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"Clare," Ena says, when she opens the door. She's in sweatpants and a tank top. The dog at her feet barks at Clare, peering suspiciously at her from between Ena's legs.
"I got your address from Renée," Clare says. "I."
She thought she knew what to say, dragging herself up three flights of stairs, her whole body burning, fighting the urge to press her forehead against the cool, filthy metal railing for relief, just for a moment. Halfway up she seriously considered just sitting down on the stairs and passing out and waiting for someone to drag her out to the street. The humiliation of lying limp on the sidewalk might be easier to bear than the way Ena is looking at her right now, her eyes soft and round with shock, like Clare has just come back from the dead.
"I was feeling—unwell," Clare continues, stiffly, when Ena doesn't say anything; realizing she miscalculated; feeling like she might cry, suddenly, her eyes burning, stupid, stupid, stupid, she should have just— "and I was nearby, and I thought—Renée's still at work, and—I can go."
"No," Ena says, immediately. "I just—um. You should come in," she says, and it must be Clare hallucinating, the way Ena makes this little sudden movement, like she wants to pull Clare in. But she doesn't; she stands politely aside, holding the door open, the dog panting nervously at this new intruder.
Clare walks in and stands there.
"Do you, uh, want a glass of water?" Ena asks haltingly, shutting the door behind her.
It was a mistake, Clare realizes now, to come here; it's Ena's place, it's Ena talking to her, it's Ena asking her if she wants a glass of water like she doesn't even fucking know Clare anymore, like Clare is this stranger to her, like all of it was nothing—which it wasn't, anything at all, Clare is realizing now, just past-tense sewage, gurgling up inconveniently at Ena's feet, because she's moved on, she's happy now, without Clare, she's
"—Clare?"
Clare blinks through the brilliant snow in her vision, a low tight ache in her head, sour spit gathering in her mouth, like she's just stared into the sun. She's—on the couch, suddenly, doesn’t remember how she got there. Ena's hands are on her hips, and she’s staring at Clare, breathing shallow, her eyes bright with fear. She must have fainted.
Ena pulls her hands back like she's been burned. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna call Renée," Ena says, fumbling in her pockets, and Clare can feel her eyes sting, the shame burying her alive—
"Don't." The word rings like a gunshot in the tiny apartment. She thought she forgot how to raise her voice.
Ena freezes, going rigid. "If that's what you—but should I—do you need anything, like should I call, like, a doctor, or—"
A scoff tears out of Clare's throat. "I'm fine. I'll go," she says, leaning her weight against the armrest, dark blotches winking terribly bright behind her eyelids, feeling like she might puke, and that would be it, another confirmation of the disgust that must be rising in Ena right now, at how pathetic Clare looks. (Ena mopping Clare's vomit off her floor, thinking I remember now, I remember why.) She should just walk into traffic. "I'd hate to be a bother."
"A bother—I—you—is this what we're doing?" This is the part where Ena would have started yelling, five years ago, but now her voice is very quiet. "You show up at my place and you don't even let me help you, and—I was worried about you,” her voice cracking. She reaches for Clare with a sudden movement, and just like that it's back to the two of them like taut wires, Ena gripping her arm not quite hard enough to bruise—
"Sorry, I-I didn't mean—" Ena's voice hollow and panicked as she pulls her hand away, but it's like she's speaking from another place, Clare can barely hear her, feeling her own body turn to stone, the only thing inside her now a hot needle of hatred for Renée, because she must have told Ena everything, ripped Clare's bloody entrails out into the open air, the whole mangled wreckage of Clare’s life spread out for Ena to pity.
"Clare," Ena says—the last time Clare saw her she said Clare's name in just this way, pleading and thin. "What can I do?"
"Nothing," Clare says, dully, staring down at the floor.
Ena breathes; Clare can feel her staring. She doesn't look up. After a moment she hears the soft sound of Ena’s footsteps, retreating.
She wants to throw up. She has to close her eyes, tilt her head back, to keep it all in, her insides clamoring, feeling sick, sick sick sick sick, listening to the dog's nails skitter on the floor,
and she had a plan for this, she remembers thinking about it, what she'd say to Ena if she ever saw her again, in that moment, cradling the thought of it deep inside herself, hearing the tinny voice from her phone from far away are you still there, stay on the line, we're sending someone, the shadow at the doorway, the fear in her so dark and heavy it almost felt like walking on stage, those eyes on her, trying to breathe, the pain so far away, something cracking inside her chest, trying not to sob, at the knock at the door, each heartbeat in her ears another reminder: I WAS STUPID. I WAS STUPID. I WAS STUPID. I WAS STUPID. I WAS STUPID. I WAS STUPID. I WAS STUPID. I WAS STUPID. I WAS
"Can you get up?" A soft, stocky arm under hers, pulling her upright, supporting her weight. She lets Ena guide her to wherever she's taking Clare, maybe to the window, to tip Clare out of it. Fine. She deserves it. The dog follows them, brushing up against Clare's leg, and she doesn't have the strength to shoo it away.
Ena's bathroom is closet-sized, claustrophobic, weak winter light streaming in from the tiny frosted window, too high up to reach. There's only one toothbrush on the sink. Clare hates herself for looking.
"Oh, shit," Ena mumbles, scrambling to turn off the faucet; the bathtub is about to overflow onto the floor. Clare stands there numbly. There are bubbles in the bath. She looks away, unable to bear it.
