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Gideon frowns at the sign in front of her. It’s got a few holes in the metal—bullet holes, maybe, it’s hard to tell—and if she were to touch the edge, the jagged teeth would probably give her tetanus. It says NO HAPPY ENDINGS!
She isn’t expecting a happy ending, never was, but there are fat metal poles barring up the windows and a used needle that’s rolling its way down the street like a tumbleweed, and she figures maybe some people are.
Nav #9 @ [12:39 PM]: are u sure this is the right place coach
She picks something out of her teeth with her pinky finger and listens to the sounds of cop cars chasing a suspect only a few streets away. The pharmacy across the street has a flickering sign that simply says DRUGS.
coach @ [12:41 PM]: It’s next to Drearburh Laundromat.
Gideon looks around and finds the aforementioned Drearburh Laundromat. There’s a pigeon gobbling up some fresh throw up. Someone’s stealing a bike with a pair of bolt cutters. Gideon blinks, watches as someone flicks a still lit cigarette on the pavement, and then turns back to the NO HAPPY ENDINGS! sign.
Aiglamene has got to be shitting her.
Nav #9 @ [12:42 PM]: coach this is literally the most horrific massage place i’ve ever seen
coach @ [12:43 PM]: Then pay for a nicer place out of your own damn pocket.
Gideon’s old massage place—the one closer to her school, the one with the pretty masseuse Dulcinea whose bony hands were made of magic—closed down because it was “apparently” a “money-laundering front”. Admittedly, it was kind of weird that the only customers tended to be the athletes from the ice-hockey team, but it never bothered Gideon, and it shouldn’t have bothered the authorities.
But it did, and so here Gideon is, staring at the NO HAPPY ENDINGS! sign.
Gideon’s already late to her hour appointment. She had a tough time navigating all of the potholes in this part of town, and then finding a parking spot where her car wouldn’t get broken into, and then walking across town without cowering. So she’s late, and she doesn’t really want to be here, but a massage is a massage. She clears her throat and presses the button next to the voice box.
“This is Isaac with Drearburh Massage,” a voice says gloomily, crackling on the other end. “If you’re a salesman, please fuck off. If you’re a customer, please don’t fuck off. How can I help you?”
“Um, customer. I’m a customer.”
There’s shuffling around on the other side, someone says yeowch, and then Isaac with Drearburh Massage says, “Please wait a moment while we get a staff member to let you in.” Click.
Gideon doesn’t wait long, only manages to count three discarded maces before the door opens. “You’re late,” the staff member says. She’s tall and skinny and probably sickly, judging by her pale skin and limp hair, but she also looks strangely familiar. Gideon wonders if this is her masseuse. She doesn’t judge the skinny ones, especially not after Dulcinea, but at least Dulcinea is nice. “Were you raised with any shred of decency?”
“Um, sorry, there was a shootout on the freeway—”
The staff member is already walking away from Gideon, apparently not keen on letting her finish the rest of her sentence.
Gideon huffs and rolls her eyes, following the staff member. She’s either going to get the best or worst massage of her life. The employee leads her through the dimly lit hall, up a winding set of stairs that leaves Gideon, a college athlete, out of breath, and down an even dimmer hall before stopping in front of a door that probably once said MASSAGE PARLOR, but various letters have fallen off and so now it just says ASS PA L . Gideon doesn’t laugh, but she really wants to. There’s someone yelling behind the door, several someones maybe, but the employee just unlocks it with her key. She slams the door twice with her shoulder before it finally gives. Gideon peers inside, sort of scared for her life.
It’s nice inside, at least nicer than what Gideon’s experienced so far. It’s well-kept, bright shades of blue and white to offset the dreary hallway, with scented candles and pictures of random smiling models like they’ve just gotten a massage with a happy ending. This isn’t that bad, Gideon foolishly thinks.
“—if you’re a salesman, please fuck off. If you’re a customer, please don’t fuck off. How can I help you?” That must be Isaac with Drearburh Massage letting another customer in. Gideon shifts, unsure where the other staff member went, unsure whether to interrupt Isaac with Drearburh Massage so she can get this show on the road.
A moment passes, and then Isaac with Drearburh Massage says in a squeaky, annoying voice, “Ianthe! There’s another customer waiting for you!”
“God!” the staff member says from the other room. “If I have to go up those fucking stairs one more time, I’m going to kill a bitch!” She storms out of her hiding place, scowls at Gideon, and then storms out of the room, attempting to slam the door on the way out. The door doesn’t close all the way. Gideon scratches behind her ear.
Isaac smacks his gum and starts typing on his keyboard. “Gideon Nav?” he asks, typing something else. He honestly looks like he’s just mashing keys for the hell of it.
“Yup,” she says, popping the ‘p’. She sways back on her feet awkwardly.
“You’ll be in massage room two with masseuse N. She’ll be out to get started in a minute. Start face down. Take off your clothes, or don’t, I don’t care.” A pause. “Okay, bye.”
God, teenagers are horrible nowadays. He must be a teen, Gideon thinks while she drags herself to massage room two, because he’s got that horrible squeaky voice and that horrible squeaky attitude. Gideon growls and enters massage room two.
It’s not bad, still, it’s like any other massage room she’s been in. A table with a little horseshoe pillow, candles to help with ambiance, some strange yoga music playing in the background. Gideon closes her eyes and sighs, praying to a god she doesn’t believe in that the masseuse will at least be halfway decent.
She strips off her shoes, her muscle tank (the one that says FISH WANT ME AND WOMEN FEAR ME), her sports bra, and her basketball shorts. She fiddles with the hem of her boxers (they’re white and covered in red hearts), unsure of whether or not she should take them off. Dulcinea insisted that being completely naked helped with her flow, but every masseuse is different. After a moment of deliberation, she decides to take them off and piles them on the rest of her clothes.
Gideon gets comfortable in the massage bed, draping the blankets over her and plopping her head in the horseshoe pillow. She takes a deep, shaky breath. She needs a massage really bad, bad enough where she’s now traveled to parts of town she normally wouldn’t go without a gun. She’s had pain in her knee for awhile now but hasn’t been able to go to a masseuse for a bit because of the whole “money-laundering” thing. Her last season’s games are starting soon, and if she doesn’t get her act together, Aiglamene isn’t afraid to bench her.
Gideon nearly falls asleep like this, but the door opens with a soft click. “Hi,” an achingly familiar voice says robotically, “I’m going to be your—oh my fucking god, Griddle?!”
Gideon whips her head around at that voice, that nickname, her tits nearly falling out for her masseuse to see. Harrowhark Nonagesimus is standing in the doorframe, black on black on black, bony hands in fists, lips trembling. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Harrow turns around sharply, leaving Gideon naked and afraid on the massage table, and hears her say in her whiny, obnoxious voice, “Isaac! Have Ianthe switch with me!”
“Can’t,” the annoying teenager says. “She’s already started in massage room one.”
“I don’t care, we can switch right now—”
Beep. “This is Isaac with Drearburh Massage, if you’re—”
“Don’t fucking ignore me, you—you—” Harrow doesn’t finish her sentence, but Gideon can hear her stomping around, kicking things against the wall. If Gideon weren’t so flabbergasted by the sad state of her life, she might actually giggle.
See, Gideon’s known Harrow all of her pathetic little life. They grew up on the same street, went to the same mass, started their periods at the same time, broke the same wrists, went to the same school, got suspended from eighth grade on the same day. Harrow, one time when she was feeling particularly evil, stole her parent’s car and hit Gideon with it. After Harrow ran over Gideon’s toe, Gideon wrestled Harrow from the car and then did the same thing.
One time, Gideon threw the tetherball on the playground so hard that she knocked out one of Harrow’s molars. The following week, Harrow made up a game called “Hit The Closest Person To You With A Bat”, and then proceeded to hit the closest person to her with a bat, which happened to be Gideon, specifically Gideon’s face, which ended up breaking her nose. One time, Harrow threw a pencil sharpener (the electric one that plugs into a wall, not the measly little mechanical one) at Gideon, leaving her with a bruise on her jaw. Another time, Gideon bit Harrow so hard, she broke skin and left a bite-shaped mark on her skin for three weeks.
All that is to say, they were probably each other’s best friends in the loosest sense of the word, but a fight a few years ago ceased all of their contact forever. Over three years had passed. Gideon thought that the next time she’d see Harrow was at her funeral.
There’s some more yelling and swearing and groaning, and then the Harrow enters through the door again. She clears her throat. “Would you like your refund through cash, card, or giftcard?”
“I don’t want a fucking refund, Nonagesimus,” Gideon says, grabbing the blanket to cover up her escaping titty. “I want someone to massage my fucking knee, and at this point, I really don’t care if it’s you.”
Harrow leaves the room again. Gideon hears something slam against the wall, and then a soft fuck and then another soft why me? before she comes back with a blank look. Harrow’s never been adept at hiding her emotions, especially with Gideon, so this feeble attempt is amusing. “Fine,” she says, the vitriol in her words at odds with her face.
Gideon watches Harrow close the door and go to the other side of the room to lather up lotion on her hands. “Put your head down, Nav,” she says, not even looking Gideon’s way. Gideon huffs out a laugh and follows her instructions. She listens to Harrow clink around the room, bumping into things, swearing under her breath. It’s amusing, honestly, seeing Harrow this—this flustered, maybe. Mad? Gideon’s not entirely sure what emotion Harrow is feeling, but she’s pretty sure she’s feeling the same one.
Harrow moves the blanket so it rests at Gideon’s hips. A set of warm hands set down in the space between Gideon’s shoulder blades. Gideon jumps at the feeling. “No need to be so jumpy,” her masseuse says. “It’s just my hands.”
“Those hands,” Gideon says, her voice muffled from the pillow, “have tried to kill me at least a dozen times.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says, and then digs her palms into Gideon’s skin. Gideon decides to shut up for now.
Truth be told, she didn’t even know that Harrow was a masseuse. Harrow’s whole thing her entire life was that she was going to be a physician, orthopedics—had told Gideon that she was going to surgically remove her bones and then put them back incorrectly as soon as she could talk. Gideon imagined Harrow applying to med school now, studying for the MCAT—maybe she still was, Gideon didn’t know, but she didn’t imagine her childhood friend as a masseuse.
Harrow feels her way up Gideon’s biceps, kneading her hands into taut, sore muscles. Gideon tries not to moan, she really does, but the cr cr crick of her muscles loosening makes her eyes roll into the back of her head. “C—can you do it deeper,” she says. “Please.”
“Gideon Nav saying please?” Harrow says, digging deeper into her muscle with the palm of her hand. “Must be my lucky day.”
“I say please,” Gideon says, though with some effort, “just not to you.”
“I’m going to rearrange your ligaments if you keep saying mean things to me.”
Gideon doesn’t know enough about human anatomy to know if that threat is valid or not, so she shuts up.
Harrow spends an ample amount of time on Gideon’s back and arms, using her elbows and palms and skinny little fingers to loosen up her sore muscles and draw out her lactic acid. This is nice and all, approaching orgasmic, even, but Gideon really needs her to work on her knee, and so she says, “I know you’re feeling me up, but can you please get to work on my knees.”
“I should’ve killed you in high school,” she says. And then, “On your back, Nav.”
Gideon is good at following instructions. Harrow lifts up the blanket slightly to give Gideon the room to maneuver her body around. It’s hard to tell in the dimmed light of massage room two, but Harrowhark might be blushing. Gideon allows herself that thought, just the one, and falls to her back with a little smirk.
Harrow doesn’t go straight for the knees. She works on her thighs for a little bit, which is incredibly nice, actually—Aiglamene had them focus on leg drills yesterday, so they’re particularly sore. Gideon groans a little in her mouth, lets her mind blank while this new Harrow, masseuse Harrow, works her magic. After a few minutes of this, Harrow focuses on her knees. She’s tight and tense there, years of sports and injuries taking their toll on her body. She shifts uncomfortably on the table, but Harrow is gentle in her movements and does just the right amount of pressure.
“Good grief, Griddle, you’re wound up tight around here,” she says. Gideon just nods, trying to not reflexively kick Harrow in the chest. She’s afraid that her foot will go through her frail body and leave a foot-shaped hole. Harrow digs a knuckle in one of her ligaments and Gideon hisses, but then something pops and the pressure dissipates.
Harrow does the same thing to her other knee, and Gideon feels so good, she thinks she might just be able to jump off a ten story building and land on her feet. “You need to stop moaning,” Harrow hisses.
“Oh,” Gideon says, wiggling her foot. “Was I?”
“Good fucking god, Nav,” is all she says in response, and then her warm fingers slowly massage their way back up Gideon’s thighs.
The entire massage feels way too short, probably because Gideon was well over fifteen minutes late, but Harrow eventually says, “I’m done. Get fucking dressed.” Gideon doesn’t even have time to think of a proper retort before Harrow is storming out of the room.
Honestly, it’s hard to say if that was the best or worst massage of Gideon’s life.
“You’re looking good,” Jeannemary says to Gideon at their next practice. Jeannemary is very enthusiastically helping Coronabeth with her stretches, probably a little too enthusiastically. Coronabeth’s fatal flaw is that she loves stringing little freshmen along, and Gideon’s fatal flaw is that she just lets it happen.
“Have you gone to the new massage place?” Gideon asks, dropping next to Coronabeth to start her stretches. “Drearburh Massage.”
“Oh, that place?” Coronabeth says, brushing a coil off her face with a swipe of her hand. Coronabeth does look very good like this, stretched and red and panting. It’s a pain that they did hook up once and it went nowhere. “I didn’t want to get shanked in a back alley, so no.”
Jeannemary drops Coronabeth’s left leg and then grabs her right, pushing it up to her chest. “My best friend works there as a receptionist. Didya see him?”
“Oh, was it Isaac?” Jeannemary nods with a big smile. She’s still missing one of her molars from one of their practice games. “He’s, um, a receptionist all right.”
“He sure is,” Jeannemary says wistfully.
