Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11262693.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      arguable_rape, Loss, ambiguous_supernatural_element
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-21 Updated: 2017-06-22 Chapters: 2/? Words: 1866
****** Would it be a Sin? ******
by bbcsherlockian
Summary
     This is a tale of little boys listening to the guttural and silent
     cries of grief. This is a tale of Elvis Presley, novelty mugs, car
     heaters which don’t work. Ad infinitum. A tale of liminality, a tale
     of ambiguity. A tale of growing up and of growing younger and of
     shouldering something bigger than we are built to bear.
Notes
     Title shameless stolen from Elvis. Please go easy on me - I haven't
     written anything for nearly two years.
***** One *****
This is a tale.
This is a tale of little boys listening to the guttural and silent cries of
grief. This is a tale of Elvis Presley, novelty mugs, car heaters which don’t
work. Ad infinitum. A tale of liminality, a tale of ambiguity. A tale of
growing up and of growing younger and of shouldering something bigger than we
are built to bear.
I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. I am omniscient in this piece of work. An
overseer, someone who now – at the end of the rope – has seeing eyes which
communicate with a telling mouth. A keyboard, I should say. It would be unfair
to compartmentalise this into a medium for which it is not fit. There are parts
of myself to be discovered and recorded; the story would have gaps in if I
didn’t plug them up with bits of me. But for now. I am omniscient.

It’s unfair, this job I’ve been tasked with. Of recording. Firstly, it makes me
a filter. An unfair filter. And even I, with all my remembered eyes, am partial
to these events. You’ll get everything through me. You’re looking at me now,
from your seat at the other side of the room. How strangely thrilling it is to
think that I’m thinking of you and writing of you at this very moment and you
aren’t aware of it. You’re still looking – stop it.

And secondly, it’s unfair on me. To dredge this, like silt, collected in a
plastic net where no fish will ever find their way. Dredging a up a story – so
real – and watch it fictionalise like mud. Every name has been changed or
removed. For anonymity, mind. For anonymity and for my fingers, to save them
from bashing out a name and a name and a name. Let me never hear it; no voice,
no tongue is worthy of it. Not even mine. And all the while my wellies are
filling with river water and the sun dips, dips, falls behind the mask of cloud
cover.

At the time, for these two – for these three – characters you’re yet to meet,
it was open. Awash with winter sunshine (and later, summer sunshine), cold
breath caught at the back of their throats, trapped, imprisoned with
excitement. With newness. Eyes which would fly open every morning, one set at
6.15am at the call of an alarm, the other set intermittently, throughout the
night, interrupted by imagined hypotheses and a somersault of thinking.
Exhilaration and the prospect of the coming day eliciting snapping eyelids and
sudden movements. One set of movements up, across, to the left, to a dressing
gown, then more to the left, to the shower (too cold), eyes still open. One set
of movements up, across to the right, to a mobile phone, more to the right, to
a kettle, and then sporadically to unfiled sheets or exercise books, and even
occasionally to the outside air.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I know all this because it has already
happened. In my chronology, all I can think of are swans. Swans, although built
like vessels, are not seaworthy. I think of swans, gliding, trapped on the
ocean, drowning in a loss of direction, starving for freshwater fish. Poor
cygnets, their grey feathers dressed all in white. Poor cygnets, not a drop to
drink, alone on a wide, wide sea.

“You’ve been at this for half an hour,” You say, crossing the room. “Tapping
feverishly like a- a-,”

“Nothing taps like I do.” I smile. I don’t mention how most of the fevered
tapping has been on my abused backspace key. Clumsy digits.

“You haven’t done anything!”

I’m reminded how it’s apparently rude to write down what someone says in front
of you verbatim when they’re still in front of you and are supposed to be
writing a chronological narrative about events very much with nothing to do
with anything inside this room. I’m then reminded how just because I haven’t
written in direct speech it’s still rude.