"I thought—if you wanted to take a bath," Ena says, her voice echoing off the tile. "If it would make you feel better."
Clare drags up a sneer. "I don't think your fiancée would be happy to see another woman in your bathtub," she says, before she can stop herself.
Ena stands up from where she's leaning over the tub, giving Clare an odd look. "My fiancée?"
Clare's brain is boiling in her head. She feels herself getting annoyed, defensive, at the way Ena is looking at her. "Renée told me you were engaged."
"Oh." Ena scratches at her arm, her eyes skittering to the floor. "Uh. Not anymore."
Clare hates herself for the feeling that rises in her, a terrible, sick joy. Shut up, she tells herself, shut up, shut up, shut up, don't— "Why?"
Ena shrugs, watching the dog pace back and forth restlessly between them, the three of them trapped in this small cage. "I dunno. It wasn't anything specific. It just—wasn't what I wanted, I guess."
Ena glances up at her, finally. The air is heavy in Clare's lungs; she can barely breathe. Now it makes sense—the bath, the hesitant, restless way Ena is looking at her. Clare likes to think she's gotten better at figuring out what people want from her.
She manages to stagger forward, light-headed; backing Ena up and pushing her down onto the toilet, the toilet seat clattering, straddling her, startling a squeak out of Ena. The dog barks, alarmed.
Clare starts taking off her shirt, breathing hard, fumbling with the buttons.
"Hey," Ena says, "what are you—"
"Is this what you wanted?" Swallowing, discarding her shirt on the floor, who cares, a dull roar in her ears, not feeling anything at all. She's going for her zipper when she feels a hand on her wrist, gentle but firm.
"No," Ena says, quietly, carefully. "It isn't."
Humiliation rises hot and thick in Clare's throat, at the way Ena is looking at her. How stupid she was, to have thought that—that Ena might still—
She stumbles back to her feet, her legs buckling. Ena surges up, catches her, barely; and she sees the way Ena's eyes go to the purple-red-yellow bruises, the stripes of ugly raised flesh across her arms.
"Clare," Ena says, her voice still soft. "I didn't mean—"
"Get out," Clare says.
"But—"
"Just—please." Her voice breaking, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, she never should have come here, she should have just passed out on the street and let whoever found her decide what they want to do with her, any of it better than this.
And is this how it's going to be, forever? Spinning in her circles like a sick animal?
This is why she doesn't go to those 'support groups' for ‘survivors’ that Renée keeps leaving pamphlets for in conspicuous areas of her apartment, those groups where they all sit on plastic chairs in a conference room and hold hands and tell each other how brave they are, probably, even though the only thing the last five years have taught her is how weak she was: too scared to leave, to speak, to do anything but learn how much she was capable of taking. If they wouldn't laugh her out of the group in the first place, for having the audacity to call herself a 'survivor'. Could you call this surviving?
And it's not like she couldn't have left. It's not like they were married; it's not like they had kids. Certainly Clare would hate herself, if she was anyone else at one of those meetings, having to listen to this stupid bitch compare herself to people who have experienced actual suffering.
And what would the point be? To dig it all up again, wallow in it, to pick at the scab?
Why did she even come here?
Ena's mouth twists into a sad approximation of a smile. "Okay," she says, letting go of Clare, taking a step back. At their feet, the dog pants nervously, looking between them the same way Julien used to, at the studio, caught in the middle. It glances at Clare before following Ena out of the bathroom, the door closing quietly behind them.
Clare sinks down to the floor, her bare back against the tile. She sinks her teeth hard into the meat of her palm; she used to pull at her hair until it started coming out in clumps. One thing she's discovered is that enough pain will drown out everything else.
Ena's probably calling Renée to come get her, tired of dealing with such an ungrateful difficult cunt.
Clare's jaw gets tight. She can't remember the last time she cried. She drags in deep breaths through her nose, trying to be quiet, fighting the bright heat welling up in her eyes. Stupid. A very distant memory of crying against her closed door, hoping her mother might hear, might rush in and pull her into a hug and say I'm sorry, I am so sorry, a hundred times, all of it all these years saved up inside her mother, just waiting to come out. She must have been very small, in the memory.
Other memories drift over the surface of her consciousness like pond scum. Ena's parents; the strange yeasty spice of an unfamiliar house. Sitting across from Ena's sister at the table, barely able to look at her, this living explanation. Afraid to see something familiar. Of course Ena was a brat, Clare had thought, then. She never had to carry it: the weight of anyone expecting you to be anything at all.
She hears rain start to lash at the tiny window. The clouds hung dark and low over her on the way here, like an omen.
A small, familiar voice inside her tells her to take her phone out and put it on the floor. She does. She also takes her socks off. And then she gets to her feet, her vision getting fuzzy for a moment, and gets into the tub. She regrets it immediately, not taking her jeans (an old pair of Renée's) off, wincing when the waterlogged denim starts to cling to her legs. But she's tired. Clare tilts her head back, sniffling, dizzy with the heat, feeling herself start to bleed outside of her edges.
She floats there for minutes or hours of congealed time. The bubbles make a carbonated sort of fizzing sound. When she was little her mother used to make her drink medicine when she was sick, and she had hated it, the earthy, herbal taste. She used to throw tantrums over it. Now she misses it. It did make her feel better. It occurs to her that she doesn't know what it was called, or what it was made of; she never asked. She probably couldn’t find it again, even if she tried.