“Jeanne, a little more to the right, please,” Coronabeth instructs. Jeannemary does as she’s told, and pivots her leg a little more to the right. Coronabeth smiles and Jeannemary blushes. “Thanks, love.”
“Anyway,” Gideon says, ignoring this interaction, “I went there, and it’s like—very sketchy. Honestly, I thought I was going to die. But the masseuse was—holy shit, it was phenomenal.”
“Was your masseuse a little someone named Ianthe?” Corona asks. “A little more to the left, sorry babe.” And then, “I’m sure my sister wouldn’t mind giving you a massage, Giddy.” A flirty wink. Jeannemary frowns.
“That was your sister?” Gideon says, feeling something in her hip pop. “That actually makes a lot of sense. But no, it wasn’t your sister. Have I ever told you about Harrow?”
“Jeanne, I think my legs are good for now. Let’s do my back.” Jeannemary drops her leg and helps Corona come to a sitting position, dropping a knee on Coronabeth’s back to gently push her chest to her knees. “Also, no,” she says with a grunt.
“You’ve told me,” Camilla says, dropping her bag next to Gideon with a rattling thunk. “D’you need some help?”
“Yes, do what JM’s doing to Corona to me,” Gideon says, and Camilla does just so, dropping a knee to Gideon’s back and helping her stretch her lower back. “Ooh,” Gideon says intelligently, “that feels nice.”
“It sounds inappropriate in here,” Judith says, coming out of the locker rooms completely geared up. Judith is the type of captain that stretches at home, gears up, and drives to practice like that, shitting on everyone who is as unprepared as Gideon.
“Hi Jody,” Coronabeth says demurely, pivoting her head to give Judith a saucy little smile. Jeannemary presses down into Coronabeth’s back with some more force. “Oof,” she grunts.
“Hi Coronabeth,” Judith says blankly. “Practice is in five minutes. Why is no one geared up?”
“Why don’t you help me gear up?”
“I can help you gear up,” Jeannemary says.
“Jeannie, you have to get dressed too,” Coronabeth tsks. “Ease up, babe, I think I’m good. Thanks for your help.” Jeannemary removes her knee and Corona takes the hand that Judith offers. She walks to the locker room to change, not without sending a deliberate air kiss Judith’s way. Judith just rolls her eyes.
“Wait, I need help stretching!” Jeannemary protests at Coronabeth’s disappearing form.
“I think I’m good,” Gideon says. Camilla removes her knee from her back. “I can help.”
“Ugh,” Jeannemary mumbles, flopping to the floor in a disappointed puddle. “I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself,” Gideon says, “Cam?”
“Yes please,” she says, already laying on her back so Gideon can stretch her legs to her chest.
“Why is everyone ignoring me? Coach is going to be pissed.”
“Sorry, Judes,” Gideon says, not that sorry. “Tell Coach my bad.”
“You guys need to be disciplined,” she says, and then opens the door to the ice rink to skate on with the other girls who are already ready.
Once Gideon moves on to the next leg, Camilla says, “What about Harrow?”
“Hm?”
“You were talking about Harrow when I walked in.”
“Oh. Crazy fucking coincidence, but she was my masseuse the other day. At the creepy place Coach sent us.”
“I can’t believe you actually went there and didn’t get shot.”
“I mean, I’m pretty sure a bullet grazed my ear.”
“Was she any good? My hamstrings have been killing me.”
“She did something magic with her bony little hands,” says Gideon. Camilla kicks her foot a little bit, so Gideon pushes her leg a little closer to her chest. “It was weird, though.”
“What’d you two even fight about?” Camilla asks, a little out of breath from the stretch. “That made you stop talking for three years, I mean.”
“Dunno,” Gideon lies. “You good yet?”
“Just a little more,” Camilla says, wriggling her ankle. “Are you going to go back?”
Gideon thinks about Harrow, she thinks about the look on her face three years ago when Priamhark and Pelleamena kicked her out of their house, she thinks about her magical bony hands, she thinks about the ache in her knee that’s not so much an ache anymore, and says, “Maybe.”
Gideon gets a massage every two weeks through her team, anything else in between those two weeks is on her own dime. Gideon rubs her eyes and checks the time on her phone. 1:01 AM. Why does this website look like it hasn’t been updated in twenty years?
Gideon clicks on book an appointment, but it’s another broken link that leads her nowhere. She looks for their contact information, but it’s either hidden incredibly well, or simply doesn’t exist. She wonders if their website was written by AI, because half of the sentences don’t make sense.
Unwind in the gravity of serenity, where the pillows flutter like cloud whispers of yesterday’s tomorrows. Our therapists paint relaxation with invisible brushes in a symphony of feeling and every touch is an unspoken melody. Here, time loops in playful spirals, and each massage is a journey through kaleidoscopic tranquility. Let the whimsy of relaxation sweep you off your feet.
“What does that even mean?” Gideon wonders aloud, clicking on another broken link. She wonders how Aiglamene even managed to book her an appointment, but she eventually finds a booking link after accidentally clicking on something she didn’t mean to.
She fills out all the necessary info, swapping her name to Kiriona in case Harrow tries to cancel if she sees Gideon, and then chooses N as her masseuse. She pays the fee happily, and it isn’t too bad, really—honestly bordering on sketchy low, but it’s probably because their customer service is so horrible, they wouldn’t bring anyone back otherwise.
With that, Gideon closes her eyes with a smile and laughs, “Kaleidoscopic tranquility,” under her breath.
“This is Isaac with Drearburh Massage. If you’re a salesman, please fuck off. If you’re a customer, please don’t fuck off. How can I help you?”
“Customer,” Gideon says, startling at the sound of a cat leaping out of a trash can. The DRUGS sign makes a low humming noise, and Gideon shrinks into the brick wall.
“‘Kay.” Click. Gideon shuffles around uncomfortably, trying not to cower. It’s not like she’s never been to a bad part of town, she didn’t grow up in the best areas (foster system, blah blah blah, we get it—troubled teen, blah blah blah), but Gideon does wonder how a business like this in this particular area is even viable. Does Harrow know how to drive yet? Does she walk here? Skinny, bony Harrow?
Before Gideon can properly spiral with those thoughts, Isaac with Drearburh Massage props open the door to let her in. “Kiriona?” he questions.
“Um. Yes.”
“All right, whatevs,” he says, like the annoying teenager he is, and Gideon follows him as he leads her down the hall, up the stairs, and down the other hall to the ASS PA L . He attempts to open the door, and promptly fails, which leaves Gideon to heft her body weight onto it to swing it open. It careens open with a thud and Isaac says, “Thanks,” before running over to his desk to type away at the keyboard.
“You’ll be with masseuse N today,” he says. “Massage room two. Face down. Naked or not, don’t care. ‘Kay. Bye.”
After stripping out of her clothes and laying down on the massage table, Gideon does not wait long to hear her familiar voice. “Hello, I’m going to—this is harassment.”
“No it’s not, I’m a paying customer.”
“I’m calling the police,” she says, and then storms out of the room. Gideon hears Harrow say, Have Ianthe switch me!!! and Isaac say, She called out sick today!!! and Harrow say, I’m going to fucking kill myself!!! and Isaac say, I dare you!!! and Harrow say, How can you not tell that Kiriona and Gideon are the same fucking person!!! and Isaac say, I just work here!!!.
This argument goes on for a while, so Gideon makes herself comfortable, stretching out her sore legs. Coach made them do wind sprints because they were late that one day. Gideon’s pretty sure Judith had a hand in it even though she had to do wind sprints, too. The weird thing about Judith, though, is that it seems like she likes wind sprints. Probably because Judith is a fucking menace.
The fighting stops and the latch to the door clicks open. Gideon does not turn her head when Harrow says, “I expect a 100% tip.”
“We’ll see.”
“Consider yourself lucky that I’m not actively trying to kill you right now, so shut up.” Gideon does shut up, and Harrow gets to work. Harrow hums under her breath to the weird relaxation music, and Gideon finds it oddly endearing. She doesn’t know why. She just lets the thought pass through her head, and then promptly shunts it.
Harrow goes through the same motions as last time, her bony hands and elbows making quick work to Gideon’s sore back. Gideon tries not to moan, mostly succeeds (she thinks), but sometimes she catches Harrow laughing under her breath.
There’s a particular knot in her shoulder blade, probably from holding her stick weird, that Harrow pays close attention to. She massages around it, pulling the knotted muscle with her deft hands, gently rubbing it with her pointy elbow. Gideon sighs every time there’s the crrrrrr sound of her muscles relaxing. She doesn’t think her muscles are supposed to make that noise, but it’s a splendid feeling.
“Why’re you so good at this,” Gideon wonders aloud, her words sounding awfully close to a sigh. At this point, Gideon’s flipped over and Harrow’s paying attention to the stressed muscles of her knees.
“Practice,” Harrow says, which is such a Harrow answer.
Gideon wants to ask, What happened to med school? or even, What happened to school in general? or more like, Why is my Harrow a masseuse in the bad part of town when she should be studying for the MCAT? but she knows Harrow, knows Harrow will probably kick her vagina for it, so she keeps quiet. Or maybe the question is, You could kick me out if you really wanted to, why are you indulging me like this?
And then Harrow does something very un-Harrow-like, and is the first to speak. “So,” she says awkwardly, pushing a thumb into her thigh muscle. “You’re still playing ice hockey.”
“I sure am,” Gideon says.
“Captain?”
“No, Judith beat me out. Not even vice.”
“Figures.”
Gideon rolls her eyes and kicks her a little bit. Harrow grabs her leg and pushes her down and says, “Clients are not allowed to kick the masseuse.”
“Clients can kick the masseuse if the masseuse is mean.”
“Show me where it says that on the website.”
“It’s somewhere in between cloud whispers and playful spirals.”
Harrow doesn’t bite, just continues to massage her strong, muscled thigh. Gideon thinks she spends a little too much time in that particular area, but it’s not like she’s complaining.
The rest of the massage is spent in blissful silence. Harrow does a good and precise job, just like she had done last time, and Gideon feels so good and loose, she might turn into a puddle and be whisked down the drain. “Buh,” Gideon says when Harrow massages (fondles) the part where her thigh and torso connect.
If Gideon were to crack an eye open, she’d see that Harrow was smiling, but she hadn’t, so she did not.
“That’s it,” Harrow says right at the hour mark. “Put on your clothes and get the fuck out of here.”
“You’re not making a strong case for your 100% tip,” Gideon says, but Harrow’s already left the room.
Gideon leaves the 100% tip.
After practice the next day, Gideon unblocks the number. Reblocks it. Unblocks it again. Types out a message. Deletes it. Blocks it again. Unblocks it. Stares at the contact name. Erases it. Types a new name. Types a new message. Sends it with a shriek and throws her phone across the room.
POSSIBLY SPAM @ [7:50 PM]: hey
nonagesimus @ [7:52 PM]: who is this?
Gideon stares at that text for a while, unsure how to respond. It’s been three years, that’s fair, and Gideon had her blocked, but—they’ve known each other for twenty-one fucking years, did she seriously delete her number after one fight?!
POSSIBLY SPAM @ [7:59 PM]: did u seriously delete my number
It takes Harrow a long time to respond to this, which doesn’t bother Gideon at all by the way, so Gideon takes a long, hot shower and does not think about Harrowhark at all. She thinks about Coronabeth, who’s been in this shower with her before, even if it was just the once.
Gideon does not look at her phone when she gets out of the shower, but she does make herself food, put on a show, and clean her room a little bit. When she does look, Harrow has responded. Gideon doesn’t want to open the text, but she does because she’s a masochist.
nonagesimus @ [8:18 PM]: you had me blocked. what was i supposed to do
Gideon ignores the urge to shove her phone down the garbage disposal.
POSSIBLY SPAM @ [8:38 PM]: i’m surprised u didnt block me back
nonagesimus @ [8:38 PM]: seemed unnecessary when you put in all that effort
POSSIBLY SPAM @ [8:39 PM]: oh so i see youre responding on time now
nonagesimus @ [8:39 PM]: funny i could say the same for you!
Gideon doesn’t think when she dials Harrow’s number, doesn’t imagine she’ll answer either, but she does, and the first thing Harrow says is, “You’re such a fucking bitch to me.”
Gideon really considers shoving her phone down the garbage disposal, but the only person that’ll actually hurt is herself, so she doesn’t. She wants to shove Harrowhark down the garbage disposal, though.
“Oh, like you’ve been a fucking saint.”
“Why are we fighting now? Don’t you get tired?”
“Harrow, I’m the one putting in some actual effort here,” Gideon bites out. She paces around her room, kicking her dirty gear around. She runs a hand through her drying hair, wants to pull some of it out in frustration, but then again, that’ll just be Harrow winning again. “You’ve seen me twice, and you’ve threatened to call the authorities during one of those occasions.”
“I feel like I have a pretty strong case for harassment.”
“Wh—no you fucking don’t. If I were a cop, I’d laugh in your face and kick you.”
“See? Fucking bitch.”
“I wish you could listen to yourself while you say this stupid shit,” Gideon says. “You should’ve stayed blocked. Also, your massages suck.”
“You were moaning yesterday, I don’t think my massages suck.”
Gideon takes a second to respond, listens to the way Harrow breathes on the other line, and she recognizes those breaths, that wet voice, the words she uses when she doesn’t know what else to say. Harrowhark Nonagesimus is crying, and Gideon doesn’t even have it in her to make fun of her for it. “It’s been three years.”
“More than three years.”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s not like I’ve been keeping track.”
“I haven’t.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Gideon says. “Can’t we—” she stops for a second, trying to find the words she means to say. Can’t we start over? she wants to say, or maybe it’s, Why did you push me away in the first place? or perhaps it’s, Yeah, okay, I did miss you, but I fucking hate you. So she says, “Why don’t we try again?”
Harrow doesn’t respond immediately, but that’s fine. Gideon’s resigned herself to this never fixing itself, decided that three years ago. “Try what again?”
“Don’t be fucking daft.”
“I’m not being fucking daft. Explain it to me.”
