Chapter Text
Sharing a small apartment with your first love couldn't be that bad... right? Well, her parents had said it was a terrible idea, that it was “mixing old feelings with big changes.” But Manon hadn't just been her first love: she was also her best friend, her favorite person, and, by this point, almost her wife (probably in another life).
Daniela Avanzini was carrying a suitcase in each hand when she heard Manon’s voice booming from inside:
—“Dani, you have to see this!”
Natural. That was another characteristic of living with Manon: the woman didn't know how to say anything at a normal volume. Daniela smiled, pushing the door open with her shoulder, and found her friend in the center of the room, as excited as a small puppy.
Daniela dropped the heavy load next to a sofa that looked like it had seen better decades and followed the sound. She found Manon standing in the center of what would be their living room, arms wide open as if she could encompass all the potential of the empty space. At a glance, no one would guess that Manon was an Omega. Her presence filled the room before she even spoke, she walked as if she owned the entire hallway, and she had that kind of energy that made people turn to look at her without quite understanding why.
—“Come, come, before it goes,” Manon insisted, pointing towards the window.
Daniela walked up to her, used to keeping pace with her, even if it was impossible.
Daniela had just arrived at the residence where she would be staying during her university tenure. Initially, she had thought about staying on the university campus, but in that case, she couldn't share a room with Manon, since Daniela is an Alpha. Certainly, being far from her best friend was not appealing to her.
—“What’s so urgent that you have to shout like that?” she asked.
—“That thing.”
On the branch of the central garden tree, a squirrel stared fixedly at her. Not like a curious animal, but like someone who already had a very formed opinion about her existence.
Daniela blinked.
—“That squirrel is judging me.”
—“Exactly!” Manon scoffed — “It’s thinking: ‘I think I’ve seen the prettiest girl in the world,’ and obviously it’s referring to me.”
Daniela leaned against the window frame, smiling at her friend’s absurd depth. This was her oasis, her bubble of normalcy. She allowed herself to enjoy this brief moment of peace before the madness of the next four years.
Some years earlier, they had confused their feelings for something more. Daniela thought she was losing her mind until they had a half-drunk conversation with a bottle of vodka. Manon scoffed when Daniela confessed and told her she’d also felt attraction to her, but since she didn’t want to make things weird between them, she finally decided to ignore the matter. However, she simply noted that it wasn't the kind of attraction she thought she should feel. She loved Daniela in unique ways—she couldn't explain it in words if you asked her; good Lord, she could marry her, because she knows no one would understand her like her best friend. But it’s something platonic.
—“Dani,” Manon said, leaning toward her. —“You're thinking too loud. It shows on your face.” —“You’re exaggerating,” Daniela countered. —“Probably, yes. But so are you,” Manon replied, nudging her with her shoulder.
—“Ouch,” she said with the most pitiful tone she could feign. —“You’re assaulting me. I’m going to report you to the Best Friends’ Ethics Committee.”
—“The what committee?” Manon narrowed her eyes, alert. —“Does that exist, or are you making it up to manipulate me?”
Daniela sighed, but the smile slipped out anyway.
—“You need help. Therapy. Exorcism. Something.”
—“Exorcism could be interesting,” Manon mused, putting a hand to her chin. —“Though I’m sure you have an inner demon, too. It’s probably organized, quiet, and makes focused playlists.”
Daniela clicked her tongue.
—“You talk too much.”
—“And you too little,” Manon countered, opening a moving box. She immediately pulled out a pair of shimmering pants and held them up triumphantly. —“My holographic leggings! I needed them for dance class. Without these, I’m just a mortal.”
Daniela looked at the garment that caught the light—yep, they were the ugliest pants she had ever seen. —“Wearing those, you could guide airplanes in the fog. Do you really plan to wear them in public?”
—“It’s not ‘wearing’ them, Dani. It’s deploying them. Like a weapon of mass distraction,” Manon explained, opening another box. —“If the professor criticizes me, I just turn toward the sunlight and blind him. Strategy.”
—“I am definitely taking you to therapy—” even as she reached out a hand to touch the fabric. —“Though… I admit the touch is pleasant.”
—“See?” Manon smiled, satisfied. —“My taste isn't that bad; if someone here has horrible taste, it would definitely be you.”
Daniela laughed, unable to contain herself. —“You are incredible. Do you know you could make a living as an existential crisis cheerleader?”