I agree, though. I should get on with it. Perhaps I’d like to call it artistic
license. Perhaps it’s more credibly something called ‘stalling’. Me, with all
my god-like omniscience, am terrified to face these eyes. Eyes which have seen
beyond the springy September getups. Eyes which have witnessed cracks in the
caverns of men’s chests like porcelain. And eyes, too, which are much older
than their years.
***** Two *****
Establishing character is dull. Mundane. You already know the fundamentals so
I’ll be brief – brief enough that I won’t get told off for stalling. Again.

A teacher. A primary school teacher, envisage him. Tired around the eyes and
hands which sometimes shake when writing on the board in ‘DRYERASABLEMARKER’
but feet which are always stable foundations, shoulder width apart, proud,
pride, they are proud feet. Is that enough? Does that establish our
protagonist?
 
I’ll move on. He’s not so relevant.

“But what about the descriptions?” You’re grinning at me. Cheshire cat. You
know. “I need to know what he looks like so I can picture him properly. You
know. In the tale.”

I don’t have the energy for this today and I think it’s getting conveyed in my
typing. Angry typing which keeps going just slightly wrong. I’d rather be
somewhere with windows, somewhere with the sea, perhaps. Stood somewhere close.
Veins feed into the heart, so stood on a river, then. Flowing, nudging its body
towards its mother. My feet, bare. Immersed in the current, I have become an
intravenous invader. I conjure it. Closing my eyes here, in this present
chronology, opening them elsewhere. It’s beautiful, the sun rippling across the
surface which some would deem a millpond, a surface which I would deem
turbulent. Minute currents and flip-flop splashes which capture something of
the light which photographs – or memories – can’t. It’s only in these presents
– not my present because I am elsewhere in the my-present which is the here-
present – that we can see the seeable in ways like we can feel pain. It’s not
very complicated. The light is sharp and startling and I look and look and look
beyond and see the flat. Where the tiny motions erase themselves with distance
and become one singular, perfect line.

Sand, grit, enmeshed between my toes as prisoners which have never tasted the
salt. Freshwater feet, buried in veins, not understanding the point of
arteries. Why would anything want to leave that? Leave her? The sea – she - - I
give her pronouns like the women who traverse her. This is a female landscape.
I look up and look back and I’ve lost sight of the line and I’ve lost sight of
the beach and my feet are sinking into the silt. I look around and realise for
the first time that I am alone. Windowless.

But this teacher, with his proud feet. We must do him justice. He’s got a
ramrod back and jumpers which someone told him once mask his surprisingly
impressive musculature. He’s got sandy hair thanks to genetics and it’s flecked
with silvery ashes thanks to exposure to Time. Before this Time was so
desperately cruel the genetics always seemed to win out and he was awarded the
epithet of ‘Sandy’. And then, later, markedly as a product of rapacious Time,
he was outwardly cheerful, amenable. One unremarkable morning in the cramped
staffroom during the morning briefing he was sitting upon a chair with a worn
seat which smelled like stale instant coffee which overpowered the small of
fresh play-dough and buttered cheap toast from the corridor and he was being
outwardly cheerful (thank you, Time). And somebody said - a colleague,
irrelevant to this chronology –

“You’re so cheerful, god, I don’t know how you manage it at eight every
morning.” This colleague picked up their tea, winced, put down their tea (in a
clear demonstration of their inability to exude cheerfulness at eight in the
morning) and continued, “Cheerful Sandy. More cheery than a box of Cheerios.
God help me.”

Much to the primary school teacher’s horror, the title ‘Sandy-O’ could be
described as doing nothing other than sticking. Sticking, mockingly, sticking,
in irony, sticking, in name, status, sticking to the soles of his shoes like
something sticky and wholly unpleasant to have stuck to the sole of ones shoes
and then, after all this, one day – stuck. Sandy-O. Hideous.

The funny thing is, the name is hardly relevant at all, though it’s what I’ll
use here. Distance. Anonymity. They always say you should never give farm
animals names because then you struggle to sit down at the dinner table to a
succulent and gravy-soaked slab of poor Johnny-the-lamb. Perhaps we should call
the protagonist ‘Lamb #1’.