A memory surfaces as she sinks lower into the bath: showering with Ena, both of them drunk, Ena mouthing sloppily at the nape of her neck, two fingers slipping down to spread her open, the pounding water not enough to hide how wet Clare was for her, a finger curling inside her like a fish hook, and Clare, caught, clenching around it, their gasps echoing against the tile—
—years later, sitting on the disgusting shower floor, sobbing, the water turned up as hot as it could go, as if anything could wash it off her—
Clare drags in a heavy breath, colors winking underneath her eyelids. She opens her eyes; lifts her arm above the water and examines it with a detached sort of curiosity, the way the bubbles cling to it, the chill of the air on her skin. It feels like a long time ago that she used to shave her arms. Rinsing the soft thin hair off the razor. And before that: her first boyfriend, probably, she doesn't remember who he was—all she remembers is the disgusted look on his face, at the stubble starting to peek out, under her arms. She wants to laugh suddenly, the fact of it rising like a bubble inside her: that she'll die before she goes back.
She stares at a little dark patch at the corner that looks like it could be mold, and tests it out, in her head: I'm never going back.
And she does laugh, quietly, more of a wheeze, leaning her head back against the wall with a thud, dull pain ringing through her. Stupid, she tries to tell herself, stupid: she'd tried women, and how did that end up for her? Though she supposes if it had been a man she would be dead by now, lying placid and cold in a morgue, like a fat slab of fish at the grocery store, staring sightlessly overhead. She asks herself if that's what she would have wanted: the old dream, floating blissfully, the slits down her wrists (she used to be so dramatic) turning the bathwater dark and very red, the pain getting farther and farther away.
For a moment she has a vision of her younger self, from all those years ago, back when they used to live together; when every other day they'd get into shouting matches, just another round of the same old fight, the perpetual stew of their resentment coming to a boil; when they'd fuck each other through it, Clare clawing scores down Ena's back like markings on a cell wall, Ena shoving into her mercilessly, growling is this what you wanted, is it, and Clare gasping yes; lying, though she hadn't known it at the time. It hadn't occurred to her that she could want anything else.
They'd never apologize to each other. (Ena tried to, once—it just turned into another argument, Clare snarling you think I want your apology, furious all over again and not sure why.) Clare would go out for a smoke, hearing Ena's voice in her head, those things are gonna kill you someday, thinking, good. When she came back in, Ena would look at her differently, like a beaten dog. And that would be that.
Until next time.
There was one night she came back in and Ena wasn't there waiting for her, and the Clare from that night is the Clare that's sitting on the ledge of the tub, staring into space, telling herself that Ena wouldn't miss her, that she'd be relieved, if she just ended it here. And then, through the steam, the young Clare's eyes suddenly going sharp. She's looking directly at Clare, now. Asking: is that what you want? Still? And the unaccountable answer, ringing inside her: No.
Clare smiles to herself, tucking her knees up under her chin, sniffling. She sucks vacantly at the wet denim, like a kid, making a face at the soapy taste in her mouth. And she wonders, because she can't seem to help herself, what Ena is doing, what she's thinking, out there; she imagines being shuffled out to meet Renée, like a convict, in her soaking jeans, and either having to borrow a pair of Ena's pants, or, more likely, since what has she done to deserve borrowing anything from Ena, hasn't she borrowed enough already, sitting in the passenger seat in a puddle of her own water, Renée glancing over at her at red lights with that same concerned look that had made Clare want to throw herself out of the car, driving home from the ER.
She hears the faint clattering of kitchenware from the other room, wonders vaguely if Ena's rooting around her cabinets for the perfect frying pan to cave Clare's skull in with. A memory floats up to the surface, of Clare staring at the stove. She doesn't remember what she was cooking. All she remembers is that low swoop in her stomach: the sudden certainty that Ena was also standing at the stove, then, miles away, cooking for a faceless girlfriend. In a way the thought had been comforting, that they might have been together, still, in some strange way. She hears a tap running, from far away. Things are starting to blend together.
Clare leans her head back against the lip of the tub, letting her eyes close. The bath is—nice. It's nice. She feels herself tingling in the heat, electric. Her nose is running; she wipes it on the back of her arm, forgetting to wince at her own grossness. It's comforting, sitting under the thin hot skin of the water, comforting in a different way than that old memory: a different way, a dangerous way, like holding her hand just above the fire—like maybe there's space for her in Ena's life, still.
"Clare?" Startled, Clare opens her eyes. Ena's voice is muffled behind the door. "You doing okay?"
What Ena's actually asking is if Clare's slit her wrists in there, presumably. Clare smiles to herself. It occurs to her, like a crack of sudden light through her, that she was very stupid, all those years ago: trying to convince herself Ena wouldn't miss her, would probably be relieved, newly free and light, the burden of Clare lifted from her shoulders. She remembers telling herself it would be the one selfless thing she would ever do for Ena.
"Yeah," Clare calls back, wincing at the way the word echoes back against the tile. She sounds like shit, like she gargled with broken glass.
"Okay." Ena sounds uncertain. "I'm—coming in. If that's cool."
Clare doesn't bother replying. She lolls her head to the side, watching the door inch open, like Ena's worried she might scare Clare away with any sudden movements. The dog skitters in ahead of her, coming to stand alertly by the bathtub, watching Clare with its beady little eyes.
What, Clare mouths at it. The dog woofs in response.