“Why don’t we try being friends again, stupid Nonagesimus? What else could I fucking mean?”
“It didn’t work out great last time,” Harrow says, and Gideon could punch her for that, really.
“What does eighteen years mean to you? Nothing?”
There’s a sniffle on the other line, but otherwise nothing.
“I feel like this is the universe giving me a sign to make amends with your stupid ass. If you want me to ignore the signs, that’s fine—”
“Don’t,” she says, and Gideon hears the break in her voice, and fucking hell, Gideon can count the amount of times Harrow’s been vulnerable on her hand. “I mean, don’t ignore the signs.”
“I’m not trying to, Harrow.” Gideon grips her phone tightly. She rubs at the part where the meat of her thigh meats her torso, where Harrow had massaged yesterday. “Stop pushing me away.”
“Fine,” Harrow says, a very Harrow-like response.
“And put my number in your phone, for fucksake.”
“Fine,” she says, and then hangs up.
nonagesimus @ [8:44 PM]: you’re in my phone. now shut up
griddle @ [8:44 PM]: i can finally sleep at night
“One Mithraeum,” Judith says, her lithe body folded in half, her right arm grasping her right foot.
“Two Mithraeum,” the entire team echoes.
“Three Mithraeum.”
“Four Mithraeum.”
This goes on until the team dully says, “Twenty Mithraeum,” with as much enthusiasm as Gideon learning calculus in twelfth grade.
“Switch legs,” she instructs, and everyone does just so, grabbing their left foot with their left hand. “One Mithraeum.”
“Two Mithraeum.”
Gideon does her stretches dutifully, saying every even Mithraeum on beat. She’s not thinking about Harrow’s texts, her phone, her lips, her eyes, her skinny little thighs, or her bony hands. She doesn’t think about not even being in Harrow’s phone at all, or not even being blocked, for that matter.
“Gideon!” Judith says, snapping Gideon out of her stupor. Gideon jumps in her skin and leans back, shrinking a little bit under her captain’s cruel, cold gaze. Coronabeth laughs behind her hand. “We’re going on our backs. Pay attention.”
“Yes, Captain,” Gideon mumbles, thudding to the floor next to Camilla.
“Knee twists. Cam, start the count,” Judith says.
Camilla, the ever-dutiful vice captain, says, “One Mithraeum.”
“Two Mithraeum,” everyone says.
“Three Mithraeum.”
“Four Mithraeum.
Once Judith is satisfied, she dismisses them to go gear up in the locker room. Jeannemary walks with her new freshman friend—someone on the JV team, not the varsity team like she is—which is probably good for her heart. Coronabeth has moved on to her next victim, a dopey little sophomore varsity benchwarmer by the name of Kitty. Kitty blushes just enough to please Coronabeth’s evil heart. Gideon rolls her eyes.
At least Camilla says something. “Corona,” she says, physically pulling her away, “that’s enough. Help me gear up.”
“I’ll help you gear up anytime, Hect,” she says, letting herself be pulled away. Kitty pouts and harrumphs.
“Don’t let Coronabeth fiddle with you like that,” Gideon advises.
“Oh,” Kitty says.
“She’s just mad that Captain doesn’t give her the time of day,” she explains. “And then she takes it out on unsuspecting underclassmen.”
Kitty looks up at Gideon with a frown. She’s kind of cute, Gideon thinks, blonde hair in messy braids, a splatter of freckles across her nose, green eyes deep in thought. She’s not really built like an ice hockey player, at least none of the ones Gideon has seen, but she knows that she’s quick on the ice, which pushed her to gear up for varsity as a sophomore. Even if she is just a benchwarmer, it’s pretty impressive.
“What about you?” Kitty asks.
“Hm?” Gideon opens her locker with a big gulp to stop herself from breathing in the fumes. Kitty’s locker is only a few down, so she tilts her head around another body to look at her.
“Do you date underclassmen?”
Gideon laughs in surprise, pulling out her shin pads.
“Jesus christ, woman, put those things in a fucking washing machine!” someone says from across the locker room. All the girls laugh loudly and Gideon smiles sheepishly.
“I haven’t, um, dated in awhile,” Gideon says, kind of telling the truth. Mostly telling the truth, she thinks. “Got my heart broken. Recovering. You know, all that.”
“Are you recovered?” Kitty asks, slipping on her pants.
Gideon grabs her pants out of the locker with a frown. She thinks about her most recent unblock, thinks about it for a nice, long minute, and then says, “I think I am.”
“Oop,” Coronabeth says, blocking another one of Gideon’s shots. Coronabeth’s practice stick is bedazzled, which is fucking mortifying, considering that she keeps blocking Gideon’s shots with it.
“Nav, that’s your tenth shot that’s been blocked,” Aiglamene says, sliding up next to Gideon. She’s holding a clipboard that looks like it has a bite mark on it (probably Jeannemary’s doing). She marks something down with a swift flick of her wrist, and then pokes Gideon in between her eyes with the other end. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, Coach,” Gideon says. She pops her mouthguard out. “Knee’s hurting,” she lies.
“Do you wanna warm the bench over there for me, then?” She points to where Kitty is currently relacing her skates. Gideon runs a tongue over her teeth and closes her eyes.
“No, Coach.”
“Then get a fucking grip. If we lose to New Rho, I’m going to have someone’s head.” Aiglamene skates off with a string of swear words, and then, “Chatur, your pants are falling down! Pull them back up, goddammit!”
Camilla sails a shot straight right into the top-right of the net and Gideon mumbles, “Show off.”
“Ever heard of not missing?”
“Never tried that,” Gideon says, lining up for another shot behind Judith. Once it’s her turn, she tries to feint, which kind of throws Coronabeth off, and then aims for the five-hole between her legs. Corona manages to maneuver her body just in time to block the shot with her bedazzled fucking stick.
“Better luck next time!” Coronabeth says. Gideon’s sure she’s smiling behind her helmet.
“I’m going to the other goalie,” Gideon decides, ignoring Corona’s annoying little taunts. The other goalie isn’t the starter like Coronabeth is, but she’s not bad at all, either. Gideon misses the next three, as well.
Wind sprints it is.
“This is Isaac with Drearburh Massage. If you’re a salesman, please fuck off. If you’re a customer, please don’t fuck off. How can I help you?”
“Is there a day when you’re not working?”
“You’re lucky that Jeannemary likes you.” Click. Gideon stomps out a lit cigarette under her boot, pretty certain that a passing car just tried to hit her with it. The pharmacy across the street is closed now. Might be because there’s a bullet hole in the window. Gideon wonders if they’re going to fix that.
Isaac takes his sweet time grabbing Gideon, probably hoping she’s going to be taken out by gang activity in the interim. She wonders if she’s the only one on her team who has actually gotten a massage here. No one else has talked about it. Maybe they didn’t think it’d be worth it, and it kind of isn’t. Maybe they’re forking out the extra fifty dollars it takes to go somewhere else.
Isaac eventually grabs her. Together, they walk through the creepy halls and up the creepy stairs. ASS PA L has turned into ASS PA . Isaac doesn’t even try to open it at this point, just lazily points to the door. Gideon smacks into it with her muscled shoulder, making it swing open. She’s satisfied with her efforts momentarily, until she hears a, “Fucking ouch!”
Gideon peers around the door and finds Harrow on the floor, one of her hands covering her face. There’s blood dripping between her fingers. Their eyes meet and Harrow says, “Of fucking course.”
“It’s your fault that you were within range!”
“Blaming me for you bludgeoning my head in and giving me a bloody nose. Real classy, Griddle.”
“Up,” Gideon says, but doesn’t wait before she hoists Harrow up herself and leads her to one of the chairs. “Stop tilting your head back,” she says. “Pinch it. God, don’t you know anything? Wouldn’t they have taught you this in medical school?”
“You’re so fucking obnoxious, it’s actually insane,” she says, but she dutifully follows her instructions.
“Isaac, hand me that—” she waves her hand around and Isaac hands her a tissue. Gideon rips it in half and rolls them up. “Shove these up your nose.”
“Why,” is all Harrow says, but she shoves them up her nose.
“You’re really such an idiot.”
“Am not,” Harrow says, her voice stuffy sounding.
“Trust me, my gothic rosethorn, I’ve had my fair share of bloody noses. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t start with the nicknames again,” Harrow says.
Gideon smiles, unbidden to her, and drops a hand to Harrow’s thigh. Harrow doesn’t shove her off like Gideon expects, so it kind of just... sits there. “I just know you missed my nicknames.”
“I did not miss your nicknames.”
The tissues start to bleed through, so Gideon grabs another and does the same thing as before. Harrow rips out the bloody ones and shoves the new ones in. Gideon places her hand back on her thigh. Harrow still does not push her away.
“You so did,” Gideon says after she’s satisfied with that. “My favorite was midnight hagette.”
“You loved that one.”
Gideon did love that one. She doesn’t say that, decides to stay silent for now, but Gideon thinks to herself, why did I let it get this bad? And also, being with Harrow is so easy. And also, I don’t want it to get bad again.
Harrow’s nose eventually stops bleeding after going through two more tissues. Gideon looks at the clock on the wall. They’re already twenty minutes past the start of her appointment time. “Well,” she says, standing up and leaning back on her heels. She awkwardly claps her thighs with her hands. “Guess I should go.”
“But your appointment,” Harrow says, moving to push down the overflowing trash with her foot.
“It’s fine. Probably wouldn’t be worth it.”
“Shut up. Get naked and lay face down in massage room two.” Harrow doesn’t leave her room to argue, because she’s already entered the employee room to grab something. Gideon tries not to smile, fails, and then goes to massage room two and gets naked.
Isaac’s gone and hidden somewhere, massage room one, maybe, so Harrow is the one who checks her out after her forty-minute appointment. She doesn’t have to pay for anything, Aiglamene’s already done all the hard work, but she needs the receipt so it can be signed off on. “Ugh,” Harrow says, clicking something. She rolls her eyes and types something in the computer, backspaces, and then goes back to the previous page. “Computers are fucking stupid.”
“Maybe because this computer looks like it came from the stone age,” Gideon says, rapping a knuckle against the gray plastic. Harrow grumbles some more, swears under her breath, punches the side of the computer, shakes out her hand, and then bites her pretty pink lips while she tries to find the correct page.
“Listen, can Tettares, like, fax the receipt to Aiglamene, or something?”
“Tettares?”
“The receptionist.”
“Why the f—nevermind, that’s not worth the fight. No, Aiglamene doesn’t believe in emails.”
“God, I fucking hate old people!” Harrow exclaims. She clicks the mouse harshly and groans. “I’m going to kill myself.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Gideon says, rounding the desk to help Harrow. She stares at the dusty old machine. She’s using internet fucking explorer. “Scroll down,” she instructs.
“Like you know what the fuck you’re talking about,” but Harrow, ever the tsundere, scrolls down.
“Click on that—no, the other thing—Harrow.”
“What?!”
Gideon, sick of this interaction already, leans forward and grabs the mouse herself, her chest flush against Harrow’s back while she takes control of the computer. Harrow squeaks and sits ramrod straight, but Gideon leans even further to read the text off the computer screen, her chin resting near Harrow’s shoulder. “Holy fuck, the brightness of the computer screen is searing my eyes.”
“I don’t know how to fix that,” she says, her voice shaky. Gideon enjoys this secretly, or maybe not-so-secretly, because Harrow says, “Stop smiling, you jackass!”
“Don’t tell me what to do with my face,” she says, and then clicks the printing icon like she’s supposed to. She prints out a copy, and then leans her body over the keyboard (deliberately, because she’s a shit) to grab the paper at the printer. Harrow gets a face full of her tits.
“Easy as pie,” she says, returning to the other side of the desk.
“I hate you so much that there’s a physical ache in my body.”
“I don’t think that’s hate, my gloom mistress. Your body is lusting after me.”
“Shut up, get out of my massage parlor,” Harrow says, standing up to physically push her out of the room. “Out, out, I hate you.”
And if Gideon is smiling when the massage parlor door slams in her face, that’s no one’s business but her own.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Gideon says in her mirror. She shakes her head and slaps her hands to her cheeks and tries again. “What are you doing tomorrow? What are you doing tomorrow? What are you doing tomorrow?”
She’s not entirely confident, isn’t sure she’ll ever be, but she dials the familiar number anyway. It rings twice before there’s a, “Wh—”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Gideon grits out before she can back down.
“Huh?!”
“Tomorrow, like the day after today, two days after yesterday, the day before two days from now. Sound familiar?”
“I know what tomorrow is, Griddle!” Harrow squeaks through the phone, and Gideon really wishes she could see her face. She’s imagining it now, her twisted little features, her delicate nose scrunching at the thought of hanging out with Gideon. Gideon smiles. She finds that she’s been smiling a lot lately. “Why?” she asks like an accusation.
“I’m putting in the effort like I said I would. If you’re going to be an ass and push me away again, that’s fine. Tell me now.”
Harrow takes her sweet time responding. Gideon imagines her kicking her feet up in the air like an upturned turtle, rolling around like a disgruntled little cat, swinging her fists into the wall and then whimpering in pain because her bones are made of spaghetti noodles. “I’m,” Harrow says with some effort, “sorry. You’re. Right.”
“What was that?”
“I’m not repeating myself! If you didn’t hear me, you missed your fucking chance!”
“My bad, it just sounded like you were pushing out a particularly heavy shit while you said it.”
“I really do fucking hate you, it’s like this—this visceral feeling—”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Gideon asks again. “Do you need me to rephrase?” She paces around the room, stubbing her toe into the corner of her bed. She hops on her foot and swears under her breath. “Are you free tomorrow? I can try another phrase, give me a second.”
“I’m off. I’m doing nothing. Are you happy? Happy that I’m a sad, lonely little hagette like you always wanted?”
“Next time you say something as stupid as that, make sure to record yourself beforehand so you can listen to it later. No, you fucking idiot, I’m asking if you want to do something with me.”
“Why?”
“You need to stop asking me why, or I’m going to actually punch you.”
Gideon hears a meow in the background before Harrow says, “What—what do you want to do?”