But the name, the nickname – presumably used in fondness yet always carrying
with it a sickly green veneer – as I say, was hardly relevant. The hair had
matured and slinked into nothing like a shade of sand. Wet sand, perhaps. Sand
under encroaching cloud cover, expecting a tempest of the most violent. So he
was grey, first and foremost. Second and secondmost, the cheerfulness so
comparable to a Kellogg’s breakfast cereal was more fraudulent than the
company’s emphasis on healthy eating. It made him think of the milk, sitting,
downing, coagulating in the heat. Once cold, strangulating your breakfast,
untouched, abandoned in favour of a self-hatred induced lack of appetite.
Smelling off-sweet and off-white and off. Off, off. Curdled. Nose-wrinkling.
Powers of contortion.

Every morning, at precisely 6.15am (this is before the later rises, before the
September) the alarm set to the loudest and most piercing volume on his phone
would drag him out of dreams. Are they fairly called dreams? His narratives, at
least. Tales, much like this is a tale. Often incoherent, often featuring sand
of a very different kind to his hair, of heat and of red and of grit. Earthy
grit. Gritted teeth. Grit and determination. And ultimate futility looking
proud feet in the eyes, which ignored this, ignored inevitability, and ploughed
through sand. Sand, sometimes snakes, writhing and indiscriminate.

And every morning his eyes would be gummed shut, as if with sand, with grit,
flying towards his face in subconscious sandstorms, subconscious assaults.
Rack-a-rack-a-rack-a-rack-a-rack-a-rick-a-rick-a-rick-a-rick-a-rick-rack-a-
rack-a-rack-a-rack-a-rack. Did you know that machine gun crossfire will have a
different frequency depending on its pivot in relation to where you’re
standing? Did you know that insurgents in Afghanistan killed over two thousand
three hundred civilians, including nine hundred and thirty in suicide bombings,
and that military forces killed over one thousand six hundred and twenty
civilians alone? Rack-a-rack-a-

Every morning ‘Sandy-O’ would pour a bowl of cereal and pour the milk and look
at it and look at it and then leave the room and have a shower and wipe the
condensation from the mirror and look and smile and smile until the
condensation stubbornly formed again and then he would leave and dress and put
on his coat and avoid all of the other mirrors and avoid the kitchen where a
bowl of milk slowly was beginning to curdle and leave the house and smile and
smile.

