only thing in the silent room. The long list of crimes shows her ruthlessness as well as her capability for harm, and the judge briefly finds himself wondering what else she could have done without their knowledge. As time passes so does her patience, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to stop the slow rise of nerves from consuming her speech into something detrimental to her freedom.

The eyes on her crawl into her skin and the urge to simply run so far away almost overpowers her, tensing her muscles and drawing her fingers into tightly clenched fists. "I understand you had another incident this evening?" His voice was leveled but disappointed, a peculiar mix of empathy and pity that she couldn't place. "Yes, your Honour." She mutters, remembering flashes of faces and the never fading anger that rests heavily in the center of her chest. The /thing/ that never stops, never fades, but simply draws back once in a while when in Bentley's presence so she can breathe for precious minutes before being drawn back under in a violent storm of short tempers and flying fists. She tries, honestly, she does; but it's so palpable that she could reach out and touch it, touch the swarm of red that seethes around her vision and how there is nothing but the urge to make them stop through any means possible. At times, its sickly warmth and roiling fury at the world is what keeps her on cold winter nights.

The judge watches the hurricane struggle with the various expressions that flit over her face before it settles into neutral, but her eyes are of the darkest night. "Would you care to explain? Alyssa swallows guardedly but inhales either way, stuttering a shaky breath that's soon overridden by an unshakable pride. "We were at school and 3rd period had just let out," she starts, squinting her eyes to remember details but never once breaking contact with the imposing man towering high up above. "so I was walking Bentley to class because she always forgets where she's supposed to go. A few guys were going the opposite way and decided it was a good idea to think we'd put out for them just because they have a dick." The scowl is deep and brooding, hidden tension rippling out across her skin in waves. "We started arguing because they can talk shit to me all they'd like, but they don't do that to Bentley."

Even her words speak of a fierce protectiveness that rears its head whenever she catches a glimpse of the other girl, hot and needy. She runs her hands through her already messy hair and stuffs her hands in her pockets, drawing herself up and swallowing the bitterness on her tongue. "Why would they do that?" Curious, unknowing. Alyssa pushes down the white-hot bite of shame.

"We have... reputations, your Honour," she mumbles; for a moment she's but a child, insecure and awaiting reprimand. But then it's buried under the knowledge that it was simply a means to an end, and her bones seem to align themselves once more. It confused him how she could go through such a transformation so fast, but there have always been those people that are enigmas to those who know them best. "and they seem to believe we're supposed to live up to them whenever their whim decides it."

Well-spoken but impatient, she shakes the bangs from her eyes and tries not to feel the inquisitive stares barrel into her body. They're everywhere, silently judging. Who are they to decide what should and shouldn't be done? It was the only way to rise, the only way to ensure safety for them both in a place as cutthroat as all the movies used to tell. That weight stirs in the darkest recesses of her chest, snaking delicate tendrils to bind her tensions and alight her veins. Everything she's ever known - pessimism, anger, a depression from the feelings she can no longer understand - has been guided by its hand, everything deep and rude and raw, and it takes Bentley's gentle touch to banish the darkness and let shine the light that perches carefully in some corner nothing can touch.

It bleeds all over that tanned skin whenever they touch, all the kindness reserves only for her paints abstract patterns in her own blood. The judge sees it for a moment, sees how her words fly higher when she speaks of her best friend. Are warmer. But reality comes crashing back and she hides her heart away, because Alyssa can never do anything with feelings. They close her throat and render her mute, but her voice is the one thing she couldn't do without.

"Ms. Rocciano," the judge begins softly but she feels the traces of his pity and is quick to the defense, imaginary quills bristling on end. "Don't try that with me, pops," she says sharply, "I don't want your advice. I know what I'm doing." The best lies are spun in half truths and he sighs, sitting back on his chair and letting the tornado wind itself down. "Fine. Ms. Rocciano, do you feel that you would have been inclined to attack the defendant if he hadn't provoked you beforehand?" Alyssa bites down so hard on the yes that threatens to slip out that she can almost taste the familiar taint of copper on her tongue, trying to wrap her throat around the syllables and replace them with ones they all want to hear. "No, your Honour."