Ena's holding a mug Clare doesn't recognize. "Hey," Ena says, her eyes soft. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Clare says, honestly. Ena smiles, small and real, and comes over, holding the mug out.
"I made you some tea. If you want," Ena says. She gingerly adjusts the mug in her hands so that the handle is facing outwards, towards Clare. "It's hot."
"Oh. Thank you," Clare says, quietly, taking the tea, something shifting in her chest. She takes a sip, and realizes that this is the tea she used to drink for her voice, all those years ago.
"I think I have some, like, Nyquil? If that would help?" Ena doesn't wait for Clare to say anything, standing up and crossing the bathroom to the cabinet. The dog sniffs optimistically at Ena's legs as she rifles around in it, like she might produce some food for it. "Sorry, it's probably, like, old. I dunno if that matters, like if it expires or something. I haven't been sick in a while. 'cause of my immune system."
Clare realizes she's been smiling around the lip of her mug, listening to Ena babble. She looks up at the same moment Ena turns around. Ena smiles back at her, sheepishly, scratching at the back of her neck. Something about it hurts to look at, so Clare stares back down at her tea, at her warped face reflected in the dark liquid. The question an albatross around her neck. She has to ask.
"Why are you doing this?"
"...What do you mean?" Ena asks. Clare can hear the frown in her voice.
"You know what I mean." Clare watches her face twist into something ugly. "I just—after what I did to you. I don't get it."
Ena is silent. Clare's heart sounds the stretch of each second. She shouldn't have asked. Hadn't she learned her lesson by now, about asking questions she doesn't want the answers to?
"I was angry at you," Ena says, finally. "For a long time. After. I couldn't understand it, like why you wouldn't just let me help you, why—... 'cause I would've done anything for you, Clare. Or that's what I told myself, anyways. But you wouldn't let me, and it made me so mad, because I was like, am I still not good enough for you? What do you want from me? And shit like that. And so I guess I realized, eventually, that I was really just mad at myself." Ena laughs weakly. "I know it's cliché. But it just—I don't know. I was scared, I guess, of the thought that, like, you needed something that I couldn't give you. That maybe you were better off without me."
"Ena," Clare says, quietly. She looks up; Ena is crouched down, petting the dog between its ears, smiling wryly.
"But, like. All of that, like, let me help you stuff—I told myself I was doing all that for you, but I was doing it for me. You were telling me what you needed. I just didn't listen. I guess I just—I wanted there to be something I didn't fuck up. For once. And, I mean, look how that turned out." Ena shrugs helplessly, still staring at the floor.
"Ena," her voice cracking, "it wasn't your—it was my fault, I—"
"Don't," Ena says, but there's none of the old fire in her voice, just an old, sad exhaustion. "I didn't mean—I shouldn't have—listen, I—I wasted enough time trying to figure out whose fault it was. We were both shitty to each other, Clare."
They're quiet for a moment, looking at each other. Ena sighs through her nose; Clare suddenly notices the creases starting to form around her mouth, under her eyes. The dog whines, wondering why Ena has stopped petting it.
"So, um. To answer your question. I'm doing it 'cause I want to. Sorry. I wish I had a better answer." Ena shrugs again and resumes petting the dog, looking down at it with a complicated expression. She buries her face into the top of its head. "And 'cause I missed you. I guess," she mutters, her voice muffled by the fur.
Clare's ears ring. She can't speak for a moment, choking on the feeling that rises in her, too big for words, at Ena saying the one thing she had wanted so badly to hear. "I, um." She has to say it now, she has to say it, why is this so hard—"I—I will take that Nyquil, actually."
"Oh, uh, yeah," Ena says, her shoulders dropping, something like disappointment flickering across her face. She stands up, the dog huffing in protest. Clare stares down at the tea, at her reflection. How could she have ever thought it would be different? That she could ever outrun her own cowardice? That escaping might have meant escaping the fact of herself, her own petty insufficiency?
She watches Ena's shoulder blades shift as she reaches in the cabinet for the Nyquil. When Ena turns around, her expression has settled into the calm, distant sympathy Clare remembers from when she was in the ER, feverish and strung out on pain medication, the nurses all one blank face, looming above her at once too close and too far away. Even as Ena approaches the tub she seems to draw back, and something deep inside Clare howls at her to say it, just say it, before you lose her again—
"I missed you," Clare blurts out. "Too."
Ena stares at her, her pleasant expression dropping into shock; then her face breaks into a toothy grin. "Yeah," she says, her grin turning sly. "I know."
Clare scowls into her tea, annoyance and relief fighting inside her. Mostly relief, she thinks. It feels like a great weight has been lifted from her. She’s glad she said it, even if just for the way Ena is smiling at her, for the wicked, perfect light in her eyes. She never thought she'd see Ena smile at her like that again.
Ena kneels down on the bathmat. Clare politely doesn't comment on the dried sticky fluid streaked down the sides of the bottle, nor does she ask questions like When was the last time you washed that measuring cup, which still has red syrup crusted in the corners. The dog presses up against Ena's side as she fumbles with the child safety lock on the cap, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. She finally manages to get it open, and shoots Clare a triumphant look, like opening a cap meant to keep five year olds out is supposed to be impressive, and pours dark red liquid into the cup, handing it to Clare.
"Thanks," Clare mutters, adjusting her grip on the mug so she can reach for it. She downs it, pulling a face at the artificial cherry flavoring. Clare meets Ena's eye as she swirls her tongue around the tiny cup pointedly, fighting a smile, at the way Ena's breath hitches.