So you can see, I suppose, how the name was never really apt in the first
place.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
as she
waits.
True to form, Chloe picks up halfway through the fourth ring. “Hey, Brooke!”
“Hey, Chlo.” Brooke bites her lip. “What’s up?”
“Not much. What about you? How’s that homework going?”
“Uh, good. I finished it.” Brooke’s fingers dance along the waistband of her
jeans, her lilac-varnished nails lightly scraping the denim. The anticipation
is already making her feel hot. “How was your day?”
“Good.” There’s a rustling noise on the other end. “Ugh, Madeline was trying to
talk to me again in first period, though.”
Brooke holds the phone between her ear and her shoulder, unbuttoning her jeans
and slowly sliding them off. “Yeah? What’d she say?” She can’t really find it
in her to be ashamed about what she’s about to do.
“Oh my god, you’ll never believe it.” Chloe scoffs. “She was, like, trying to
hang out with me, or something? I don’t even know why she thinks she can talk
to me…”
Chloe continues to ramble, but Brooke isn’t really paying attention to what
she’s saying anymore, just to the sound of her voice. And she really does have
a nice voice, Brooke thinks hazily as she starts to touch herself through her
panties. Low, a little husky, and extremely familiar from their years of
friendship—it’s no wonder boys like Chloe so much.
A jolt goes through Brooke.
“… I mean, who does she think she is?” Chloe sighs into the phone. “Fuck,
sorry, I got a little carried away. She’s such a bitch, though. Anyway, how was
your day?”
Brooke’s stomach swoops. “It was good,” she says, a little breathily.
“Yeah?” Chloe hums. “How was play rehearsal? Aren’t your shows coming up, like,
soon?”
Fighting to keep her voice controlled as she pulls off her underwear, Brooke
says, “Y-yeah, it’s in a few weeks.” She bites back a moan as she strokes
herself again, this time without the fabric barrier. Fuck, she’s already wet,
and she’s barely done anything.
“Brooke, are you okay?” Worry colors Chloe’s tone. “You sound kinda weird.”
“What?” Brooke laughs, her legs twitching as her fingertips circle her clit.
“Nah, I’m good. Um, I-I’m excited to go to Pinkberry with you tomorrow.”
She can hear the smile in Chloe’s voice as she replies, “Totally! It’s been,
like, ages since we last went.” A slight pause. “I missed hanging out with you,
Brooke.”
Maybe it’s the way Chloe’s voice softens, becoming a touch shy, when she says
this, or maybe it’s the way Brooke’s fingers slide over just the right spot at
that exact moment. Whatever the reason, her breath hitches, and before she can
stop herself, she’s whining, barely audibly, “Ch-Chloe—”
There’s dead silence on the other end. Brooke freezes, panic tightening her
muscles as she bites down on her lips, but it’s too late. There’s no way Chloe
didn’t hear her.
After what feels like an actual eternity, Chloe says quietly, “Brooke?”
“Y-yeah?” Brooke’s voice is shaking.
“… What are you doing right now?”
Brooke’s hand slowly shifts, almost of its own accord, to her entrance,
spreading her wetness around and rubbing over her sensitive clit again. “I-I,
uh,” she stammers, wincing. She sounds completely wrecked. “Nothing?”
Chloe’s quiet for a long moment. “Brooke,” she says again, her voice low, and
fuckif it doesn’t sound hot as hell to hear Chloe saying her name like that.
God, she’s in trouble. “Are you, like… are you touching yourself?”
The only sound that leaves Brooke’s mouth is a tiny gasp as she does exactly
that.
She hears Chloe exhale, the sound crackling slightly through the receiver.
“Damn, Brooke,” she says. “Why are you… are you thinking about me?”
“I—yeah,” Brooke says, closing her eyes. There’s no point in lying. After all,
isn’t this what she intended?
“Fuck.” Chloe sounds—actually, she can’t tell how Chloe sounds. Is she freaking
out? Is she disgusted? Is she thinking about how much of a freak Brooke is?
Then, Chloe’s voice drops lower, and she says in a way that can only be
described as seductive, “What are you imagining?”
Brooke flushes. She has no idea what Chloe is playing at, but she figures she
might as well just go with it. You only live once, right?
“I… I’m thinking about…” Brooke swallows hard, an image of Chloe’s dark curly
head between her thighs flashing into her mind. “Y-your mouth,” she says.
“Mhm?” There’s a smirk in Chloe’s voice. “What about my mouth? You’re going to
have to be more specific, Brooke.”
Brooke rubs herself furiously. “Between my—my legs,” she admits.
“Fuck, you want me to eat you out, baby?” Chloe says breathlessly.
“Yes,” Brooke whimpers. She has no idea when she got so needy. “W-would you?”
“Hell yeah,” Chloe says. “I bet you taste amazing. You’re so sweet, Brooke. You
make the prettiest little noises.”
Jesus Christ. “Chloe,” Brooke pants.
“What else are you thinking about?”
“Your hands,” Brooke answers, trying to even out her breathing as she pictures