"And do you believe that in the future, you can restrain yourself from another fit, if the circumstances were the same?"

"Yes, your Honour." Her record says otherwise.

"You're walking on a very fine line here, Ms. Rocciano. If I thought it necessary, you could be put back into juvenile detention - except since you're now eighteen, it would be to the adult facility." Her face drains of colour and the once unshakable confidence fades to be replaced with something paler - scared and delicate.

He nods once, twice, and shuffles again through her files, coming to rest on her school folder, thick and lengthy. From some feeling of not wanting to know he doesn't open in, simply fixes whirlwind with a stare so intense they can almost feel the shift of air in their wake. The judge understands the hidden dark, the churning anger, and the desperation of painting words in a different light to how they come out of her heart. His eyes travel momentarily to a picture of Bentley's smiling back and then back to her, making up his mind.

"Then in light of the minimal damages and the previous provocation, I rule that we don't need to go further,"

Objection! comes the cry amongst the murmurings but Payne is quick to bang his gavel, the sharp crack reverberating through the large room. "I wasn't done." he says dryly, earning a snicker from the girl below.

He places the gavel down and threads his fingers together, worn face watching the others below. "As I was saying, I don't believe we have to go further. But I will be putting Ms. Rocciano on probation, in a effort to reduce the chances of another incident." Her brow furrows and she crosses her arms around herself again, guarded but not angry.

"You are not to speak to the defendant even if he speaks to you. Likewise, you are not allowed out past midnight, and must check in with a probation officer once every week. As with the vast majority of the district, possessing weapons is also a violation," he glances at her hair, and she ducks her head slightly "along with arriving to school on time. If you break any of these set codes, I'm afraid I'll have no other choice but to incarcerate you for a maximum of three months. Do you understand?"

"So basically I have a court order to ignore any douchebags who try and start with me?" Her eyebrow is raised but a smile plays along the corners of her lips, drawing the hardness from her eyes and replacing it with something warmer. Surprised but pleasantly so at her cunning, the judge nods his agreement.

"I think I can deal with that."

"See to it. Case dismissed!"




you don't know why, yeah
they put a bullet through your heart
and told you not to cry

It's late when she finally walks herself out of the department, shoulders hunched against the cool night chill that seeps down from above to penetrate their bones. It was never her intention to spend another day locked away behind the bars she's grown to hate, but this place always seems to bring out the worst in her. Sometimes she dreams of the bright sun against her face and how she could hang her small head out the window and welcome the frozen breeze until she could breathe again. To her, it was always about the freedom of being able to move. It was always about freedom. Moving reminds her that she's alive. Not much, maybe. But enough that she gets a few seconds to feel okay, a few seconds to remember the towering buildings and the sense of apathy that hung around the city streets.

Sometimes, she misses District One. Sometimes, when she's left in the dark again or the touch of her skin seems too cold. Nowadays it's always icy to the touch, punctuated by waves that crisp her skin and burn away her thoughts. Maybe it's a reflection of what lays inside?

It was a long time ago, but she can't help but reflect upon her old home that she had, thirteen years ago. Before they had to run because her dad pissed off one too many people, before they had to leave it all behind and build themselves back up as better, stronger people. She scowls and kicks a pebble that's found itself into the winding hallways, brushing cold air against her neck from the ventilation above. If she didn't have Bentley here, she'd contemplate running back to the sun and the light in hopes that it would banish all the darkness within. But she is here and more often than not it's just the two of them against the world, and for all her bitching she wouldn't change that for anything.

They met at six. Alyssa was still trying to adjust to the constant artificial gloom and the missing heat of her sun kissed skin. Bentley was trying to fit into a world that was too rigid, too mean for somebody like her to thrive. They gravitated together upon their joint confusion and learned how to push and pull until they were molded together and from that union came something unshakably strong. Alyssa was Bentley's protector from the world and in turn Bentley protected Alyssa from herself, from the ever burning anger and deep pit of something dark and raw that manifested itself even at so very young.