Gideon isn’t blushing. She knows this, because even though her skin is hot to the touch, she refuses to look in the mirror. “Let’s just… take it easy, maybe. Do you want to run some errands with me?”
Gideon’s expecting Harrow to say, Fuck no or, That’s taking it easy??? or, That is not how I want to spend my Saturday. But delightfully, she says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Gideon breathes out, stunned. She looks in the mirror and—for fucksake, she is blushing.
“I said okay!”
“Don’t act like I’m forcing you to hangout with me!”
“I can act however I damn well please,” she says, because she loves to live in contradictions.
“No, you need to be taught some manners.”
“I have manners, you imbecile.”
“I beg to fucking differ.” And then, before Harrow can retort with something idiotic, “I’m picking you up at ten.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“Then text it to me, wise guy,” Gideon says, and then hangs up.
She manages, though barely, to not throw her phone at the wall.
Gideon sits in her car at 9:38. She’s already been waiting for well over twenty minutes. She didn’t mean to be this early, but Harrow’s apartment complex is right next to her gym, and she showered there, and it’d be a waste to go all the way home and then all the way back. At least that’s what she tells herself, because her student accommodations are less than a ten minute drive from Harrow’s place.
nonagesimus @ [9:39 AM]: WHY have u been here since 9:15?????
Gideon looks up from her phone to triangulate Harrow’s location. There’s a little black blur in front of one of the ninth floor’s windows, and Gideon blushes deep and red. Has Harrow been watching her this entire time?!
griddle @ [9:40 AM]: why tf have u been watching me this entire time
Gideon’s aware that Harrow is quick to anger, so she’s not surprised when her phone starts ringing. She answers it with a breezy, “What’s up, sweet thing?”
“I wasn't watching you,” she says tightly. Gideon can perfectly imagine Harrow hiding behind those black curtains, peeping out a critical black eye, grinding her teeth in anger. “I don’t know what your car looks like, I thought some neighborhood freak was—was being a freak.”
“You’re such a wordsmith.”
“I don’t know why I put up with you,” she says. Gideon peers up to the ninth floor and watches her little face pop out between two black curtains. She’s scowling.
“You look so happy to see me.”
“Happy is a word you could use,” she says, closing the curtains. “I’m coming down. Let me feed Metatarsal first.” Gideon doesn’t have time to make fun of her cat-naming abilities before Harrow hangs up. Gideon leans back with a self-satisfied little smirk, always knowing exactly what to say to get the reaction she wants out of Harrow.
She flips through one of her assigned readings for her nutrition class, eyes going cross-eyed at explanations and words she doesn’t pretend to understand.
There’s a gentle knock on her passenger seat window and Gideon swivels her head to look at Harrowhark Nonagesimus in all of her scowling glory. She’s wearing too big black jeans with a frayed black belt, a black long-sleeved undershirt, and a faded black band T-shirt. She has a crossbody bag that's covered in little skulls.
“Open the door,” she bites out, her voice muffled through the barrier of Gideon’s car.
“Sir, yes sir,” Gideon mumbles, unlocking the car. She adjusts her seat so it’s sitting upright and smiles at Harrow. “Is your toe bone of a cat all fed?”
Harrow shuffles her way in the car, eyebrows furrowed in her signature glare. She shuts the door and huffs, leaning back a little bit with her arms crossed. She’s like a petulant toddler. “Don’t make fun of my cat’s name.”
“I wasn’t making fun.”
Harrow pushes some of her hair out of her eyes and manages, “Yes.”
“You’re acting like I’m holding you hostage. The door is unlocked. Feel free to leave.”
“Wuuuhhhhhaghhhh,” Harrow groans intelligently, closing her eyes. “Don’t make me apologize twice in two days.”
“I’m not making you do anything.”
“Okay,” Harrow says. Her fingers tighten around her arms and she takes a deep, shaky breath. Gideon doesn’t know why she’s like this, doesn’t know why she wants to try again with her, but she does, and so she is. Harrow’s the hurdle, here. It’s like Gideon’s climbing up a mountain with no shoes, and it’s windy, and raining, and cold, and she has no harness, and there’s a deep abyss yawning underneath her that threatens to swallow her whole. “You’re right. I am—sorry.”
“Say it a little more convincingly, please.”
Gideon doesn’t expect her to oblige, but Harrow opens her eyes to stare at the cars lined on the street and says, “I’m sorry.”
Gideon watches as Harrow swallows. She takes a deep breath through her nose and looks away, putting her seatbelt on. “Thank you.”
“Ugh,” says Harrow, who must ruin every good moment ever.
When Gideon runs errands, she runs all of them. They start off at the glass recycling to drop off her growing collection of empty vodka bottles. Harrow helps her haul two milk crates worth of bottles and, of course, has to put in her opinion. “Someone’s an alcoholic.”
“This is, like, four months worth of alcohol. And I have friends over. Do you know what those are?”
Harrow very nearly hits her with one of the bottles, but they manage to recycle them without much of an incident.
They go to Lowes next. Gideon needs to pick up supplies for a bookshelf she’s attempting to build from scratch. She greets her fellow carabiner lesbians when she sees them. Harrow scowls at every single one of them.
“They’re going to think you’re a homophobe! Stop scowling!”
She grabs her supplies and they make a stop in the garden section so Gideon can smell some of the flowers. Harrow actually doesn’t make fun of her for this, but it’s probably because she’s actually enjoying herself and joining in on the fun. Gideon wishes she hadn’t left her phone in the car so she could take a picture of Harrow not scowling.
After Lowes, they stop by a diner because Harrow’s stomach is making weird, growling noises. Gideon eats her fill, her third meal of the day already, and Harrow enjoys herself a little too much while she’s devouring her burger and fries. Gideon manages to grab her phone and snap a picture before Harrow can do anything about it.
It’s a great picture, actually. There’s a fry hanging out of her mouth and some ketchup on the corner of her lip. Her eyes are screwed shut with a look of pure, unadulterated bliss. “Delete it,” Harrow says in between bites.
“No,” Gideon says, but Harrow’s too engrossed in her burger to actually put up a fight.
Gideon’s next stop is the laundromat. She doesn’t let Harrow touch the garbage bag full of her gear in the back of her car. She’s afraid the nastiness of her gear might eat a hole through the bag, and then burn Harrow’s little baby hands. “This is literally a biohazard,” Harrow says, backing away as Gideon pulls the garbage bag out with a humph.
“Plug your nose,” Gideon suggests.
They spend the next hour at the laundromat, taking over a small section while Gideon sorts through her gear. “Wash the gear bag, too,” Harrow says, or maybe begs.
Harrow’s the one who folds it up all nicely for her, perfectly tetrising her gear inside her now-clean bag. “You need to invest in, like, febreze,” Harrow suggests.
Gideon throws her gear bag back in her car and thinks, if someone tells me to wash my shin guards next practice, I’m going to kill myself, and then says to Harrow, “If someone tells me to wash my shin guards next practice, I’m going to kill myself.”
“I bet there’s all kinds of undiscovered life in those shin guards.”
Gideon’s final stop of the day is the grocery store. She picks up her medicine first, and then shops around with Harrow while Harrow judges her eating choices. “That’s such a waste of five dollars,” she hears Harrow say. “Buy the cheap parmesan cheese.”
“I’m not buying the cheap, store-brand parmesan cheese!” Gideon says. “I like this one, stop telling me what to eat when you can barely scarf down a single dino nugget.”
Harrow does not listen to Gideon and continues to tell her what to eat. “Don’t buy milk,” she instructs. “Big Milk has pushed the dairy industry on all of us.”
“Big Milk?!” Gideon guffaws, putting the 2% in her cart, anyway.
“If you’re going to buy milk, at least buy whole!”
They meander their way through the cereal aisle. Gideon drops a family-sized box of Canaan-Os in her cart. She’s a student athlete, honestly, she’s allowed to eat whatever she wants, but Harrow tsks her head and says, “Buy this one, it’s better for you.” She points to some off-brand cereal box that’s sad and beige and definitely does not have enough sugar for Gideon.
“But—but I like this one,” Gideon says, holding up the box of Canaan-Os. The mascot is a cow that is smiling at them eerily.
“It has over twelve grams of sugar per serving! Put it back!”
Gideon puts it back and gets the sad, beige one. “Aw man,” she says.
Gideon checks out and pretends she doesn’t see Harrow put a chocolate bar on the conveyor belt. If this is what it takes to get Harrow to eat, then Gideon is more than happy to buy her a damn chocolate bar.
Gideon drives back home with Harrow only criticizing her driving skills a few times. She lives in student accommodations off-campus, but it’s close enough so she can take a bus or walk to campus. Plus, it’s apartment-style, so she gets an entire kitchen, living room, and bedroom all to herself. All things considered, it’s not bad at all.
Harrow tries to help bring in her groceries, but Gideon ends up shouldering the majority of them while Harrow carries a pack of beer. Gideon waves at all of her athlete buddies and fellow students while they meander through the halls. Harrow isn’t necessarily scowling, now, but she is kind of hiding behind Gideon’s back. “Harrow,” she says, one of her reusable grocery bags sliding its way down her shoulder. She jerks it back up and frowns down at her. “Stop hiding. The people here are nice.”
“Hey, Gideon,” one of the fellow student athletes says as she passes by her in the hall. “Need some help?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks though.” The student athlete (Gideon struggles with her name, it might start with a J) smiles and waves her goodbye. “See?” Gideon says. “Nice.”
“I’m not a feral cat in need of socializing, Griddle,” Harrow says.
“Really? Could have fooled me.”
Gideon stops in front of her apartment and struggles with grabbing her keys from her carabiner. Harrow does not help, because she’s a menace, but Gideon eventually manages to grab the correct key and shoves it in the keyhole.
Inside, it’s nice and cool and everything Gideon looks forward to when she comes home.
“Drop the beer on the table for me, will ya,” Gideon says, throwing her grocery bags across her table with wild abandon. “Gotta piss so bad.”
Harrow does not respond to this, simply rolls her eyes, and Gideon rushes to her bathroom to relieve her poor bladder.
Once she’s washed her hands, she comes back in the kitchen to find Harrow reorganizing her entire pantry. “What the fuck,” says Gideon.
“I don’t like how you did this,” Harrow explains, her head deep in the pantry to grab something from the back. “Why are the spices organized in this way?”
“Alphabetical order?”
“Well,” she says, popping her head out. There is a little crown of dust circling her head. Gideon wants to take another picture, but Harrow won’t be placated by a burger this time, so she decides not to. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to organize them by country of origin? Or maybe usage. When was the last time you used a bay leaf, really?”
“The last time I used a bay leaf,” which is never, “is none of your business, thank you very much,” she says.
“Start reorganizing your fridge,” Harrow instructs like she owns the damn place. “I looked in there and it’s not pretty. I saw a culture growing in one of your tupperwares. Throw it out.”
“Fine, Bossy McBossypants,” Gideon grumbles, opening her fridge. It’s like an entire ecosystem in some parts. Maybe Harrow is right.
They spend a long while cleaning and reorganizing Gideon’s pantry and fridge. Harrow’s only slightly satisfied with Gideon’s work, so she takes over the fridge when she’s done with the pantry. She then instructs Gideon to go through her tupperware and throw out anything that doesn’t have a matching lid. Gideon’s not really sure why she’s doing what Harrow asks, but it’s not like she’s just going to leave Harrow alone to organize her entire kitchen for her.
Harrow does not stop at the kitchen. She starts throwing Gideon’s laundry in her laundry basket, ripping off her sheets to put on some fresh ones, organizing her desk to the way she sees fit. Gideon’s trying to find it in herself to be annoyed that Harrow is encroaching her space like this, but she’s… not annoyed, really. It’s kind of endearing.
It’s endearing, Gideon thinks, when Harrow shuffles her hands through her underwear drawer to refold all of her boxers. It’s endearing, Gideon thinks, when Harrow pulls out a hideous pair of Homer Simpson boxers and presents them to Gideon with an unimpressed stare. It’s endearing when she starts informing Gideon how to properly fold her clothes for the maximum amount of space, and telling her which shoes she should donate because they’re out of season (Harrow knows nothing about fashion, so Gideon ignores her).
It’s endearing when Harrow proclaims she needs to take a shower and grabs one of Gideon’s towels and shirts and boxers without a care in the world. Gideon tries not to think about Harrow using her soap, or her shampoo, or her conditioner, or her naked body under the warm water.
It’s endearing, Gideon thinks to herself, when Harrow walks out of the shower in a pair of Gideon’s boxers and an old, way too big T-shirt. She’s rubbing at her short, wet hair with the towel, little drops of water nestling in her collarbone. Gideon looks away.
Because Harrow’s been so endearing, Gideon whips up dinner for the two of them while Harrow spends her time organizing Gideon’s book collection. It’s not much of a book collection, just random novels she’s amassed over the years, but Harrow takes it upon herself to organize them by genre and then author’s last name.
Gideon watches her while she works, Pride and Prejudice in her hands while she decides if she should put it in the classics category or the romance category. She’s not scowling anymore, but her black eyebrows are furrowed deep in thought, little indents on her lip from her teeth. Gideon wants to rub those little indents with her thumb.
The silence is comfortable and amicable. Gideon takes her time making her food and enjoys watching Harrow’s brain work while she decides how she wants to organize Gideon’s living room.
“Dinner is served, m’lady,” Gideon says. Harrow looks up from her project, which is spread across Gideon’s living room, and comes to the kitchen table.
“It smells good,” Harrow says, her first compliment in maybe forever.
“Onion and garlic, baby,” Gideon says intelligently, doling out a portion for Harrow.
The silence is a little awkward while they eat, so Gideon asks what she’s been wanting to ask all day. “What happened to med school?”
Harrow finishes her bite. Gideon expects her to lash out, kick her in the vagina, maybe, but she just sits there in silent contemplation. “My parents are sick,” she says. She flits out her tongue to wipe up a piece of sauce on her lip. She’s not looking at Gideon at all, her eyes staring at their meal like it’s of great importance.
