Work Text:
nos • tal • gi • a
/näˈstaljə,nəˈstaljə/, noun
a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past
seventeen.
She doesn't believe in fate, she doesn't think, but sometimes she wonders just how perfectly the universe must have aligned to bring her and Stacy together.
She has trouble, sometimes, remembering what her life was like before Stacy was in it, and she knows that she did things and that she must have been happy, but it feels so oddly impossible, looking back on it now. Amy doesn't really understand it, all she knows is that one day Stacy was in her life — and that is where she draws a distinct line. There is Amy without Stacy and Amy with Stacy and that is really all there is.
Let's go to college together, Stacy suggests one day, just like that. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.
Amy says, Yeah, okay, because maybe it is.
In the summer of their senior year of high school, they spend a lot of time by the pool. Stacy watches the boys and Amy watches Stacy. They swim laps in the morning, when no one else is around, stretch out on long, soft towels on the deck by the locker rooms to dry off. Amy loves the way water rolls off Stacy's skin, the way it drips off her nose. She really wants to lick away the little bits of water that cling to Stacy's neck, the gentle curve of her breasts.
Stacy, never camera shy, grins as she towels her hair; Amy snaps a picture.
I'm glad I met you she says, while they sit in the shade on the grass in Stacy's backyard, taking turns to read each other passages from the books they were assigned over the summer for their AP English Literature class (which Stacy says will probably be boring, but Amy is very much looking forward to).
Stacy, her head in Amy's lap, looks up. Same, she says. Amy sets the book aside, combs her fingers gently through Stacy's hair; Stacy sighs contentedly, closing her eyes. You know, she tells Amy, after a time. You know, I wasn't even supposed to be in that Geometry class with you. In freshman year, I mean. They messed up my schedule.
Amy closes her eyes, feeling sleepy. Oh?
Yeah. But in the end I decided not to bother with trying to get them to change my schedule. Because of you, Stacy admits, blushing a little. Amy wants to kiss the blush from Stacy's cheeks.
Oh, oh, she thinks, and her heart turns over slowly in her chest.
twenty-one.
Another, Stacy cheers excitedly, gets the bartender to re-fill Amy's shot glass, pushes the drink towards her. Amy grips the sides of the glass, her fingers sticky from alcohol, and sways unsteadily. Stacy just laughs. Come on, she says, grinning. Just one more. One more and that's it, I promise. I'll help you with the rest.
She laughs again and Amy steels herself and swallows the shot of vanilla vodka in one quick gulp, wincing as it burns all the way down her throat, settling like fire in her stomach. She slams the shot glass down a bit harder than she should, but the world started to spin two shots earlier, and she can't seem to focus right now.
Stacy puts a hand on her back, kisses her cheek. Good job, birthday girl, she says, downing her own shot. She puts her mouth right against Amy's ear, whispers, Let's go outside, okay? Get you some air, and her breath is warm and smells like vodka and wintergreen gum.
Outside, Amy stumbles over herself, laughing as she does so. Stacy links their arms together, guides Amy over to a bench outside of the bar. It creaks when they sit down, the wood and metal shockingly cool against their skin. Woah there, Stacy grins, draws Amy closer to her. Don't worry, I've got you.
I know, Amy thinks.
I know, she says, and kisses Stacy.
It isn't the first time they've kissed. Amy can still remember quite clearly, that first kiss in sophomore year in high school: This is okay, isn't it? Stacy had asked, just before she'd moved in and pressed their lips together for the longest second Amy had ever known. She had loved Stacy so much in that moment — she felt it even more so now, sitting on a bench outside of a tiny, crowded bar on a cold April night.
She kisses Stacy, and Stacy just kisses her back, nice and slow and sweet. Happy Birthday, she says quietly when they finally break apart, puts her forehead against Amy's.
nineteen.
It's exhaustingly hot in their dorm room.
The air is thick and heavy and the sheets stick to their bodies when they roll over in bed. The beds in their room are much too narrow for them both; they like to push them together, to make one big bed that doesn't leave them all cramped and sore the next morning. Amy always finds it a little sad when they have to separate their beds again, when before classes she shoves her bed against the wall on the opposite side of the room.
It feels like hiding — and it is, really, she knows that it is, but she would never say that to Stacy. She's more than happy with what they have; really, it isn't like she wishes they could be something more. She's content to be the person Stacy always comes back to, the person who Stacy kisses and smiles at and runs her fingers over the curve of Amy's hips. It's more than enough, Amy thinks sometimes.
Amy, Stacy mumbles in her sleep, and Amy kisses Stacy in the gentlest way she knows how. She likes to watch Stacy sleep, likes to brush the blonde hair out of her eyes and kiss the tip of her nose and curl up right against her, one arm draped loosely around Stacy's waist.
She likes to put her head on Stacy's chest, rising and falling with each slow, shallow breath. She can hear Stacy's heartbeat, if she listens hard enough; it seems to beat in time with her own. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking. A nice idea. She isn't entirely sure if it matters.
Your hair smells like flowers, Stacy mumbles sleepily, blinking awake after an hour or so.