Nobody could protect her from the whispers at night. From the way her father welcomed strangers into his house and dealt in things better left unsaid, how tucked away in the farthest corner of their room was a place that stank of chemicals and stale smoke. She always knew it was wrong just from the way he would hunch, careful and patient, over the tools and let nobody in. Wrong but right in a way her young mind couldn't fathom, but it was how he kept the money turning in that the feeble sustenance the tattoos under his skin couldn't give to them. In the dead of dark there would sometimes be shouting, angry words thrown and thumps heard.

But she knew, and she learned. How a sharp rap in the middle of the night told her to huddle down deep in the covers with eyes wide open and something hard clenched in her tiny fist, how to weave shinysharp metal into her hair so that she'd never be caught helpless. Even so young, the tornado had to prove herself to a mother that tried to care and a father that learned to never be there.

Alyssa turned down a corridor and trailed her rough fingers along the smooth walls, blinking the white from her eyes and touching the doorknobs that passed her fingers. A clock at the end of the hallway thrummed four am but she wasn't going home, no - she turned down a familiar path instead and traced the ghosts of her own footsteps. Her dad was mixing again, a new concoction to better feed the vices of the underground city. In those times, he was loathe to be interrupted and the eyes she could potentially drag in would be detrimental to everybody. How he found the time to churn out the flowers and smoke that kept them afloat she'd never know, but in some way she supposes she's grateful for the lessons he taught her. Of violence and misery and a world that is never, ever fair.

Anger was the first thing her father showed her. How it could devour and flare her tiny hands outwards into closed fists, the way her nails could rake and claw until blood beaded out and she felt a cruel satisfaction. When she returned for the very first time with bruised knuckles and messy hair at eight years old, he had set her down and asked what had happened.

"They called her stupid, papa." she had huffed while he cleaned her shuddering hands, biting her lip not to wince and be seen as weak. If there was anything she hated above all else, it was being seen as inferior in the eyes of her father. He glanced up at her - eyes as dark and brooding as her own - and paused, both of her hands trapped within his own massive ones. "Did you win?" This caused a grin to spring from her, intent malicious but too young to receive the desired effect.

"Yup! He started crying and everything. It was funny." Her father smiled so warmly that her chest filled with it, flushed out her system with fuzzy contentment and the urge to keep him like that forever. He was often too serious, whenever there was more demand than he could fill or when the Keepers began to trace things back to him.

"Now Lyss, listen to me, okay?" And she nodded because there was nothing more that she wanted to make him proud of her (at the time. Soon, Bentley erased everything in her mind except the touch of her skin and the taste of her lips). "If somebody disrespects you or Bentley, I don't want you to hesitate. People are mean, and the only way to stop them from fighting is to fight back. You have to hit harder and be stronger, and never ever cry." She nodded and when he smiled again, all was right in her world.

Alyssa smiled softly at the memory, chapped knuckles tingling with the phantom touch of his hand. Though the lines of his face drew deeper and his voice rougher, he was still as strong and untouchable as she believed at eight. His abrupt sense of affection sometimes left her in the dark, but it only pushed her to further strive for his love. Her footsteps echoed lonely against the deserted halls and she rose a hand to wipe the exhaustion out of her eyes, hair messy and razors pressing against her thigh through the thin pocket of her jeans.

When she briefly passes by a mirror and catches a glimpse of her reflection, she smiles bitterly at the tired teenager that glares back. There is a glimpse of hoops caught up in the shell of her ear before her hair falls forward to hide it, but it doesn't detract from the over all appearance she seems to exude, whether it be through actions or words. Trouble.