Gideon knows Harrow’s parents. Gideon also hates Harrow’s parents. The fight—the one that happened three years ago—a lot of it was very… complicated, a lot of it was Gideon’s fault, but Harrow’s parents had a particularly beefy hand in how it all went down. She doesn’t like thinking about their fight. There’s a little section in her chest dedicated to that fight, and it aches and hurts every time she thinks about it.
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Harrow says, her knuckles white from the vice grip around her fork. “Two years ago. Cancer. Both of them. I dropped out of my first year of undergrad to take care of them.”
“Okay.”
“They’re still sick. Mom might be going on hospice soon.”
“Harrow.”
“They liked getting massages because they said it helped with—with their lymphatic system, or something. Pseudoscience, bullshit. I got really good at it.”
“Okay.”
“I needed money because all of their money was going to their cancer treatments.”
“The money they lorded over you to pay for med school?”
“Drearburh Massage had an opening,” Harrow says, ignoring the probing questions. She’s still looking at her meal like it’ll have the answer to all of her problems. “They didn’t even interview me, I got the job.”
That… explains it all pretty well, actually.
Gideon knows that Harrow doesn’t have any friends besides her, and their friendship is on tentative terms right now. Harrow’s always struggled with this kind of thing, struggles to open herself up to other people. After their big fight, when Harrow’s parents were diagnosed with cancer, she probably had no one.
Gideon hadn’t unblocked her for that entire three year time period. She imagines Harrow getting the diagnosis, typing in her phone number, listening to it go straight to voicemail, and then clicking on her contact and pressing delete. Even then, she never blocked her back.
Gideon feels stupid and immature now, but that’s all an eighteen-year-old Gideon could do when her heart had been broken.
The silence stretches around them awkwardly, and Harrow pushes her food around with her fork. “So. No med school,” she says, her fragile voice filling up the air of Gideon’s apartment.
Gideon’s not sure she has the right string of words in her body to comfort Harrow. So she says nothing about the matter at hand, and instead says, “Stop playing with your food. You’re not a toddler.”
“I’m not playing with my food, you fucking dolt!” Harrow retorts back quickly. “I’m mixing it around, I like several flavor profiles to hit my tongue at once!”
“Once you’re done with that,” Gideon says, already onto her second serving, “let’s watch a show. Your pick.”
“Addams Family,” Harrow says quickly.
“Oh, come on.”
Their fight went like this:
Gideon, after years of pent up anger and frustration, confessed to Harrow that she had been in love with her “for-fucking-ever” after their high school graduation ceremony. Harrow freaked the fuck out, walked away for all of ten minutes, and then said, Fuck you Griddle, and then Gideon pulled down her pants and ate her out right then and there under the bleachers.
This little incident started months of secret little trysts that turned out to be not-so-secret, because sometime in the following August, Harrow’s parents caught them in Harrow’s room with Gideon’s hand up her shirt. This was Gideon’s bad, honestly, she got so caught up in the idea of sucking bruises on Harrow’s skin that she forgot to lock her bedroom door.
The aftermath of that interaction wasn’t really that dramatic, just her parents saying, “Get the fuck out of my Catholic home,” and then her booking it out of there with her pants falling down because she forgot to grab her belt.
The fallout after was dramatic, though, because her parents, being good Catholics, were absolutely and astoundingly homophobic. And because they would not pay for their daughter's expensive-ass undergraduate degree and medical school if she were a dyke, they gave her an ultimatum. Money for medical school and a free place to live, or continue living in sin with Gideon Nav for no money, no place to live, and no support. And you’ll be cut out of the will.
Gideon doesn’t blame her for her choice. Medical school is expensive, renting a place is expensive, being alive is expensive, and Gideon probably would choose the money over herself, too. But what hurt the most, really, was watching Harrow shove her sexuality deep, deep inside her so she could pay for medical school. And the eighteen years of friendship, she supposes.
But now her parents are sick and dying (good riddance, honestly), all of that money is nearly gone, and Harrow’s not in undergrad, not on-track for medical school, works in the worst part of town, and has no friends to show for it.
Gideon would laugh if it wasn’t so sad.
Thursday is the first-game-of-the-season party. Party, as in, everyone over twenty-one is going to the bars to get absolutely shitfaced. Friday is their day of recovery, and Saturday is their first game against New Rho.
Coronabeth @ [8:24 PM]: Do u think jody will drink tonight
“This is getting sad,” Camilla says.
Cam @ [8:25 PM]: this is getting sad
Coronabeth @ [8:27 PM]: what skirt would jody like best do u think img64 img65 img66 img67
Gideon peruses through the pictures absentmindedly.
Gideon @ [8:28 PM]: i think jude would like something more modest than all of these tbh
Coronabeth @ [8:28 PM]: Plzzzz be serious rn im going to kill myself
Gideon @ [8:28 PM]: idfk ??? 2????
Coronabeth @ [8:29 PM]: that’s the worst fucking one!!! i hate butch lesbians!
Gideon @ [8:29 PM]: WHY WOULD U SEND IT THEN????
Gideon shuts off her phone and refuses to look at Coronabeth’s incoming texts. Camilla reads through their conversation and laughs to herself, before going back to the task at hand which is flossing spinach out of her teeth. Gideon’s done getting ready, it honestly takes her five minutes at most, so now she needs to find a way to entertain herself while Camilla finishes.
Gideon’s found that a lot of her entertainment, lately, has come through Harrow. It’s embarrassing, she’d never tell her that, but it is what it is. She dials up the number and only waits three rings before there’s an ever-familiar, “What do you want.”
“God forbid I call you on a Thursday night.”
“I’m very, very busy, Griddle. I have things to attend to, you know.”
“Oh, yes. Like labeling all of your electronics with your new label maker. A coffee machine is just a coffee machine, it doesn’t need to be labeled.”
“Fuck you, I like my label maker.”
“Are you actually busy, or just Harrow-busy?”
There’s a meow on the other end, which is probably Metatarsal the evil cat, and then a deafening plunk of something glass hitting the floor. “Metatarsal, what the fuck!” Harrow says. There’s something going on the other end of the phone, but Gideon has time, so she just sits back on her couch. Camilla is still flossing spinach out of her teeth.
“What does Harrow-busy mean?” Harrow says a few minutes later, slightly out of breath.
“You know,” says Gideon, “when you come up with fake things to do so you don’t have to hang out with people.”
“Who’s asking? Ouch,” she says, another perfunctory meow in the background, and then the clinking of glass getting swept up.
“I’m asking, dumbass. I’m going out tonight to celebrate our upcoming game on Saturday.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want me to ask you slowly? Would. You. Like. To. Come?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
Gideon groans and rubs a hand over her face. Harrow makes everything so difficult. See, a normal friend would say either, So sorry I can’t go out tonight but have so much fun!!! or, Yes count me in!!!. Harrow is not normal and hardly counts as a friend, so of course she says neither of these things. “I thought it’d be good for you to make some friends. Meet people. Maybe start talking to a cute girl. You know, ‘cause your parents—” Gideon stops herself right there, knowing she’s walking into dangerous territory.
“What, ‘cause my parents are dying and I can finally like women without them lording their money over me, which they don’t have anymore?”
“I mean,” Gideon coughs, “something like that.”
And then Harrow honest to god laughs. Gideon’s entire body tingles at the noise. “That’s fair,” she says. “But I’m actually busy, not just Harrow-busy. I told Ianthe I’d get empanadas with her tonight. So I can’t.”
Gideon’s straddling a weird line between her being proud that Harrow is actually doing something and her being upset that Harrow is doing something without her. But they tried this little charade three years ago, and it didn’t work, and that was fine, so Gideon says, “The Coronabeth knockoff?!”
God, it must be Gideon’s lucky day, because Harrow laughs for the second time. “You should tell her that to her face. See what happens.”
“Your Saturday isn’t booked though, right?”
“What’s it to you?”
“The game, I mean, the first game. You’re coming. Right?” Gideon doesn’t mean to be awkward, but asking Harrow to do things with her, for her, is like pulling teeth. Harrow’s made it clear that she wants to try this again with Gideon, the friendship, but she’s not making it any easier in the slightest. It’s such a Harrow thing to do, Gideon muses, wanting something and then trying to self-sabotage because she doesn’t think she deserves it.
And then, like music to Gideon’s ears, “I’ll come.”
Gideon stops herself from punching her first in the air and settles her body back into the couch. She knows she’s blushing head-to-toe, doesn’t even have to look in the mirror to confirm it, and the smile on her face is so big, she’s afraid that her head might split in half. “Oh, good,” she says, trying to seem cool about it. “I’ll see you then.”
When she hangs up, Camilla comes out of the bathroom with a bloody toothpick in her hand. “I think I just sawed off some of my gum. Why’re you so happy?”
“No reason. Is Coronabeth still texting us?”
“Yes, she just asked what lace panties she should wear, and then sent seven separate images.”
“That sad, poor bitch. She actually thinks she’s going to get lucky tonight with Captain.”
Gideon imagines Priamhark’s face as the hockey puck while she warms up, sailing right through Corona’s holes, landing an easy top right shot. “Your knee was locked,” her coach says, not even looking up from her clipboard. “Gimme another one at the five.”
“Coach, that’s not fair if Corona knows where I’m going to hit it.”
“A good player, a great player, would be able to find the hole and shoot an easy shot. Coronabeth is good, but she’s full of holes today.”
“Coach!” Coronabeth pouts, blocking a shot from Kitty easily. “You’re supposed to be praising me right now.”
“You only blocked that shot because Kitty felt bad and gave you an easy one. Kitty, give me ten wind sprints for that.” Kitty groans and skates to the other side, joining Jeannemary who’s already mid-punishment. “Number nine, give me another shot.”
“Yes, Coach,” Gideon says, lining up for another shot.
Coronabeth is full of holes today, because the puck sails right between her legs.
“Coronabeth, you knew I was going for the five! Why were your legs open like that?!”
“You’ve seen my open legs before, Giddy, haven’t you?” Classic Corona, deflecting the blame with a sultry comment. Gideon doesn’t even know what to say to that, because she has seen her open legs before, and she enjoyed it immensely.
“Tridentarius, enough harassment,” Aiglamene says. “If we don’t defeat New Rho tonight, I’m making you all practice naked.”
“Gideon would like that,” Corona says. Gideon cross checks her, means to do it lightly, but ends up putting a little too much strength in it. “Don’t cross check your teammate!”
“You’re lucky I’m not swinging at your jaw with your bedazzled fucking stick,” Gideon says, and then skates off before Coronabeth can spew more shit her way.
People are slowly shuffling in the audience. Gideon doesn’t mean to look for a crop of black hair, or just a black blur in general, but she catches herself looking out in the crowd every couple of minutes. Jeannemary saddles up to her, amped to play in her first varsity game of the season (and her entire college career, which is truly crazy, considering she’s a freshman), and slaps her on the back. “Looking for someone?”
“No,” Gideon lies. “Is Isaac coming?”
“Sure is,” she says, popping her helmet off. She wipes at her sweaty black curls with her hand and points to somewhere in the crowd. Gideon follows her finger and finds Isaac, who is scrolling through his phone.
Jeannemary waves his way, Isaac somehow senses this, and looks up with the biggest smile Gideon’s ever seen on his sullen little face. “Let’s fucking go!” he yells.
“Love him.”
Gideon does see Pyrrha shuffling in with her new partner, someone Gideon doesn’t even know the name of yet. Pyrrha always shows up to her games. It makes Gideon feel all gooey and happy inside. Pyrrha was one of her foster placements, the last one, actually, before she aged out. She’s always treated her like a daughter, her daughter.
Pyrrha doesn’t walk up to the glass, will probably do introductions after the game, but they both wave at each other in acknowledgement.
Aiglamene blows a whistle that Gideon hears from across the rink. “Mithraeum, huddle!” Gideon tries not to roll her eyes as she skates across the rink, only slightly bumping into Coronabeth. Coronabeth just laughs and rolls her eyes, going to stand next to Judith.
“New Rho’s got a completely different lineup compared to last year,” Aiglamene starts. Aiglamene starts talking about strategy, weak points, all that boring stuff. Gideon’s not paying attention, because she finally sees her little gloom mistress walk through the doors.
It’s soured, somewhat, by her being accompanied by Ianthe, but that mood quickly dissipates when they make eye contact and Harrow gives her a weak wave. Holy shit, Gideon’s fucking pumped. Gideon watches as Ianthe and Harrow find a spot next to Isaac. She smiles dopily at her and even from afar, Gideon can tell she’s blushing.
“Nine!” her coach snaps, smacking her shoulder with her clipboard. “If you don’t pay attention, there are several other ladies here that would be more than willing to take your place.”
“Sorry, Coach,” Gideon says, not feeling that sorry.
Her team lines up for the announcer’s introductions. “Let’s introduce Team Mithraeum,” the announcer says. “Let’s start off with Team Mithraeum’s captain, Captain Judith Deuteros as number two, the left winger.” Judith skates on the ice with perfect technique like the good captain she is. “Captain Judith Deuteros is a senior at Mithraeum University. She is majoring in Applied Mathematics. When asked why, she said because math is fun. I certainly don’t think math is fun, but kudos to her.” The crowd laughs like they’re supposed to. Gideon groans. “Captain Judith has been part of the varsity team since her junior year as a winger, gaining first-string status the same year."
“Next we have Team Mithraeum’s vice captain, Vice Captain Camilla Hect as number six, the right winger.” Camilla’s quite popular with the ice hockey crowd, and has a little bit of a fanclub, honestly. There’s a gaggle of teenage girls in the front row that are shouting, Camilla, Camilla, notice me!!! Camilla waves at them and one of them faints. “Vice Captain Camilla Hect is a senior at Mithraeum University who is majoring in Psychology. She says that she’s majoring in Psychology because she likes learning about fucked up things.” Someone screams, That’s my fucking girl!!! “Vice Captain Camilla has been part of the varsity team since her junior year as a winger, becoming a first-string in the same year.”