Chloe’s soft, long fingers on her skin, touching her face, her chest, trailing
down over her stomach and thighs and slipping inside her. “I, I want—oh my
god.”
Chloe makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan, and Brooke nearly
comes right then at the sound. Quickly, she continues, “I-I’d want to touch you
too, Chloe. Wanna feel you. I wanna make you feel good.”
“Me too, baby,” Chloe whispers. “Brooke, Brooke—you have no idea—”
Brooke’s close, practically on the edge at this point, and maybe that’s why she
starts to babble as she rubs herself faster, applying more pressure. “Chloe, oh
my god, babe, you’re so beautiful—fuck, I-I wish you were here right now—I’m
gonna… oh god, Chloe, I love you—”
She comes with a shudder and a sigh, pleasure pouring over her like white-hot
stardust. Her fingers still, hovering just over her pulsing core, and she
trembles in the afterglow, letting out short, whimpering moans.
Chloe is strangely silent as Brooke comes down from her climax. The blonde
takes a deep breath, rolling over onto her side and adjusting her hold on the
phone. “Chloe?” she says tentatively.
“Did you…” Chloe starts, then trails off.
Brooke waits, teeth digging into her bottom lip. “Did I what?” she prompts.
“Nothing. I have to go,” Chloe says abruptly, and there’s a beep as she hangs
up.
“Wh—Chloe?” Brooke pulls the phone away from her ear and stares at the screen.
Yeah, Chloe actually just hung up on her. The hell?
Bewildered, she wracks her brain for something she could’ve said to piss Chloe
off or upset her in any way. But there’s nothing, nothing except—
I love you.
“Oh, shit,” Brooke says aloud.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     “I swear, it’s your fault, Jeremy.”
Chapter Notes
     thank you so much for all the lovely comments! i'm so glad you guys
     liked this so much!
     and thanks again to my beta for editing this for me! i don't know
     what i'd do without you!
     i hope you all enjoy part two!!! sorry it's a bit shorter than the
     first part!
“Wait, you did what?” Jeremy says.
Brooke glowers at him, her face flushed. “You heard me.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says, sounding incredulous. “You tried to—and
then you—” He splutters for a moment, words coming out in an almost incoherent
jumble. “But then she just hung up on you?”
“That sounds about right,” Brooke says miserably. “I swear, it’s your fault,
Jeremy.”
“How is it myfault?!”
“You gave me the idea!” She groans, putting her head down on the table. “God,
she’s never going to speak to me ever again.”
“Who’s never speaking to who ever again?” Rich says from behind her.
Jeremy sighs, patting Brooke’s shoulder. “Brooke thinks Chloe hates her,” he
explains.
Rich sits down on her other side at the library table. “What did you do?” he
says.
Lifting her head, Brooke says, “I had phone sex with her and then told her I
love her, and she hung up on me.”
Rich is silent for a long moment, processing this. Then, he says, “Brooke, you
useless lesbian.”
Jeremy cracks up, but Brooke just blushes harder and pouts. “It’s not funny!”
she whines. “She seemed really into it until I said that stupid fucking thing,
and then she just freaked. God. I bet she hates me.”
“No way,” Rich says. “She’s probably just having a gay panic, same as you.
Chloe is notorious for being shit at communicating her feelings.”
“What feelings?” Brooke sighs.
Jeremy and Rich exchange glances. “Brooke,” Jeremy says gently. “Do you… really
love Chloe?”
Brooke winces, but she knows she can’t lie to Jeremy. “… Yes,” she admits
painfully.
“Then you need to talk to her.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Brooke grumbles, but she knows she’s being a
bitch. “I just… I don’t know if I can handle being rejected, like, twice.”
“Then why don’t you just show up to Pinkberry this afternoon and see if she
does too?” Jeremy suggests. “Didn’t you say you guys were supposed to hang out
there today?”
“Yeah, but like… what if she doesn’t come? I’m gonna look like an idiot sitting
there by myself. Everyone’s gonna know I got stood up.” She’s getting ahead of
herself, she knows this, but she can’t help it. She buries her face in her
hands, trying not to cry.
“If she doesn’t, I’ll beat her up,” Rich says.
“Rich!”
“I’m joking!” He holds up his hands, grinning. “Well, mostly.”
Brooke snorts. “I’ll think about it,” she says, looking down. “It’s just…
scary, I guess.” She doesn’t like making herself vulnerable, and she’s almost
glad her friends know that. At least it means she doesn’t have to say it out
loud.
Jeremy wraps his arms around her, and Rich does the same, the two boys hugging
her from either side. “You can do this, Brooke,”  Jeremy murmurs and plants a
kiss on her cheek.
“Thanks, you guys.” Brooke tries on a smile, and surprisingly, it fits.
===============================================================================
 