"Get back here!" was the shout and she ran as far as her legs could carry her, wheeling through the sparse hallways and letting her laughter - rough and unkind - bound off the immaculate walls even as she ducks into an abandoned closet. Each breath heaved her chest forward but she slapped a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes in an attempt to hear anything except the rapid thump of her jackhammer heart, can of spray paint cold and light in her free hand. There were wild footsteps that pounded so close to her face that she jerked away, but the pursuer had lost the hurricane and she slumped, spent and sweaty, against the cramped space and swallowed the laugh that bubbled from her throat. She was only twelve but was already well versed in the art of mischief and subterfuge, how to weave her words and touch the skin in a way that would let the others give her the world, if she so wished it.

Bentley always shook her head but smiled at her antics, refusing to join in but never deterring her from the latest conquest. Thoughts of the girl filled the cramped space, swirling in and out with her breathing until she was what she inhaled. Wherever Alyssa went she followed, whether it be through a gentle touch on her skin that set her body alight or eye contact that lasted longer than it should have. She had crawled her way into her heart and torn through until it was five sizes too big and nested there carefully, taking up the biggest part of her and even cradling the angry dark parts that Alyssa herself had shunned.

She spends minutes - hours? - in her rush of exhilaration and saturated memories before the door creaks open. Hurricane squints against the light and her hair whips around her face, now dry and sticky. Bentley looks down at her with an amused smile teasing her face, wide and open and amused. Without asking for permission she winds herself behind Alyssa, shutting the door and tangling their limbs together. With Bentley, there are no expectations, no demands. She understands that and lays her head back on a strong shoulder, smiling when she feels fingers tracing lyrics inside her knee. "Hey," she mumbles, content.

"Hey," comes the soft reply. The darker girl threads their fingers together and shifts so that Alyssa is facing sideways, head tucked perfectly under her chin and shoulder pressing just under her arm. "you okay?" They both smile but don't need to blush, wrapped until dark meshes with light and they become a singular being.

"I am now." The words rebound inside her head and for a moment she thinks that she hadn't even said them, but Bentley hears in the way she always does. The smile that spreads across her scalp lights her body on fire, and when she lifts her head she sees something deep and soft flickering in Bentley's eyes. Everything in her body buzzes with a flame she can't smother, aware of every inch of skin that touches and rubs in the suffocating warmth of the small closet. They trade air for a moment and Alyssa's hand unconsciously curls in her counterpart's shirt, before all her doubts and regrets come out in a softly hissed sigh.

They share their first kiss in the dark.

I swear I’ll never mention this to anyone
so go on you can tell me what it is

I am now she clenches her fist against the words, presses her skin to the raw piping running through the wall and feels it sear her flesh. It hurts, in a good way. Like everything does whenever she thinks of her. From years of living with the weight, she knows it won't be going home any time soon. But sometimes she thinks she can live with it, as she turns into a narrower, closer corridor and letting go of the red-hot pipe and letting the feeling linger on her skin. The doors here are smaller now, painted different colours with numbers hammered onto every portal, every gateway to another world.

As they grew so did their thoughts, and the intensity of their friendship. Everything was smouldering with hidden intent, and Alyssa would touch her with the reverence she couldn't pull from anything else in life. Bentley never cared for popularity but went along with it because Alyssa wanted it, to keep her safe from the violent eyes and harsh words. They latched themselves to Reagan because she saw the glimmer of ambition in those hazel eyes, how she could manipulate with the best of them. Together they built themselves up and became the Three, the Unholy Trinity. But Reagan was always winning in everything, academics and popularity and boyfriends. If she couldn't win at any of those, she'd be damned if she didn't beat her at something.

She lost her virginity at fourteen. It was sloppy and painful and over quick, but when she limped back home strangely hollow (as if something had been taken from her she could never replace) Bentley was already waiting in her covers.

In the end, it became their security net. The more people they slept with the higher they got and the looser their reputations became, capable of hiding behind the blanket of easy so that it was difficult for the others to find them. Alyssa still has some strange twisted satisfaction that she holds this one thing over Reagan's head, however empty it makes her feel.