It's late, Amy says with a soft smile. She leans over Stacy and presses a kiss to the space of skin just below her ear. It's almost noon. Do you want to get up and go to lunch?
Stacy mumbles something unintelligible into her pillow, pulls Amy's hand to her mouth, kisses her palm. Do we have to? she asks groggily after a minute, groaning and rolling over onto her side to face Amy. Can't we just stay here for a little while?
(Always, Amy thinks. Always.)
You're so lazy, is what she says, laughing. She sits up, letting the sheets fall around her waist as she reaches for her glasses, folded up on the nightstand. We can't just stay in bed all day, she tells Stacy, who sits up a little and covers Amy's breast with her hand, the nipple hardening under her palm. Amy sighs and shivers and wraps her fingers loosely around Stacy's wrist.
Just a little while longer, Stacy whispers conspiratorially, and squeezes gently and licks her way along the underside of Amy's other breast.
Amy knows that Stacy knows of the hold she's got on Amy; she bends her head down to meet Stacy's mouth in a kiss. Open-mouthed and sloppy and lots of tongues and no finesse and Amy can't think of a single reason why they shouldn't stay here forever. Okay, she says, and tries to make it sound like she's relenting, but they both know that it's a façade.
She kind of loves Stacy.
She just isn't sure how much or in what way or if it's just because Stacy is really, really pretty, and even better in bed. Or if it's because Stacy is the popular one, the one who gets invited to parties and drags Amy along and wins a bid to a sorority and dates boys who do crew, while Amy is the one who studies and helps Stacy write her essays and knows how many bones there are in the human body and has a sort of crush on a boy in her Biology class who is pre-med, just like her.
They just fit together so well. She doesn't know the why or how or anything else in between.
She only knows that she does.
(Maybe they both know it.)
fourteen.
A girl slides down in the empty desk next to Amy, unzipping her backpack and pulling out various items: a pen, a pencil, a notebook. A calculator. She has long, straw-colored hair and bright blue eyes. There's a smattering of freckles across her face, from one side to the other, up and across the bridge of her nose. She looks like the kind of girl who Amy would never be friends with.
She, in comparison, is pretty. So, so pretty, especially next to Amy, who has dark, mousy hair and glasses and is too shy to talk in class. She's the kind of girl who is popular, Amy knows. She's the kind of girl who would never be friends with Amy, who is much too quiet and studious and doesn't seem to fit in with everyone else. Amy knows it innately; it's just the way these things work.
It's the first day of the new school year. Amy has been looking forward to starting high school; it's hardly a fresh start, considering she's known half the student body almost her entire life, but it's enough. She doesn't want to be Amy, the loser in high school. She doesn't want to be anything, if she's honest. All she wants to do is put her head down and work through these next four years so she can get to college.
(College. It's still more of an abstract an idea than anything else. That will be a fresh start, she tells herself.)
Stacy Alexander, their Geometry teacher calls out, taking attendance. The girl next to Amy puts her hand up, glances tentatively about the room. Oh, Amy thinks. Stacy. She knows the new girl's name. She watches as Stacy puts her hand down.
And then she looks at Amy.
Hey, she says, in a soft voice. She smiles and it makes Amy feel warm all the way down to her toes. I'm Stacy.
twenty-two.
Stacy reaches across the distance between them, her skin warm and tanned from the sun. She threads their fingers loosely together, smiling while she does it. I'm so glad we came, she says, as they watch Jeff and Eric play volleyball on the beach with some tourists they met at the hotel bar earlier that afternoon.
Me too, Amy sighs, pulling up her sunglasses and squinting in the sunlight.
She untangles their fingers, traces her index finger lazily up and down the length of Stacy's arm, writes their names and draws a heart. Stacy giggles, flinching, and Amy's mind floats away to all the places where Stacy is ticklish. She smiles, remembering, and Stacy opens her eyes and smiles back. It's not the same kind of smile that Stacy gives everyone else. Amy wants so badly to be able to kiss her right now. Just because. She doesn't need a reason.
She just wants to.
Stacy says, You're not still worried about Jeff going to UCLA, are you?
Amy shakes her head. No, she says. It's a lie and they both know it, but they've gotten good at playing this game, pretending to believe each other (and themselves, Amy thinks; so often she feels like they're only just trying to convince themselves).
Good, Stacy says cheerfully, props herself up on an elbow. Amy thinks she looks beautiful right now, with her hair bleached even brighter from the sun and salt water and her eyes that match the color of the ocean against the long stretch of hot, white sand.
Stacy reaches forward, and brushes the hair out of Amy's eyes, leans in to kiss the side of Amy's mouth. Amy puts her hand on Stacy's shoulder, feels the thin strap of Stacy's bikini under her palm. It's only for a moment; Stacy pulls away, rolls onto her back, and stretches out on her towel with a small sigh. Amy pulls her sunglasses on once more, closes her eyes.
You know she says, after a long, long time. She thinks maybe Stacy has fallen asleep. You know, don't you?
Beside her, Stacy stirs. Of course I do, she murmurs, stroking her pinkie finger across Amy's wrist.