"You—" Ena starts, and then coughs.
Clare pulls the cup off with a wet pop. "Me?" Clare repeats, innocently.
"Uh." Ena clears her throat, looking away. "Nothing. I was just, uh—did you wanna get out, or. You don’t have to, like, there’s no rush. I don't need to shower, so you don't need to worry about, like. I take showers in the morning," Ena says, like Clare doesn't know this. It always bothered Clare, back when they lived together, that Ena was totally fine with sleeping in her own sweat (and other fluids).
"No," Clare says. "I'm ready to get out."
She hands the mug and the measuring cup to Ena, standing up, the water raining off her. Ena stands up too, her eyes widening.
"You're, um. You're wearing pants," Ena says, uncertainly, like Clare might produce a reasonable explanation for this. When Clare doesn't say anything, Ena shifts her weight between her feet, setting the mug and Nyquil aside. The dog barks, looking between Ena and Clare, tilting its head with such obvious confusion that Clare can’t help but feel a little affection for it. They say dogs resemble their owners.
"Is it because you didn’t want to, um.” Ena chews at her lip, looking away. “Because—because I can give you some privacy, if you need to change. I have, like, clothes and stuff," Ena adds.
Clare laughs at that, at "clothes and stuff", and also at Ena talking about privacy, like what part of her has Ena not seen. And also Clare's tits are out already.
"Yeah?" Clare says, suppressing a shiver, her skin prickling in the chill air. She winces a little, realizing she's going to drip water all over the floor, when she gets out. "Little late to be worrying about privacy."
"I mean— yeah, but I'm just trying to—I don't know," Ena bursts out, almost uncontrollably. "I'm sorry. I just—I don't know how to act around you."
"Me too," Clare says, quietly. Ena looks up at her. Clare can't remember the last time Ena looked at her this way.
Clare takes a shallow breath. "I don't want to go back to the way it was."
Ena seems to relax. She looks relieved. "Me neither."
She helps Clare out of the bath, not seeming to mind the way water gets all over her in the process.
"You're getting wet," Clare points out, apologetically.
Ena stares at her, her eyes round and guilty, like she's been caught. "I—how did you—oh. You meant—never mind," she mumbles.
Clare laughs, surprising herself. Ena can be such a dork sometimes. Clare's glad, really glad, a sudden deep rush of feeling surging up in her, that this hasn't changed. Ena laughs too, quietly, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Towel," Clare says, patiently, deciding to spare Ena; Ena smiles stupidly at her for a moment, before seeming to realize Clare has said something.
"Oh. Uh. Yeah, let me, one second." Ena goes fumbling for a drawer, opening it then shoving it closed. "I was gonna do laundry, I swear, like, tomorrow. But I only used this once," she says, earnestly, pulling a towel from the rack next to Clare.
"Mmm," Clare hums, pretending to consider it. It's weird, how it hits her low in the gut: how easy it is. Back then it felt like they were just tearing at each other, clawing at any parts they could reach. But there were these moments, too: Ena doing this sort of extravagant bass riff, fucking it up, not that she seemed to care. And making eye contact with Clare, grinning slyly, poking her tongue out, like: this is what I'm gonna do to you, after this. At the time Clare had told herself she hated it, hated the way Ena was incapable of taking anything seriously. She only realizes now how much she missed it. "It's not gross?"
"It's not," Ena confirms, chewing at her lip.
"Okay," Clare says. Ena wraps her up, tightly, carefully. Clare feels very safe and clean, in the towel, even though she's actually disgusting, breathing out her microbes into the air Ena is breathing.
"You'll get sick," Clare mumbles, though it's probably too late.
"I don't care," Ena says. Then she grins, and it's like back then, Clare's heart dropping to her stomach. "Then you'll have to take care of me."
"Maybe," Clare says, carefully, and Ena gets it, looking down: too fast, too far.
"Yeah," Ena says. "Um, my bedroom—you can rest."
“Okay,” Clare says, leaning against Ena’s shoulder, like, take me there.
Ena's bedroom is barely larger than her bathroom: beer bottles and a vibrator crowded onto an IKEA nightstand, its paint peeling at the corners; the old bedframe Clare remembers (with the scratches Clare clawed into it), the bed unmade, of course; a tiny desk crammed into the corner, Ena's old bass tucked between it and the wall. Clare smiles a little, seeing it.
Ena, apparently determining that Clare won't keel over without her support, vaults onto the bed to pull the blinds down, presumably so Clare doesn't flash all of Toronto, and also hurries to shove the vibrator into a drawer, which almost makes Clare laugh. The dog jumps onto the bed with Ena, circling around before it settles down.
"Um," Ena starts, glancing back, seeming suddenly uncertain. "If you want to take off your pants, I can, uh, go outside."
Clare realizes, looking back towards the door, that she's been dripping water all over Ena's floor, wincing. "Sorry."
"I—no, it's cool, I needed to mop anyways," Ena blurts, sliding off the bed. "I'll just, uh—"
"It's fine," Clare says. She drops the towel on the floor, suppressing a smile at the way Ena stares, before she remembers to avert her eyes. She peels off her jeans, her skin crawling at the way the wet denim feels. When she has them off she holds them awkwardly, not sure what to do. Eventually Ena takes the cue to take them, throwing Renée's jeans into the hamper like they've offended her personally, slopping water everywhere.