But it never made the important things go away. How Bentley made her smile simply from being near, or how their bodies so different could mold into each other like carved from the same stone. Sometimes she found herself thinking in terms of forever, of how their fingers linked together aren't just good, but perfect. Perfect in a way she could never achieve without her, because everything she touches is flawed and warped. What started as a game became a necessity, how she could fold herself into the body of strangers and make herself disappear from the love that chases her constantly inside her own head, filled with a twisted sense of shame and betrayal and disgust for even thinking that Bentley could be something bad in her life, something wrong. So she fights and swears and bleeds to cover it up, to saturate herself in violence and not think about it in hopes that it would go away.

(Even though a voice in her head screams no, don't.)

Alyssa's hand touches a familiar doorknob and feels the crevices mold into her hand, twisting it carefully to test. Locked, but she pulls out a pin to fix that. Living more around town than in her own home had taught her to be resourceful, and after the constant night of movement and pitying eyes there's nothing else she wants to do than just go home and sleep. It had taken long hours to perfect the talent but then again, sitting in a cell for a month had taught her patience she never used to (and often still doesn't) have.

In all honesty, the juvenile detention center scared the hell out of her. So many people with histories so like hers, cramped in one room where tempers would fly and blood would be shed on a daily basis. She fights to feel, to give in to the dark anger that festers in her chest at a world she's deemed too unfair. But these people - they fight for reasons she can't fathom, for things deeper and crueler than her own. She had been running a package of opium for her father when she had been apprehended, and the days were a whirlwind of court dates and charges and incarceration that left her stranded and scared. She still remembers the threads of Bentley's hair in her fingers as she clung and whimpered, scared and confused. How Bentley's lips had touched her neck and murmured to be safe, to be strong, and come back soon. Her father had put a hand on her shoulder with sad eyes and apologized, promised to make it up to her once she got out.

It was a month she'd rather forget. When she came out it was like they didn't know her, voice hard and biting. The whispers at school flew but one shot of her icy gaze destroyed it, and it took weeks for Bentley to tear down her defenses again and remind her how to love.

Alyssa unlocks the door with a quiet click and slips into the dark room, footsteps light and airy. She travels through the layout she's now memorized, fingers ghosting the walls until she reaches another room that she enters without a sound. Her eyes haven't adjusted to the gloom and sees only a silhouette in the deeper dark and the glow-in-the-dark stars they'd pasted when they were young, to chase away the invisible monsters that hid in the closets. Ever so slowly she undresses and drops the weight from her skin, feeling it pool at her feet along with the fabric. It was like walking through sludge but now she is freed, unbound and unhurried. For a moment she lingers and the cold air caresses her skin, watching the stretched form accentuated by the thin sheets draped around it. She smiles, smiles like the world had finally decided to let her be at peace, and slips into bed behind her.

Alyssa speaks in fairytales when around Bentley, of forevers and happily ever afters. She's so close that she imagines she's tucking the words into the shell of her ear, pressing her front to her back and letting the warmth she always brings explode in her chest when the darker girl lazily wraps fingers around the wrist crossed over her waist, still asleep but perfectly at ease. They don't have to think about anything in these nights where the invisible sun has yet to rise, only about each other and the way Alyssa's heat seeps down into Bentley's bones and brings her up to untold heights.

Tomorrow she'll have to face the people she hates and hide her heart away, but tonight she can just be anything she wants to be. A bigger, better person. (For her, for the taste of her tongue, for the warmth of her touch. For the way her heart always seems to know when she's around.)

She's not okay. She's never been and will probably never be okay. But here, with Bentley, she thinks that one day she could be.

It might not be enough to live her whole life upon, but it's more than enough for now.

we can pass the time reading signs along the freeway
you don't have to do this alone




I found myself
the moment I found you
and I am petrified
that if you stop
seeing something
beautiful in me
then I’ll stop
seeing it
too.



FC: Monica Bellucci
Santana for the Glee Plot
codeword: odair