Brooke eats lunch in her car that day instead of with everyone else in the
cafeteria. She doesn’t think she can stand sitting in her usual seat beside
Chloe, with all their friends around them, while the other girl is ignoring
her. It’s bad enough in all the classes they have together, and honestly, she
just needs a break—and the chance to psych herself up before that afternoon.
So, yeah, she’s going to Pinkberry after rehearsal. If she’s being completely
honest, she’s pretty sure she decided to the moment Jeremy suggested it, but it
doesn’t make her any less terrified. In fact, it almost makes it worse, since
there’s little to no chance that Chloe will actually show up.
But, well. She loves Chloe. And if there’s one thing she’s absolutely sure of,
it’s that she wants to be with her, more than she’s ever wanted to be with
anyone. So there’s that.
She’s distracted all throughout play rehearsal, forgetting her lines even more
than usual. She knows her friends, especially the ones who have no idea what’s
going on, are worried, but she can’t talk about it or she’ll lose her nerve.
(Plus, the whole situation is soembarrassing.)
Brooke practically runs to her car once rehearsal is over. She thinks she
breaks the speed limit on the way to Pinkberry, but she honestly doesn’t care.
When she walks in, Chloe is nowhere to be seen. She tries not to be too
disappointed—after all, it’s absolutely to be expected, given the way that
Chloe has been avoiding her all day—but her chest still feels tight as she sits
down.
It’s 5:43, and usually when Brooke and Chloe meet up after rehearsal, it’s
around 5:45. Brooke decides she’ll give Chloe an hour before messaging her.
Minutes pass. Brooke does homework, plays games on her phone, reads over her
lines, anything to keep herself occupied, to distract herself from the slow,
sinking dread in the pit of her stomach.
6:02. Still no Chloe.
The manager, who recognizes Brooke from her frequent visits there, offers her a
free scoop of frozen yogurt out of sympathy around 6:15, but Brooke politely
declines. She’ll buy something before leaving, even if Chloe doesn’t ever show.
By 6:37, Brooke can’t take it anymore.
britney spears:
     chloe? i’m at pinkberry. can you please come? i need to talk to you.
Nearly ten minutes later, she finally gets a reply.
bubblegum bitch:
     ok
Brooke’s heart immediately starts pounding wildly, and she sets her phone down
on the table, taking a deep breath. “Holy fuck,” she mutters. Okay, Brooke.
It’s okay. Everything is fine.
Now might be a good time for that frozen yogurt.
She insists on paying for her single scoop of piña colada, even though the
manager seems really adamant on letting her have it for free. After a few
minutes of negotiating, she reluctantly accepts a discount, pouting a little as
she watches them scoop it. Froyo cup in hand, she turns around to go back to
her table—and standing directly behind her is Chloe.
Brooke almost drops her froyo.
For a tense moment, they just stand there, staring. The air between them weighs
on Brooke’s shoulders, her breath dragging out of her lungs, heavy with
everything unspoken. Chloe’s expression is unreadable, her green eyes boring
into Brooke. Meanwhile, Brooke is positive that every single thing she’s
feeling is visible on her face, her heart bared for Chloe Valentine to see.
Take it, she wants to say. My heart. It’s yours.
“Uh, hey!” Brooke says after what feels like forever. Her voice cracks
awkwardly, way too high-pitched, and she cringes.
Chloe just looks at her. “Hi,” she says quietly.
Brooke bites her lip, a lump forming in her throat. “Um, d-do you wanna… sit
down?” she asks nervously, turning her cup in her hands. The condensation makes
her fingers slippery.
“Sure,” Chloe says, glancing away for the first time, and the tightness in
Brooke’s chest eases the tiniest bit. “Where…?”
“Um—” Brooke quickly steps past her, switching the cup to just one hand and
gesturing with the other to her table (their table). “Over here.”