"Did you want, uh, like, a pair of my boxers? I haven't worn them," Ena hurries to add.
Clare smiles a little, feeling a mean little twist of pleasure at how nervous Ena is. She forgot how Ena could make her feel so—wanted. Though she doesn't feel particularly sexy, sniffling, slipping off her sopping panties and handing them to Ena, just to see how she'll react. Ena accepts Clare's panties gently, in both hands, conveying them over to the hamper with more care than Clare remembers her ever showing towards Clare's underwear at any point at any time, ever.
"Or, like, I also have pajamas," Ena mumbles, staring at the floor.
Clare doesn't bother dignifying that with a response. Ena's breathing stutters as Clare leans into her space, enjoying the way Ena can't seem to look at her, her hands clenched at her sides. After a long moment, Ena glances up at her nervously, leaning forward—
—Clare turns and walks over to the bed. She pulls a face at the idea of sharing it with this yeasty-smelling creature, panting, watching her curiously. Of course Ena lets it sleep in bed with her, probably. She lies down gingerly, giving the dog a wide birth, and looks at Ena, watching the kaleidoscope of emotion that flickers across her face.
"Well?" Clare prompts, when Ena just gapes at her. "Are you just going to stand there?"
"We shouldn't do anything," Ena says, like she's trying to convince herself, but she comes over obediently, hovering by the side of the bed. "You're sick."
Clare looks at her.
"You passed out on my couch," Ena says, hesitantly.
"And your first instinct was to run me a bath?"
"I thought it would help!" Ena bursts out, wide-eyed. The dog raises its head. "I wasn't trying to—fuck you," she mumbles, when she sees the smile on Clare's face.
"You weren't?" Clare asks, smirking.
"I—wasn't," Ena says, suddenly earnest, like she needs Clare to believe this.
"I know." Something pangs in Clare's chest. "It did. Help," she says, after a moment. "Thank you."
"Oh," Ena says, softly, sounding surprised. "I—yeah, of course."
They're both quiet. Ena leans forward against the bed, still breathing erratically, studying Clare's face.
"So," Ena says. "I was wondering—and you can totally say no, I know I just said—but, you know, if maybe, like, I wasn’t sure—if it would help you sleep, I could. Uh."
"You could..." Clare prompts, when Ena doesn't elaborate.
"I could. Um. Eat you out," Ena says, her voice tapering into nothing. Clare actually laughs at that, and it's like something bright and new, inside her. She’s never met anyone like Ena.
"You just said you weren't trying to fuck me," Clare says, knowing the fondness is showing through in her eyes, not really caring, suddenly. She's sick; she's tired. Why not let it show through?
What does she have left to hide? She's naked in bed, after all, with her ex—
(—she's always hated it, the term ex-girlfriend. She'd never call Ena her ex-girlfriend, not that she's ever really had the chance to. ———— didn't even know about her. Because Clare had kept Ena to herself, sort of tucked her away somewhere secret and safe. And ———— would have hurt her, if Clare ever told her, or sharpened the memory of Ena into a weapon, how fucking stupid this Ena must have been, to want someone like Clare.
And she would have been right.)
"I wasn't," Ena insists, meeting Clare's eye and then looking away. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
"I thought that wasn't what you wanted," Clare says, after a moment, knowing she shouldn't bring it up at all, still scrubbed raw with shame, at her own stupid arrogance.
It takes a moment before Ena seems to realize what Clare is referring to. "I didn't mean, that I didn't want, um. You," she says, her voice going thin with embarrassment, and Clare almost smiles with relief, in spite of herself. "'cause obviously, I, um. Just. You looked like you didn't want to, like—like you were doing it because you thought that was what I like, expected, from you. I don't want that, is what I meant."
Clare doesn't say anything. There's the old disgust, the old fear, at how Ena can see through her. She's never been able to understand it, how Ena can be so stupid and careless sometimes, when she's capable of this, too, the tender familiarity of handling an animal she knows.
Years ago, Clare might have lashed out at Ena, for having the audacity to act like she knows Clare. Now that all seems very stupid. They know each other.
Instead she reaches up, runs her hand through Ena's hair—she hasn't buzzed it in a while, and it feels soft between her fingers, like new grass. Something shifts in Ena's eyes.
"I want it," Clare murmurs, letting her head drop against the pillow. She spreads her thighs a little, threading her middle finger between her legs, pulling a thin strand of herself out, glistening in the light, to show Ena. She hears Ena breathe. A low crack of thunder, outside, startles both of them.
Ena surges down, kissing her, shocking a little noise out of Clare—but she doesn't push her tongue in, doesn't bite. It's almost chaste. Clare can feel Ena's chest heaving against hers, her heartbeat fast and shallow, like a pinned rabbit. When Clare reaches for Ena's arm to pull her closer, Ena pulls back, and there's this hot spike of anger and shame in Clare, she should have never—
"I need to, uh. I don't want him here for this," Ena says, grinning toothy and lopsided, gathering up the dog in her arms. And all at once the anger and shame turns into something worse, a deep pain in Clare's chest, like someone has her heart in their fist and won't let go.
"This isn't for you," Ena says, leaning down to croon this to the dog, and then she says something that sounds like Pidgee, which is probably its name. It sounds vaguely familiar, the name of a Digimon, or something, Clare thinks.