—“I’ve considered it,” Manon admitted, tossing a bra toward another box. —“But for now, I’ll settle for cheering up your life. Which, let's face it, you need. Your idea of fun is organizing books by color.”
—“It’s aesthetically satisfying,” Daniela protested.
—“It’s sexually frustrating,” Manon countered. —“But don’t worry, I’ll take care of bringing the necessary imbalance into your life. Starting with…” she dug into another box and pulled out a platinum blonde wig —“this!”
Daniela blinked. —“When did you buy a wig?”
—“I didn’t buy it,” Manon clarified. —“I rescued it. I found it in a thrift store, and it looked so sad… like a Barbie who had lived through a mid-life crisis.”
—“Barbies don’t have mid-life crises, Manon.”
—“And how do you know? Are you Barbie?” Manon put on the wig. —“Now I’m Blanca Manons. I have a Ph.D. in gossip and my own afternoon talk show.”
Daniela watched as her friend instantly adopted a strange accent and posed next to the window. —“Please tell me you’re not going to wear that in public.”
—“Only for special occasions,” Manon promised. —“Like going to the supermarket at 3 a.m. or for intimidating your suitors.”
—“I don't have suitors,” Daniela reminded her.
—“Exactly!” Manon exclaimed. —“Because you haven’t used my techniques. The wig is just phase one. Phase two involves a glow-in-the-dark dress and a whistle.”
—“A whistle?”
—“For when the situation requires emphasis,” Manon explained.
—“You know,” Daniela said softly, —“even though you’re completely bonkers, I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”
Manon took off the wig, and her smile softened, showing for a second the tenderness beneath all the show. —“I know, Dani. That’s why I’m like this. Someone has to keep your life interesting.”
—“And girl, do you,” Daniela whispered.
Maybe she still hasn't completely gotten over her little crush on Manon; the girl had incredible ways of sneaking into her thoughts—maybe it was her absurd sense of humor, or how beautiful she looked even while doing nothing.
It definitely wasn't her abs. Right?
Of course, they weren't. Absolutely not. That wasn't the kind of muscle definition that made Daniela's mouth go a little dry. It wasn't the way Manon's abdomen tensed and relaxed when she laughed, nor how those muscles were visible even over her clothes when she stretched to reach a box on the highest shelf.
Fuck.
—“Looks like you’re enjoying the view, you little pervert,” Manon said, her voice a playful whisper. She didn’t move, defiant, as if she knew exactly the effect her proximity had.
Daniela felt all the air escape her lungs. Little pervert. The words ran across her skin like an electric current. Her instinct screamed that she should counterattack, regain control, but all she could do was swallow, feeling the tips of her ears heat up to a scarlet red.
—“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed to say, forcing her voice to stay steady, though it sounded rougher than usual.
—“Of course not,” Manon let out a low laugh, an intimate, familiar sound. She took one step closer, enough for Daniela to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. —“You were just… cataloging my abs in your personal mental inventory. Very professional. Very Alpha.”
Every word was a deliberate provocation. Daniela clenched her fists, feeling an internal struggle between the urge to retreat and the urge to close that ridiculously small distance separating them.
—“Maybe I was just thinking you need to eat more,” Daniela countered, finally finding a thread of her pride. —“You look like a stick.”
It was a low blow, and they both knew it.
Manon laughed, unfazed, her gaze dropping shamelessly to Daniela’s body, lingering for a second too long on her arms.
—“And you look like someone who lifts sticks,” she replied, her tone soft, but the insinuation was clear. —“Or am I wrong?”
The apartment doorbell rang, loud and ill-timed, breaking the spell completely.
They both jumped apart, like teenagers caught in the act of rebellion.
—“The last box!” Manon announced, instantly recovering her carefree and theatrical tone. She turned towards the door, adjusting the blonde wig that had slipped to the side. —“Come on, Blanca Manons has to sign autographs for the delivery guy. I’m sure my celebrity aura has enchanted him.”
Daniela exhaled a shaky sigh of relief, running a hand over her face. Geez.
—“If the delivery guy runs away, I’m charging you for therapy,” she grumbled, following her friend toward the door, her heart still pounding in her chest.
Maybe she should have thought a little more before deciding to live with Manon; these would be the four hardest years (literally) of her existence.