“We next have Team Mithraeum’s defensewoman, Mercymorn Cristabel as number one.” The crowd’s reaction leaves much to be desired while Mercymorn skates on the ice. Mercymorn is not that popular, but she’s great at defense, which is why Aiglamene puts her in. “Mercymorn is a junior at Mithraeum University, majoring in Biology. When asked why, she said that she doesn’t want to answer. This is Mercymorn’s first year as a varsity and first-string player.” Scattered applause.
“Our second defensewoman is Jeannemary Chatur, number four. She is the youngest player and only freshman on varsity, as well as being the youngest player and only freshman on first-string!” The crowd goes wild as Jeannemary skates on the ice, but particularly the section where Isaac is seated. He keeps shouting, That’s my best fucking friend!!! Yeah!!! Crowds love up-and-coming talent. “Jeannemary is a freshman at Mithraeum University, and her major is undecided.”
“We next have our crowd favorite, Coronabeth Tridentarius as number three, Team Mithraeum’s goalie.” Coronabeth skates on the ice with a little flourish, and the crowd oohs and aahs on cue. There’s a little group in the front holding signs that say, CORONABETH NOTICE ME <3 or CORONABETH TOUCHED MY HAND TWO YEARS AGO AND I NEVER WASHED IT EVER AGAIN. “Coronabeth is a senior at Mithraeum University, majoring in Fashion. She says that she loves designing clothes that make her feel confident and sexy, while also being feminine and divine. She’s been a part of varsity since her sophomore year, becoming first-string last year. Let’s hear it again for Coronabeth!” The crowd erupts in applause.
“Last, but certainly not least, we have Gideon Nav as number nine, Team Mithraeum’s center.” Gideon’s the main scorer, so of course the crowd goes wild at her name. She also has plenty of fans, ones that blush down to their toes when she waves at them, little kids that smile toothily at her. Gideon peers up to the stands where she knows Harrow is sitting and sends a little wink her way. “Gideon is a senior at Mithraeum University, majoring in Kinesiology. Gideon is hoping to go pro, so she says she’s not going to do much with her degree. She has been a part of varsity since her sophomore year, being a first-string in the same amount of time.”
With the starters introduced, the announcer goes into a similar amount of detail for New Rho’s team. The only person of note is someone who goes by the name of Hot Sauce, the center. Aiglamene told her to keep her eye on her. She’s only a sophomore, but she’s playing first-string center. Gideon knows a threat when she sees one.
The whistle blows and Gideon springs into action.
The game is mostly uneventful. Gideon gets only one penalty for cross checking, and only one fight breaks out, which ends up being between Jeannemary and Hot Sauce. It’s a good first game of the season, a good warmup. New Rho fights hard, and it’s close, but Mithraeum wins 3-2, with Gideon, Camilla, and Judith all scoring once.
Once the game is called, her team erupts into cheers and they all huddle for copious amounts of stick swiping and butt slapping. Harrow finds her way to the front with Ianthe and Isaac in tow and says through the glass, “No fights?”
“None today, sugarlips. Trying to stay clean this season.”
“I’d love to see that actually happen,” Harrow laughs, wiping some hair away from her face. Gideon remembers their first kiss under those bleachers, and the second kiss, and the third kiss, and the fourth and fifth and sixth, like it was yesterday. She remembers the way Harrow’s heart felt like it was beating out of her chest, how it felt like that every time. She etched her moans and her gasps in her brain, revisited them at night when she was sleeping.
I remember everything, Gideon wants to say. Instead, she says, “Were you enjoying the view up there?”
“She would not stop explaining the rules to me,” Ianthe says. “Like my sister isn’t the fucking goalie of the team?! Like I don’t know? Hello?”
“Ianthe, shut up,” Harrow hisses.
“Oh,” Gideon laughs, skating a little closer to the glass. She does not miss the way that Harrow’s eyes skate over her bulky body, which is accentuated by all of the gear she’s wearing. Harrow’s seen Gideon play before, went to a few games in high school, but it’s been awhile. “Were you?”
“I was not enjoying the view, for the record, but I was explaining the rules to Isaac, not Ianthe.”
“I know the rules, too! My best friend is the youngest person on the team?!”
“You just wanted to talk about me, is that it?” Gideon asks, not meaning for her voice to drop an octave, but it does. Harrow flushes so deep and red, it’s honestly a little startling.
“I hate you. So much. Goodbye,” she says, and then storms off in a random direction.
“Harrow, the exit is that way,” Isaac says, pointing to the opposite doors. She simply ignores him, petulant and obnoxious as she is.
“Nine, get over here!” Aiglamene shouts. Gideon waves Ianthe and Isaac goodbye and skates up to her team with a little laugh.
“New Rho’s goalie is pretty green, so you’re lucky you got that lost shot in, Nav,” Aiglamene begins with her criticisms.
It’s after practice the following week when Kitty says, “You were pretty good on the ice on Saturday.”
“Hm?” Gideon says, unlacing her skates. She’s thinking about how to respond to Harrow’s previous text, which is her complaining about Ianthe. Maybe a reaction gif? Harrow finds them cringy, so it’s perfect.
“You were pretty good,” Kitty repeats, sitting down next to Gideon on the bench. “I wish Coach would let me play.”
“You got to play JV, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but I want to play with you,” she says, scooching a little closer.
Gideon’s an idiot, but she’s not that daft. “Um,” Gideon says, looking up from her skates. “Whaaaaaat are you doing?”
“I’m—I’m trying to flirt with you, but you’re making this pretty difficult,” Kitty says. There’s a pretty pink blush on her cheeks.
She’s really cute, she really is, but, “I—I’m—” Gideon’s not entirely sure what she’s trying to say. She thinks of Harrow, isn’t going to pretend to not know why she thinks of Harrow, and then says, “I’m kind of, um, in a, uhhhh, situation.”
“Situation,” Kitty repeats.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you said you were single?”
“I mean, I am. It’s just, um, a situation I’m in.”
Kitty frowns at her, the blush gone, unimpressed. “You’re in a situationship?”
Gideon rubs at her bicep and Kitty follows the movement with her eyes. “Um,” she says. It’s not a situationship. It’s just Gideon getting fucked up over Harrow again. “It’s just a situation I’ve put myself in.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Kitty says, pulling off her skates. She gets up from the bench and frowns at Gideon with a hand on her hips. “When you’re out of your um, situation, let me know.” Once Kitty’s out of the general vicinity, Gideon leans forward and groans in her hands.
They’re having a team barbecue, Gideon loves barbecues, and Aiglamene said that they can bring whoever they want. “It’s for team morale,” she explained. “If we want to be placed in a good seed, I need my players to eat.”
They’re having a team barbecue, and Gideon invited Harrow. She’s not sure why she invited Harrow, everyone else invited their partner or their roommate or their mom or their best friend or their sibling, but Gideon doesn’t have a partner or a roommate or a mom or a sibling, and her best friend is on the team and already going. So she invited Harrow and Harrow, being very un-Harrowlike, said yes.
griddle @ [12:55 PM]: i am hitherto
nonagesimus @ [12:56 PM]: why are u texting like the ghost from christmas past
nonagesimus @ [12:56 PM]: gimme sec i’ll be down
She waits for Harrow, fiddles with her phone (aiming for a new high score in Tetris), ignores Coronabeth’s texts in their group chat that are bordering on insane, and picks something out of her teeth with her short fingernails.
Eventually, Harrow comes down and knocks on her car door. Gideon opens it up and adjusts her seat while Harrow files in. She’s clutching something in her hand that isn’t her phone, but Gideon’s not too curious. Maybe it’s a knife. A knife that she’s going to use to finally off Gideon, and not in the way she wants.
The first thing that comes out of Harrow’s mouth is, of course, criticism. “Those car fresheners,” she says, pointing to the little tree hanging from Gideon’s mirror, “you’re supposed to keep the wrapper on for maximum scent, not just yank it out like a neanderthal.”
“What the hell do you know about car accessories? You don’t even know how to drive.”
“All I know is that this,” she says, rubbing her fingers over the cardboard, “is a waste of money. See, this is why you’re poor.”
“Honestly, half the time, I don’t even know what to say to you,” Gideon admits. Harrow’s smiling, she’s been doing a lot of that lately, and something deep and hot and red blooms within Gideon’s chest. She’s got a little sunburn on her cheeks, Gideon notices. Probably when they went to that flea market last week. Gideon told her to wear sunscreen, Harrow said that she had put it on, but it evidently wasn’t enough. Next time, Gideon thinks, I’ll put it on for her.
“I got you something,” Harrow says, handing Gideon the item in her hand. She’s looking away, refusing to make eye contact. God, she’s so embarrassing, it actually makes something in Gideon physically ache.
“For—for what?” Gideon asks, grabbing the item from Harrow’s hands. It’s not wrapped or anything. It’s a spray bottle. Gideon turns it over and reads, Febreze FABRIC Romance & Desire. “What.”
“It doesn’t have to be for anything,” Harrow says. Her head is turned, but Gideon can see the creeping of a blush on her neck. “Your birthday.”
“My birthday is in April.”
“Well, I missed the last two, didn’t I?”
“That’s fair.” She gives it a little squeeze, and some mist comes out. She’s not sure if that’s what romance and desire is supposed to smell like, but it does smell nice. “Are you saying I stink?”
“No!” Harrow says, whipping her head around. “Yes, I mean—I’m looking out for your teammates. You need to start using this on your gear before it becomes a biohazard and we need to bury it next to nuclear waste.”
“Hah,” Gideon says, setting the spray bottle down carefully in the back. “You got me a gift. You like me.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
“Shut up!” Harrow begs. “I regret it. Give it back so I can return it.”
“No can do, sweet thing. It’s all mine now.”
Harrow grumbles some more, saying rude things under her breath like, I hate you so fucking much or Why do I even spend time with you?. Gideon indulges her, she always does, and instructs her to put on her seatbelt so they can leave. “I hope we get in a crash and I fly out of the windshield headfirst,” Harrow says, because she’s a brat.
At the barbecue, Gideon introduces Harrow to her teammates. “This is Harrow,” she says, “my masseuse at Drearburh massage.”
“Oh, the place where a player last year got shanked!” Mercymorn says.
“I’ve, um, never heard of that story,” Gideon says.
“Yeah, because Coach was afraid that it’d stop you from going there,” Mercymorn offers as explanation. Gideon frowns. Gideon begins to wonder if anyone else on her team actually goes to Drearburh massage, or if she’s the only person stupid enough to do it.
“Listen,” Gideon says, pulling Harrow away. “I’m not introducing you as my masseuse anymore, because it’s bringing far too many questions that I don’t have the answer to. What do you want me to introduce you as?”
“Just say, this is Harrow. That should be easy enough for you, right?”
“Well, what if they say, oh, who’s Harrow??? Then what.”
“Just say Harrow is Harrow.”
“Oh my god, you really are so stupid.”
“I feel like my response is not that stupid.”
“You don’t know anything about the intricacies of ice hockey social interaction,” Gideon says. “If I don’t offer an explanation, then they’re going to start talking, and let’s just say—their creative writing skills leave a lot to be desired.”
“Just say I’m your friend, god. Isn’t that what we are?” Harrow asks. She rubs a finger against her temple. “Or at least trying to be?”
“Fine,” Gideon concedes. The next person she introduces Harrow to is her coach. “This is Harrow,” Gideon says, “my friend.” Gideon drops a hand to her lower back to gently push her forward. Harrow’s shirt slips up ever-so-slightly, and her pinky makes contact with her warm skin. Harrow nearly jumps.
“Friend?” Aiglamene says, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Yeah, whatever.”
Gideon makes quick work of introducing Harrow to all of the relevant people. Coronabeth says, Oh, Ianthe has told me allllllll about you. Judith says, It’s nice to finally meet you. Camilla says, I see. Jeannemary says, I’ve met Harrow before!!! Kitty says, Is this your situation? Gideon pulls Harrow away, after that one.
Gideon gets her fill at the barbecue, going back for thirds and fourths because she can. In between bites, she helps Harrow reapply sunscreen, because it’s hot and Harrow’s fragile and pale because she doesn't go outside. Harrow manages to eat an entire plate, which is pretty impressive for her, and Gideon forces her to socialize with her teammates and friends. Harrow manages to hit it off with Camilla’s plus-one, some twiggy dude named Palamedes, because he’s applying to medical school in a few months. Jeannemary’s plus-one, Isaac, joins in on the conversation because he can, even though he’s not contributing much.
Gideon doesn’t mean to watch Harrow like she does, but she’s so—fascinated, enthralled with Harrow talking to her friends. She doesn’t have to interject or pull Harrow out of awkward situations as much as she thought she was going to. Coronabeth tries to bug Gideon (because Judith is not giving her attention), but Gideon kind of just… shuts her out, eats her barbecue food in peace, and watches Harrow because she can.
Near the end, while Harrow and Palamedes are discussing medical malpractice, Camilla takes Gideon by the arm and pulls her away. Gideon pops a finger in her mouth to lick up the stray barbecue sauce.
Camilla takes her near the cooler full of drinks and says, “You’re going to get your heart broken like this.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t act stupid. I know you’re not,” she says. She grabs a diet coke from the cooler and pops it open before handing it to Gideon. Gideon takes a grateful swig and then hands it back to Camilla. “You’re looking at her like she’s the softest, most agreeable thing you’ve ever seen.”
“Maybe she is.”
“Listen to yourself,” she says. She takes a swig of the diet coke and ends it with a satisfied little aah.
“It’s not her fault I’m like this.”
“Yeah, okay,” Camilla says. “I just want you to watch out for yourself, too.” She leaves at that, handing the half-finished diet coke back to Gideon, and sits next to Palamedes again. Gideon takes a long chug of the drink before crushing it in her hands and lopping it in the recycling.
If Gideon is one thing, she is obstinate.
“This is Isaac with Drearburh Massage. If you’re a salesman, please fuck off. If you’re a customer, please don’t fuck off. How can I help you?”
“Can you just give me, like, a key fob?”