Ena sort of power-walks over to the door with it, setting the dog gently down in the hallway and shutting the door in its face. Clare can hear the dog scratching at the door, whining, and feels a surge of mean satisfaction. This isn't for you.
When Ena returns to the bed, she pauses. "Are you—are you sure?"
There's the anger again, bordering on hate, for the way Ena's been treating her like some kind of invalid, same as Renée. In response Clare grabs Ena by the straps of her tank top, yanking her into another kiss, and this time it's all teeth. Ena groans into her mouth, her hands sliding up Clare's chest, finally swinging herself onto the bed. Her fingers settle into the soft divots between Clare's ribs, and she pauses.
"Clare," Ena says, pulling back.
"Shut up," Clare snarls. What gives Ena the fucking right, when Clare has to deal with this shit already, Renée asking her if she's eaten today, and it's disgusting, how Renée pretends to be casual about it. At least Renée's learned, compared to when Clare first hauled her pathetic, emaciated life into her apartment, back when she was still looking at Clare the way Ena is looking at her right now. "Are you gonna get down there, or am I going to have to make you."
Ena shivers. For a moment her gaze goes unfocused, staring distantly at Clare; some kind of internal storm raging behind her eyes. Clare can almost feel Ena throbbing against her. Caught, like a rat in a trap; she's looking at Clare like she's contemplating gnawing her own leg off to get free.
"Maybe—" Ena swallows down spit, running her tongue over her lips. "Maybe we shouldn't."
It's hate, this time, choking Clare. "I'll have to make you, then," Clare growls, reaching up to seize Ena by her hair, something disgusting rising inside her like sewage, ————'s voice low in her ears—you think you're better than me? Right? I can see it in your eyes—but you're just as fucked up, just as sick—you're getting exactly what you deserve—.
Ena moans, when Clare pushes her down, grinding her hips down into the sheets. She nuzzles into Clare's bush, breathing in like it's the first air she's had in weeks.
"I—" Bile rises in Clare's mouth, sour and thick. She hesitates. Maybe she shouldn't mention it at all, should just cram herself into Ena and tell her you won't breathe until I come, but—the way Ena is looking at her, eager and desperate—what you deserve— "My new medication—it's hard. For me to finish. So don't—expect anything."
She expects Ena's expression to go soft and remote with sympathy; for Ena to say, that's okay, I understand—but Ena's eyes go hard and hungry, no cornered rat.
"I won't," Ena rasps, and then she—
Clare makes a strangled noise, at the way Ena's tongue flickers at the tip of her hood, dragging languid down the length of her slit. She expects Ena to push her tongue in immediately, to devour her like she's been starved; but Ena's mouth trails lower, to mouth at the inside of her thighs, at the scarred flesh.
"Ena," Clare says, gritting her teeth, something sick and ugly rising in her. Ena looks up. Her expression is unreadable, almost sad. Ena was right, she thinks; they shouldn't be doing this.
"When's the the last time you did this?" Ena asks, her breath ghosting over Clare's clit, making her legs twitch around Ena's head, like she can keep Ena there. Clare stares at the ceiling. She doesn't want to think about it. It occurs to her that it's the first time in years she's been wet before getting fucked; that it hasn't been her body, her idiot traitor body, desperately trying to make it hurt less.
Clare doesn't say anything. Ena, for once, gets the hint. She licks at Clare's labia, gentle, almost an apology. Clare shivers, feeling weak, too weak to be angry, shivering, fever chills wracking her. She feels like she's dreaming, adrift in the fuzzy, pleasant prelude before Ena sits up, snarling, asking what Clare thinks she's done to deserve feeling good like this—
"You taste so good," Ena groans, and the sensation of her voice makes Clare clench her thighs around Ena.
"Shut up," Clare mutters, "just—just—"
She cries out when Ena sucks at her clit. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Clare pulls at Ena's hair, trying to crush her even closer, and both of them gasp.
"You still like that?" Clare asks, breathlessly, though of course she knows the answer. Ena pulls back to give her a look like, that's the dumbest question I've ever heard.
"What do you think?" Ena says, and there's that defiant glint in her eyes: Clare remembers it like it’s been carved into her. She tightens her grip on Ena’s hair, mean, enough to hurt. Ena groans—Clare can—feel it—
Ena’s tongue is soft as she licks a slow, fat stripe up Clare’s clit, and Clare cries out, her whole body one tight muscle, the pleasure so bright and hot it almost feels like pain, like she's on fire, grinding herself down against Ena. The tip of Ena’s tongue drags down the fold of Clare’s hood, teasing her, and it hurts, the way Clare needs Ena inside her, her toes curling so hard she can feel her feet cramping up.
Ena knows her every secret corner. Clare wishes she understood it, why it feels so much better with Ena than anyone else. Sometimes it scares her, when she thinks about it—how Ena could have never walked into that studio at all, could have never texted Clare 'hey ;-)', Clare scowling at her phone, tossing it across the room; later that night, her hands drifting into her panties, thinking about Ena's fingers—
"Ena," Clare breathes, feeling the clench of secret muscles inside her, her abs spasming, a deep hurt, and suddenly she's scared, that maybe she won't be able to come: because it's felt like this before, sort of, touching herself, her fingers stuffed in her mouth, the old memories like holding a hot iron, teetering on that knife's edge, thinking about Ena just like this, and—nothing. "You don't have to—until I come, you don't, don't feel like you have to—"
Ena gives her a fierce glare. "Are you kidding me? Do you know how long I've been—" Ena cuts herself off, the flush rising higher on her face, up to her ears. "I'll tell you, if I'm tired. But I could do this, for, like, days. I wouldn't even need food or water or anything. I'd just drink your—"
"You're disgusting," Clare snaps, but she can't fight the laugh that bubbles out of her. Ena grins slyly, lapping at Clare softly, like a puppy. One of Ena's hands snakes down to her pajama pants, the other one idly thumbing at Clare's knee.