Chloe’s lips press together in a thin line, but she sits down at the empty
chair, and Brooke slinks into the other one. It’s silent as she slowly takes a
bite of her frozen yogurt, her eyes fixed firmly on the white table. God, the
tension is even worse.
Eventually, Chloe takes a deep breath and says, “Why did you ask me to come
here?”
Brooke’s head jerks up. “W-well,” she says. “Um. I thought we should… talk. You
know, after last night.”
Chloe blushes and looks down, frowning. “What about it?”
“Why did you hang up on me?” Brooke blurts out. When Chloe glances up, eyes
wide, she rushes on, “I mean—I would understand if you freaked out a little, I
know that was, like, a lot to drop on you all at once, but you just—you
didn’t—you didn’t say anything to me, Chloe. You didn’t tell me why, y-you
just… ignoredme all day, and okay, I get it if you don’t…” She’s mortified to
find that her eyes are filling with tears, and she covers her eyes with her
hand, trying to save some of her dignity.
“But just tell me,” she finishes, her voice rasping a little as she struggles
not to cry.
Silence again. Brooke dares to look up at her friend a moment later and sees
that Chloe’s cheeks are flushed even redder than before, her lips parted in
shock.
“You…” Chloe begins, her voice choked. “You actually meant it?”
A half-sob, half-laugh dislodges from Brooke’s chest and forces its way out of
her throat, and she closes her eyes. “Yeah, Chloe,” she says.
“I thought…” Chloe seems to struggle for words. “I thought you just said that,
like—”
“In the moment?” Brooke bites her lip.
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head.
A beat. Then she hears the scrape of Chloe’s chair scooting back on the tile
floor, and footsteps, and she thinks Chloe is leaving, but they’re going the
wrong way. They’re coming closer.
“Brooke,” Chloe says softly, crouching beside Brooke’s chair. Her hand cups
Brooke’s chin and tilts her face upward, and then Chloe’s mouth is on hers.
Immediately, Brooke’s hands latch onto Chloe’s jacket, holding on for dear
life. The other girl’s full lips are soft, with the lingering taste of
strawberry chapstick, and a stray curl brushes Brooke’s cheek. She sighs into
the kiss, then reluctantly pulls back.
Chloe looks at her, a slight smile on her face as she cups Brooke’s face with
both hands. “I love you, too,” she says.
“Y-you do?” Maybe Brooke shouldn’t be that astonished by this, considering that
they just kissed, but it still floors her.
Giggling, Chloe pecks her lips again. “Yeah, baby. I do.”
“Then why—?”
“Why did I hang up? When I thought you weren’t serious, I… it was awful. I
thought you didn’t mean it, and I—I’ve been in love with you for… God, it’s
been years,” Chloe admits, a touch self-consciously.
Brooke’s cheeks turn scarlet. “Wait, really?”
“Um, yeah.” Chloe tilts her head, smiling shyly, which is honestly an
expression Brooke never thought she’d see on her best friend’s face.
“Holy shit,” Brooke says.
And then she kisses Chloe again. And again. And again—until the manager clears
their throat pointedly from behind them, and they jerk apart, both blushing and
apologizing profusely.
“It’s okay,” the manager assures them, with a slight smirk on their face.
“Honestly, I should be thanking you. You two just won me ten dollars. But I’m
going to have to ask that you not make out in my store.”
Brooke and Chloe watch, stunned, as the manager walks behind the counter and
begins swapping money with the other employees. It takes Brooke a second longer
than it should to realize that apparently, the Pinkberry employees have been
betting on how long it would take her and Chloe to get together.
“Holy shit,” Chloe echoes Brooke’s earlier words.
Brooke snorts, her hand sliding into Chloe’s. “Holy shit is right, babe.”
It fits perfectly.
===============================================================================
 
britney spears:
     SO
     GUESS WHO JUST GOT A GIRLFRIEND
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