“No.” Click.
The pharmacy across the street doesn’t have a bullet hole anymore because that section has been covered up with cardboard. There’s a new piercing place that’s popped up down the street called Dirty Needles, and Gideon wonders if the health department is going to visit them. Dirty Needles, really?
Isaac is not the one who lets Gideon in. It’s Harrow, with her ferret-y little face, her entirely black outfit, and her burnt little cheeks. “You need to put on more sunscreen.”
“You reapplied three times at the barbecue,” Harrow says, propping open the door to let her in. Gideon follows her down the creepy hall carefully, up the deathly stairs, and down the other creepy hall. ASS PA has turned back into MASSAGE PARLOR, with new glittering, gold letters. Gideon touches one of the S’s with her finger.
“Looks like someone’s revamping the place.”
“Gaius said that the vibe is throwing off customers,” Harrow offers as explanation, letting Gideon heft her body into the door to swing it open.
“Is it just the vibe, or the fact that there’s a new piercing shop called Dirty Needles down the street?”
Harrow laughs under her breath and leads Gideon to massage parlor two, waving at Isaac on the way there. “Get naked,” she instructs, and Gideon gets naked. “What do you want to focus on today?”
Gideon adjusts her body on the massage table and says, “Back and knees, Miss Masseuse.”
“Back and knees it is.” She turns on the creepy yoga music, pulls back the sheets, applies copious amounts of lotion to her hands, and then her magical bony hands get to work.
Gideon’s first case of Nonagesimitis was slow, maddening—gradual over the course of eighteen years. She’s not sure if she really ever got over her sickness.
Gideon’s second case of Nonagesimitis is much like shingles is to chickenpox. It’s worse when you’re older. It comes back with a vengeance. The onset is rapid and her health is declining. It’s just as bad as the first time, worse, honestly. She feels it coming, notices the symptoms early on, tries to offset it with a careful regimen, but it doesn’t fucking work. Nothing works with Harrow, it’s like an incessant little bug that worms it way into her brain, taking over her chemistry and her hormones and her thoughts like she’s a fucking freak.
Gideon wants Harrow back in her life, has wanted her back in her life for over three years now, but she doesn’t know if it’s possible like this. She thought she could do friends. She thought she could do it. She thought she could meet a cute girl in the female student athlete accommodations, fall madly in love, and then forget Harrowhark ever existed. But she’s come back in her life, has ruined her again, and Gideon doesn’t know if she has it in her to do this a second time.
But Harrow is indulgent. Without the stress of parent’s wrecking her future (though there’s not much to wreck, as it is), she’s loosened up considerably. She’s still vile and evil and a curmudgeon and racked with religious guilt, but she lets Gideon in her house, now. Invites her over for dinner and movie nights, to just sit there and not talk.
It’s familiar, this intimacy with Harrow, the sameness, the routine they had in high school. And she comes to all of her games now. Sits in the back row with Isaac and Ianthe, getting into the game, yelling profanities at the ref when they’re not paying attention, chatting with her after the game like she’s a family friend or her—her fucking girlfriend, or something.
Gideon sees Pyrrha's sad smile, the disapproving look she gives Harrow every time she sees them together after a game. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again,” she said. “You still haven’t picked up all the pieces.”
The things a lesbian situationship will do to you.
It’s the second to last game before the playoffs take place when Harrow shows up to one of her games with a replica of Gideon’s jersey. It’s black and white, Mithraeum colors, with a blocky number nine and her last name on the back.
Gideon loses her fucking mind.
She plays the best game of her life, scoring three goals, earning her first hat trick of the season, absolutely wrecking the opposing team. She doesn’t get a single penalty, playing clean and breezy, racing across the ice and shoving opposing players out of the way. Everytime she looks to the crowd and sees Harrow in her jersey, adrenaline courses through her veins and she scores goal after goal, completely throwing the other team off their game.
“Holy fucking shit,” Jeannemary says while the opposing team takes a necessary timeout in the third period. “You’re on fire, dude.”
Gideon’s whole body is on fire, yes.
The timeout ends and the game ends just as quickly, securing their victory. The team huddles around Gideon, slapping her on the back and butt because of her good game. Aiglamene doesn’t even have any criticisms this time, just huffs out a, “Good job, Nav.” Gideon’s on cloud fucking nine.
“You were amazing out there,” Harrow says, her eyes bright. “I’ve never seen you play like that.”
“Listen, I need to talk to you,” Gideon rushes out before she can stop herself. “Let me celebrate with the team real quick. Meet me in the JV locker room.” The JV locker room, specifically, because there should be no one in there. Gideon doesn’t wait for her answer before she skates off and joins the rest of her team for post-game discussion.
Once the discussion is done, Gideon strips off her gear and skates in the varsity locker room, dropping them off in a heap. “I’ll be right back,” Gideon tells no one in particular, racing to the JV locker room.
Harrow’s waiting for Gideon in the locker room, black hair sticking up from sweat, cheeks reddened from the cold of the rink, Gideon’s jersey tantalizing on her small body. Gideon takes two long strides and grabs Harrow by the hips, the jersey bunching up in her hands. “I can’t do the just friends thing, Harrow,” Gideon says. “I thought I could do it, but I can’t. Fuck.”
“Gideon,” says Harrow, and that’s all she says.
“I can’t fucking do it. I wasn’t able to do it when I was eighteen, I can’t do it now. You’ve—you showed up in my jersey, I feel fucking insane. Harrow,” she says, her voice reedy. “Harrow, the fucking jersey, you must have known—”
Harrow grabs her by the neck and pulls her down to kiss her fully on the lips. Gideon’s already feeling very… very turned on, quite frankly, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands except just grab her hips and pull her closer. Harrow’s entire body is hot to the touch, a long line pressed against Gideon, and Gideon shoves her against one of the lockers. They’re in a semi-public place, one of her teammates could walk in any moment now, but Gideon doesn’t care, can’t care. Harrow’s breath in her mouth is tantalizing, their pants deafening to her ears. How she managed eighteen years without this, she doesn’t know, how she managed another three is still a mystery.
“Harrow,” Gideon says, biting her lip. Harrow honest-to-god moans, running her hands under Gideon’s shirt, exploring her like she did three years ago. “Harrow,” Gideon can’t stop saying, nuzzling her face at her pulse point, sucking her skin in between her lips, biting, making sure to love and suck and mark. Gideon’s mind is so hazy, she’s not even sure what she’s doing at this point. She just needs to be closer, to touch every part of Harrow before she burns alive.
Gideon’s hands drop to Harrow’s pants, her thumbs rubbing at the skin just above her pant button. Harrow’s breath hitches and she throws her head back, slamming it into the locker doors with a thud. It sounds like it hurt, honestly, but Harrow doesn’t complain when Gideon sticks a hand down her pants, past her panties, and rubs a finger in between her folds. She’s fucking dripping.
“You thought I was fucking hot on that rink, didn’t you?” Gideon says, awed. She can’t stop drinking her in like this, hot and sweaty Harrow in her jersey, bruises blooming on her neck. Gideon wants to take a picture, keep it in her wallet, put it under her pillow. She’s thinking nonsense now, not even making sense to herself. She rubs her clit with her thumb and Harrow keens. It sounds something like woooahghhhhhhh. “Look at you, oh my fucking god, Harrow.”
Gideon fumbles with the zipper and pulls her pants down just over the curve of her butt, and then sinks two fingers in Harrow easily. Harrow makes a noise like she’s been punched in the stomach. “Fuck,” Harrow says. “Gideon, fuck.”
“I know, baby,” Gideon babbles, dropping wet kisses on Harrow’s neck, pumping her fingers in and out and in and out. She adds a third finger and Harrow’s thighs tremble, taking her so nicely. Gideon doesn’t know if this will ever leave her brain, like it’s been imprinted. “I know. You’re doing so good.”
“Hah,” Harrow says. “Ah, Gideon, please. Please.”
“Anything,” Gideon says, sloppily kissing her on the mouth. It’s not really working, Harrow’s making too many noises to kiss properly, but that’s fine. Gideon pistons her fingers and presses her thumb to Harrow’s clit, rubbing at the little nub softly. “Baby, look at you. Fuck. Fuck. I wish you could see yourself right now.”
“Ah,” Harrow mumbles incoherently, moving her head to accept kisses from Gideon again. “S’good. You’re s’good.”
Harrow doesn’t ask for anything, but Gideon gives it to her anyway, rubbing her clitoris with just the right amount of pressure, with the pace that Gideon knows Harrow loves. She learned her body three years ago, she learned what made her tick, and she never fucking forgot it.
“I’m—” Harrow groans. “Ah, I’m—” She can’t even finish her sentence. Gideon thinks God might be a woman, and it might just be the woman standing in front of her, thighs trembling, neck wet and bruised, Gideon’s jersey rucked up on her stomach. She’s never going to forget this, doesn’t know if she can, doesn’t know if she wants to.
It’s only another moment before Harrow is clenching on Gideon’s fingers, hips canting into her hand, saying things like, “Gideon, please, please, please,” or “S’good, you’re so good,” or “Wuahhghhhhhhhh”.
Gideon’s hand slows, letting Harrow ride through the waves of her orgasm. She takes in the tears that leak through her clenched eyes, her broken little face, how her hands clench and unclench and clench around her biceps. How, how, how, Gideon wonders, did I let her get away for three years?
Harrow recovers slowly, blinking her eyes open, Gideon removes her hands from her pants. She’s so turned on it’s actually insane, might win a blue-balls competition, if she’s being honest. Harrow says, “Gideon.”
Gideon says, “Harrow.”
She’s kind of expecting it when Harrow says, “I can’t.” Gideon wipes her hands off on Harrow’s jersey, helps pull up her pants and buttons them for her, even. “Gideon,” Harrow whispers. “Say something.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Gideon says, and fuck it all, she’s crying. “I told you that I can’t do the friends thing,” she says, blinking the tears out of her eyes. This is so embarrassing, she thinks. Her heart hurts so much, she’s afraid it’s going to fall out of her body and die. “You let me fuck you. And now you’re saying you can’t.”
“It’s complicated,” and fuck it all, Harrow has the gall to cry, too.
“Fuck you. It’s not complicated,” Gideon says. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. You can choose to live your life in misery under the oppressive house of your parents, taking care of people who barely love you. Or you can live your life—god, it doesn’t even have to be with me, Harrow, but just live your fucking life on your own fucking terms with someone who you know loves you.”
“Who’s going to take care of them?” Harrow cries, hiding her face in her hands. “They’re fucking dying, I can’t leave them. They’re my only family.”
“What are they going to do if you have a relationship with me? Huh? Hobble their way out of bed and kick you out of their house after you’ve been changing their fucking diapers for two years?”
“Fuck you, Nav,” she says in between sobs.
“No, fuck you, Nonagesimus,” Gideon says, not able to stop the vitriol spewing through her words. She wants Harrow to feel a fraction of her hurt and pain, knows that she probably already is, but it isn’t enough. “Fuck your mom, fuck your dad, and you know what—fuck you, too. Let me tell you something, Harrow. When we were eighteen, if my parents lorded money, or—or medical school over me, or fuck if I know—whatever, I still would have chosen you. Yeah, I would have gone into half a million dollars worth of debt for you. Stop crying.”
“No, don’t tell me what to do.”
“Fuck you, seriously. You chose those wretched homophobic fucks that don’t even love you over me twice, and I just let it happen both times,” Gideon says, feeling mean and evil, but she can’t stop.
“You don’t want my baggage,” she says in between tears.
“You don’t know what I want, because you won’t fucking ask me. I fucking hate you.”
“I fucking hate you,” Harrow says, her voice breaking. “Go ahead and block me again. Cut me out of your life.”
“You,” Gideon says, already regretting what she’s about to say, “are going to die alone, Harrowhark Nonagesimus.” She storms away, comes back to zip up Harrow’s zipper, and then storms away again, because fuck her.
Harrow doesn’t call her to offer an explanation or an apology. Gideon tries to block her twice, fails, and then just puts her phone away for a while.
Her team tries to cheer her up. They’re not sure what happened exactly, but it’s pretty easy to discern when Gideon says she wants to go to the massage place everyone else goes to. She cries in her first session, and has to request a new masseuse because that one thinks she’s a freak.
Camilla takes her out for dinner, takes her out to go to the bars to drown away her sorrows, introduces her to other women. Coronabeth doesn’t even have it in her to make fun of Gideon, just lets her be sad and stew in her own pity. Honestly, that’s even worse.
Aiglamene is constantly punishing her lazy behavior, sending her to do wind sprints and other punishments, making her stay late to clean. She can’t fucking focus, misses every shot she takes. God, it’s so much worse the second time. It’s all-consuming.
Gideon writes up a draft text in her notes. It consists of a lot of fuck yous and I’m sorrys and some more fuck yous. She deletes it, throws her phone at the wall, and doesn’t cry herself to sleep.
What’s even worse, they’re playing Blood of Eden next. Regardless of whether or not they win, they’re going to qualify for the playoffs and it’s all fine, but Aiglamene wants them to secure a win so they can move up in the rankings and start with a better seed. She can’t even focus on beating their rival because she’s too fucking heartbroken like an amateur.
“Nav, if you don’t get your act together, I’m subbing in Kitty as center,” Aiglamene says at practice the day before the game.
“Yes, Coach,” Gideon says. “Sorry, Coach.”
Gideon gets her act together enough where Aiglamene actually doesn’t end up subbing in Kitty, but it’s a near thing.
Game day comes, and Gideon finds herself looking in the crowd for black hair. She sees Ianthe and Isaac, the latter one waves at her, sitting where they usually do, but Harrow’s pointy face is nowhere to be seen. It’s fine. It’s so fucking fine.
“Their center is the one to look out for,” Aiglamene is saying, showing everyone something on her clipboard. “Pash is ruthless and a fighter. She’s not afraid to hurt. You need to brace for her, and be ready to fight back. She’s also quick on the ice. I want my wingers watching out for her.” The words fall in and out of Gideon’s ears. “However, Blood of Eden wants us watching out for Pash so their winger, S—”
Gideon tunes her out, stretching her neck, cracking her knuckles. She’s had a mostly clean season but she doesn’t know if she can keep up that streak.