Clare tilts her head back, lets herself get lost in it, all sensation, her world narrowed down to where Ena's touching her. The tip of her tongue dips into Clare, making Clare squirm. She wishes Ena would fuck her, suddenly desperate to be filled up, for Ena to shove herself inside her, crowding out everything else, pushing her organs to the side, making space for herself, not knowing she doesn't have to: that Clare has kept space for her, all these years, an empty gulf, Ena-shaped, too much to bear.
Snot starts to pool at the back of Clare's throat, making her wince. She feels like she's drowning. Ena groans into her, her tongue worming up into her hood, against her clit, and Clare shouts, feeling her stomach muscles cramp up painfully, and it hurts when she comes, the pleasure a distant echo. She passes out immediately.
When she wakes up, it's almost pitch-black, save for the yellow city light slashing through the blinds. She feels disgusting and crusty, her head pounding, her brain a low bass against her skull. It takes her a moment before she remembers where she is. The beer bottles are gone from the nightstand, replaced with a glass of water, a bottle of probably Advil, and Clare's phone. Clare opens it up. It's 2:03 in the morning. There's also a couple texts from Renée, Clare squinting against the bright light to read them:
ena let me know where you are
glad you're ok. text me if you want me to come around
She feels like she wants to throw up, spit pooling in her mouth. She lets her head drop back against the pillow, sighing. It's like she's at the bottom of a pool, hung suspended, lying under a great dark weight. She goes to reach for the Advil when she spots a piece of paper next to it, reading it by the light of her phone. It's in Ena's screaming capitals:
ADVIL IF YOU WANT IT ON THE TABLE YOU SHOULD TAKE IT
ALSO I MADE YOU SOME CONGEE IF YOURE HUNGRY ITS IN THE FRIDGE JUST WARM IT UP IN THE MICROWAVE DONT WORRY NO YUCKY VEGETABLES IN IT 2MINUTES ON HIGH PLS DONT SET MY APARTMENT ON FIRE
PS DONT TOUCH MY BEER
-ENA ❤❤❤❤❤
Clare scowls at the note, something going tight in her chest, at the shitty little doodle Ena has drawn of her coughing, snot waterfalling down her face. Half of her, childishly, doesn't want to take the Advil, just because Ena told her to. But she does, gulping down the water. There's a small lump on the bed that turns out to be pajama pants and a T-shirt with a strange print of a creature on it, open-mouthed, baring sharp teeth, with beady black eyes and long arms. Also a pair of Ena's Calvin Klein boxers. Clare puts them on, feeling a weird, solid pleasure, when she slides Ena's boxers on.
Clare slides out of bed, padding towards the door, gently easing it open. It's dark in the hallway. Clare navigates to the kitchen, her hand trailing against the wall to guide herself.
She spots Ena, snoring on the couch, the dog curled up on her chest, one hand curled loosely on its back. The dog looks like a mutt, probably a rescue; she can see Ena picking it up from the side of the road, shivering and wet, emaciated, covered in fleas. It has a dark spot over part of its face, like a black eye. Clare tries not to draw any parallels.
Ena looks so peaceful in sleep, a little drool leaking out of the corner of her mouth. She'd be happier, Clare thinks, without Clare in her life scoring those lines under her eyes, without having to save Clare from herself, without Clare like a chain around her leg. She doesn't deserve any of it. Neither does Renée. Clare feels her eyes burn, watching Ena sleep, her heart dropping down to her stomach.
Clare tears her gaze away from them, creeping as quietly as she can to the fridge. Sure enough, there's a chipped plastic tupperware container that looks like it's about one dishwasher cycle away from falling apart, along with an attached post-it note helpfully labelled ↑ CONGEE ↑, like Clare is stupid. Clare smiles, in spite of herself. She puts it in the microwave, 2MINUTES ON HIGH, just like Ena told her, wincing at the noise it makes, even though she knows that Ena would sleep through a nuclear bomb being dropped on the GTA. The dog snorts, but doesn't stir. Some guard dog, Clare thinks, even though Ena never claimed it was. Just like its owner: so trusting, so defenseless.
She hits the stop button right when the timer is at 1 second, grabbing a paper towel to pull the container out of the microwave. She tries, as quietly as possible, to find a spoon to eat with, finally finding one in a drawer by the sink—the only utensil that Ena seems to own, sitting there surrounded by plastic takeout forks and chopsticks still in their paper wrapping.
Clare sits down at the little table with the congee. It's good, like everything Ena makes. She sniffles, her nose starting to run, as she shovels spoonfuls of it into her mouth, suddenly ravenous, feeling like this is the first real food she's had in years.
There are two cold lines down her face, she realizes; she wipes at her cheek with the back of her hand, staring dumb and uncomprehending, when it comes back wet. How ugly she must look: hunched over old tupperware, sobbing quietly, snot running into her mouth. Her scarred and battered body the wreckage of an unlovable woman, strangely, inexplicably, loved.
(art by freshnapa)