On the ice, Pash is quick and sturdy, growling obscenities under her breath, shoving their defensewomen and wingers out of the way. It’s a good thing that Coronabeth is a damn good goalie, because Pash would have scored ten on them otherwise.
“Chatur!” Aiglamene is yelling. “Stop fucking cowering, or I’m going to sub you out!”
During the second period, Pash shoves Gideon into the wall so hard, she breaks her stick. Gideon grabs a new one, and cross checks her for the hell of it. They both get a minor penalty for that one. “Stop instigating,” Aiglamene says. “You’re supposed to be playing clean.”
Gideon spits out her mouth guard and doesn’t respond.
It all comes to a head when Pash shoves Jeannemary out of the way so hard, she slips and falls to the ice, almost getting run over by the opposing team. The ref is already in the motion of giving Pash another penalty for unnecessary roughhousing when Gideon rips off her helmet and gloves, watches as Pash does the same thing, and hits her square in the jaw.
Pash is a fighter, though, and goes down swinging, spitting out a clot of blood before swinging right on back to Gideon. Gideon imagines Pash as Priamhark and Pelleamena Nonagesimus, maybe Harrow a little bit, too, and connects so hard she hears something crack. Pash manages to elbow Gideon right in the nose, and Gideon’s nose starts bleeding freely on the ice. The crowd goes wild, Gideon can vaguely hear it, but she grabs Pash by the jersey, swings her body weight around, and slams her on the ice.
She manages to land two more hits before the ref pulls her off, not satisfied at all, and she’s shoved in the penalty box.
“You’re getting subbed out at the next period,” Aiglamene says. Gideon shuts her eyes and accepts her fate.
It’s their first loss of the season, and it stings. Gideon sits on the bench, watching Kitty race around the ice, trying to clean up her mess. Gideon doesn’t even wipe up the blood, lets it dry on her nose, and hears the grumble and dissatisfaction of the stadium in the base of her skull. She’s never going to hear the end of this from Aiglamene. Might as well start warming up for wind sprints right now.
“That,” Aiglamene says at the post-game discussion, “was absolutely fucking abysmal. I’m embarrassed to say that this is my team.”
Gideon wasn’t the only one who had played bad, but it feels like she’s the sole cause for this loss. Maybe she is. She doesn’t know. “Nav,” Aiglamene is saying, once everyone has dispersed to go talk to their families, “I understand you’ve just gotten your heart broken, and I sympathize, but if you ever play like that ever again, you will never step foot on my rink again.” She doesn’t leave room for Gideon to respond, because she’s skating away with her assistant coach.
Coronabeth skates up to her and Gideon says, “Don’t.”
“I’m not coming over here to terrorize you,” Coronabeth says. “I wanted to ask if you wanted to go to a post-game dinner with me, Jody, and Cam.”
“Not really, no.”
“Suit yourself,” Coronabeth says, the usual amount of vitriol and bile in her words.
Gideon finds her way to the varsity locker room, stripping off her gear slowly. She runs a tongue over her sore gums, wonders how she’s ended up in this sad state of her life, when her phone rings.
Probably Pyrrha or Cam. Gideon decides she’s going to ignore it, but holds up the phone anyway to see the caller.
nonagesimus is calling
What the fuck, Gideon thinks. What the actual fuck. She doesn’t even think about it when she answers, just, “Harrow?”
“You didn’t block me?” Harrow says, her voice wet and broken and snotty.
“No.” Gideon’s unsure why she didn’t.
“Please come over here,” she says in between sobs.
Gideon should say, Why? Fuck you!!! or, I’m not doing this for a third time or, How much more can you take from me, woman? but instead she says, “Okay.”
Harrow answers on the third knock and Gideon takes her in. She’s in—she’s in her fucking jersey again, just the jersey and some tiny little boxers, her hair sticking up in every direction, her face blotted and red and streaked with tears. Her apartment is truly a wreck, stacks of dirty dishes, books strewn on tables and chairs and on the floor, dirty clothes piled in every corner, and fucking hell. She’s a fucking mess.
“Why is your face all bloody?!” Harrow squeaks raspily, pulling Gideon inside.
“Oh,” Gideon says, wiping at her nose. Little dried flakes of blood fall to the floor. “Fight.”
Before Gideon can ask why Harrow wants to ruin her life for the third time, she starts rambling. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry. You were right.”
“Huh?”
“Just listen to me, fuck you, Nav. Just listen,” she says, wiping at her swollen face. “I was going to call you today, before your game, but I didn’t want to—I didn’t want to be a distraction, throw you off, so I didn’t. Anyway, I’m telling you this now so you don’t think I’m telling you all of this because my mom finally passed away today.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, whatever. Bad timing. I know. But I was going to tell you anyway, I was going to let them go, but she just fucking went and died. Fuck her, seriously. Getting the last word in like always. Fuck,” she says, her voice breaking. She buries her head in her hands, a great big sob racking its way through her body. “Why am I so sad?!” she cries. “Fuck, fuck.”
“Harrow…” Gideon mumbles, frozen in her spot. She doesn’t… she doesn’t know what to do.
“God, and I was just thinking last week how bad I fucking fucked up, because when my dad eventually dies too, I really will have no one. I’ll have no money, no family, no friends, and fucking hell, I just pushed you away again—”
“Harrow,” Gideon interrupts, and she gains some awareness, because she steps forward to grab her face in between her hands to drop a sweet, gentle kiss there. Harrow whimpers in her hands.
“Why am I so sad?!” Harrow cries in her mouth, dropping her head to her chest. She’s shaking, Gideon realizes, her whole body trembling with tears. “Fuck, I didn’t even—”
“Love is complicated,” Gideon says, babbling, maybe. “They were fucking evil, but they were still your parents.”
“Ugh, I never even—” she stops herself, looks up at Gideon’s bloody face, and grabs her by the cheeks and brings her in for another kiss. She pulls away and says, “You taste bloody.”
“It’s because there’s blood crusted around my nose.”
“That’s so gross,” she says, like her snotty kisses are any better, but Gideon decides to shut up for now. “I keep fucking this up. I can’t get anything right.”
“You’re doing just fine right now.” She takes a deep breath and says, “Harrow, I’m sorry about what I said. I shouldn’t make you choose between me or your parents, it’s—”
“It doesn’t matter, because I should’ve chosen you.” She closes the gap again, drinking in Gideon’s bloody kisses, her breaths shallow and hiccupy. “Fuck, I should’ve chosen you,” she says in her mouth. “Three years ago, last week, I’m fucking stupid.”
“No, you’re not,” Gideon says, feeling like a completely different person from yesterday when she was thinking that Harrow was fucking stupid. “You’re just playing the cards that life dealt you, and they suck.”
“Stop, just let me apologize,” Harrow says, pulling back, leaning forward to kiss her again, pulling back. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Gideon says.
“Take a shower with me,” Harrow says, stripping off her jersey before Gideon can respond. “I won’t kiss you if you’re bloody.”
“You’ve already kissed me, though,” Gideon complains, petulant. But she won’t say no to taking a shower with Harrow. She strips off her jersey and her pants and her sports bra before Harrow can take it back. Harrow laughs and they stumble and kiss on the way to the bathroom. Gideon’s hands wander, she can’t help it, cupping her soft, supple skin.
Harrow’s still crying, saying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and Gideon lets her. She lets her say the things she wants to say, lets her feel the things she needs to feel.
In the shower, Harrow helps wash off the blood under her nose, grabbing her lips in between hers. Gideon leans her back, pressing her against the shower wall, placing a thigh between Harrow’s legs. Harrow cries out, grinds down, shaking, still, crying, still. It’s bittersweet, Gideon finds herself crying, too. Just being here with Harrow, not worrying about what their uncertain future is going to look like.
She brings her to orgasm under her fingers, kissing the tear tracks. They wash each other’s bodies, and Harrow brings her to an orgasm with her sneaky little tongue. They wash each other’s hair, touch each other because they can.
Out of the shower, Gideon says, “Put on my jersey.” Harrow doesn’t even fight this, goes to put on some fresh boxers, and Gideon says, “Just the jersey.”
Harrow puts on just the jersey, and Gideon picks her up by her hips, throws her on the bed, and kisses her softly.
When they first did this three years ago, every time they had sex, it was like a race to the finish line. At that point in Gideon’s life, she was high off of Harrow, shocked that she even had the chance to do things, but now, she wants to take it slow. Slow and steady wins the race.
Gideon’s put some boxers back on, but otherwise she’s completely naked, their skin contact electrifying at every point they touch. She kisses Harrow deeply, has her hands wrap around her fragile ribcage so she can feel her deep breaths. Harrow’s making noises in the back of her throat, little ah ah ahs, broken little things while Gideon kisses her. She swipes a tongue over her teeth, popping a thigh in between Harrow’s legs again, feeling how wet she is down there.
“You,” Gideon mumbles in her mouth. Harrow takes a shuddering breath, grabbing her wet hair with her hand, pulling her impossibly closer. “Just you,” she says.
Gideon’s jersey—her actual jersey, not Harrow’s—absolutely swallows Harrow’s small body. Gideon pulls away to look, hands wandering under, eyes hungrily taking in everything she can. Harrow’s lips are swollen and red and glistening, wet hair drying against her pillow, cheeks pink. If Gideon were to die right now, she’d die a happy woman.
She cups Harrow’s breasts and Harrow gasps, hips canting into Gideon’s thigh, looking for pressure. “I wish you could see what I’m seeing right now,” says Gideon.
“My—my view is pretty good, too,” Harrow mumbles, and Gideon leans forward and laughs into her neck, marking her.
Harrow’s hips press into Gideon’s thigh while she languidly spreads kisses across her skin. “Gideon, please,” Harrow says.
“Tell me what you want,” Gideon says, and if it sounds broken and reedy, then that’s no one’s business but her own.
“Your—your lips,” Harrow says. She’s not begging, Gideon knows that she could make her if she wanted to, but… it’s not what Gideon wants right now. She just wants Harrow to feel good in any way she can. “Please, can you—”
Gideon removes her thigh from the place between Harrow’s leg and she whines reedily, a soft whimper falling from her mouth. “It’s okay, baby,” Gideon murmurs, rucking up the jersey so it sits just above her breasts. The view is so damn good. “I’m going to take care of you.”
Gideon drops wet kisses around her collarbone, peeking out a tongue to draw swirls over her breasts. Harrow’s saying such wonderful things like, Gideon, please or You’re so good to me, you’re so good. Gideon is blue-balling it again, completely soaked through her boxers, but it doesn’t matter right now.
She drops a kiss above her mop of black curls, pressing a hand into Harrow’s stomach to stop her from breaking her already fragile nose. She goes around her prize, peppering chaste little kisses around her slick inner thighs. Harrow’s moans are filthy, filling the room.
Gideon dives in with no more preamble, swiping a tongue up her slick folds. She holds Harrow’s thighs with her hands while Harrow cries, little tears falling down her face, overwhelmed with pleasure and emotion. “I love you,” Harrow is saying. “Fuck, Gideon.”
Gideon can’t respond, is currently preoccupied, but she shows Harrow that she loves her in the way she eats her out, the way she licks her like she hasn’t eaten in days, drawing out moans and gasps and every profanity under the sun from Harrow’s sweet, supple lips. Her nose is pressed up against her clitoris, and Harrow says, “I want to kiss you while I come.”
And who is Gideon to deny her?
So Gideon lifts her head up, wipes at her salty lips, drops a hand between Harrow’s legs, and rubs her clitoris just how she likes it, pulling Harrow into a sweet, filthy kiss that tastes like both of them. “Y—y—” Harrow hiccups, unable to even finish her train of thought, letting Gideon kiss her through her pounding orgasm.
It takes much longer this time for Harrow to recover, pulling Gideon’s hand away once she feels too much stimulation. There’s the tears again, the huffy little breaths, and Harrow says, “You’re too good for me. You deserve better.”
“I don’t want better,” Gideon says. Maybe it’s not the right thing to say, but it lights up Harrow’s sad face with a broken smile, and for now, that’s enough.
Priamhark Nonagesimus dies the following week. Sometimes, partners die right after the other, the doctor says, because of heartbreak. Because it’s easier. There’s no secret happy ending, no amount of money stashed away that will pay for Harrow’s medical school. The estate is going to be sold to finish paying their debts off, and Harrow will get the rest after the attorney’s fees. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.
Harrow signs up for the spring semester at Mithraeum University. Gideon helps her pick out her classes. They spend a lot of time together. Picking out classes, putting back together the broken pieces, making amends. Gideon spends a lot of time fucking Harrow in her jersey, her real one, just because she can now.
For what it’s worth, there are some happy endings. Judith and Coronabeth start going out after the season ends, and Coronabeth stops being such a sad little sack about it. “I just didn’t want our relationship interfering with team dynamics,” Judith the dutiful captain says. Such a Judith thing to say.
Harrow pays for her parents to get cremated, but she doesn’t have a funeral. No one would go, anyway. Gideon and Harrow go camping for a weekend and spread their ashes. Harrow cries.
Drearburh Massage gets shut down by the health department right before Dirty Needles does. Something about a gas leak, they say. It’s kind of sad, Gideon thinks. This is where Harrow came back into her life, even if she would never step in that part of town ever again without a gun.
Harrow moves in with Gideon. Metatarsal likes her new home, and they get another cat named Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, but they call her Tunnel for short.
Harrow starts working at the other massage place, the one that Dulcinea works at. It opened up again after the authorities' investigation went nowhere, and Gideon put in a good word, and Harrow got the job.
When Harrow comes home from a long day of school and working, she tucks herself into bed next to Gideon and says, “Don’t be jealous I’m touching other women all day.”
And Gideon says, “Baby, if you’re touching other women the way you touch me, they better be calling the police. There’s clearly a no happy endings sign.”