Archive of Our Own ^beta

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"Does it bother you?" Momo asked, knowing Sana hated this, how the jagged lines along Momo’s rib would never come to resemble the soft curves of Sana’s petals. Silly Sana thought it was her own fault somehow.

It took Sana longer to respond this time, so Momo waited, let the humming of their old Toshiba fan fill the silence. When Sana shook her head and looked up at Momo, Momo smiled, "then it doesn't bother me." Despite the summer heat, Momo pulled Sana closer still. She smelt of sea salt and watermelon. Momo kissed her. It was enough for now.

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“You’re angry today.”

Momo bit back a groan and kept on packing her rackets. She cringed when they sounded noisily.

“Sana’s really got under your skin, huh?”

Momo huffed at memories of a short pink skirt. How it fluttered against darkness. How its satin grated on her thighs. How Sana had pushed her tumbling to the edge of the court. The harsh light bounced from Momo’s face to the contours of the nation’s darling. Her smirk. How Momo had wanted to kiss it off, her body arching forward, her fingers pulling skin.

“I don't think about her at all actually.”

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The sun’d reached its peak when Momo exited the dressing room. Where the hallway met the sky, Sana stood, smiling.

“Don’t be so sulky Momoring.” The floral notes of her perfume seeped into Sana’s words, dripped from the cadence of her voice, and threaded its way through the nooks of Momo’s mind like a well-practiced drill. Momo wished the honey bath could wash away her anger. “I’m sorry,” was what she wanted to say. What Momo settled for was, “I wanna get better,” instead. Her balled-up fist relaxed into Sana’s hand. She let the callus on Sana’s thumb sooth hers.

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Momo,

In the yawning months of no mail, I have made a house for myself. I bought a vase, a pot, and a set of furniture. Your room has been rearranged. The red puffy chair you like? I have disposed of it.

Why didn’t you write Momoring? Bored of me? I bet London is exciting. I’ve seen photographs, you know. I want to frolic, too, in those long, loose, thin dresses. The things that I have are so stuffy. This kimono I’m wearing is suffocating me. Do you think, Momo, should I rid of this too?

Your lonely friend,
Sana

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“You were so brave, Sana.” Momo is biased because she loves her.

“You don't get it-” Bravery is stupid.
“The things I’m thinking-” The scars are stupid.
“I’m terrible.” Sana regrets saving a kid’s life.

For a while, there’s only one sound– the brushing of Momo’s thumb over Sana’s wrist. It’s Momo’s favorite scar. It makes Sana want to cry. Momo’s holding back, Sana knows. What’s more you? The one with horrible thoughts or the one shuddering at them? She knows, too, that Momo’d love her anyway, with her tightened jaw and trembling mouth. With unutterable words, Momo loves her.

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My Sana,

Yes, London sparkles. Lights abound as the women talk to me with buoyancy and mischief. Such exotic creatures...undeniably beautiful.

But Sana, London and its women don’t hold a candle to you.

The weather here is dreary. The tea here is bland. They put milk in their tea, Sana. I hate it here. I wish I could write more. I wish I didn’t have to write at all. I want to be near you and your stuffy clothing, or none at all if you’re so pleased.

Oh dash the red puffy chair. I’d rather your lap.

Only yours,

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Momo,

I think Tanaka knows. It’s my fault. I’ve been spending more and more time in your room than in his cold lonely chamber. I made fishcake the other day and thought of you. “Eighteen years for silly old yuzu.” I saw a faintest yellow blob on our tree yesterday. It amazed me; I have loved you for the greater half of my life. When the yuzu ripes, I’d think of you again. I’d come into your room again. I’d fall asleep in the red puffy chair (yes, it’s still there, I lied). And if Tanaka knows, I’m yours anyway.

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Sana’s hair was dry and rough, but it was nice like this, doing nothing with Sana, on their shared sofa, both their tummies full and happy.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Sana always said Momo was hers, but Momo hated the idea of kowtowing to fate. “Loving you is a choice” Sana’s skin was soft and delicious, “I’m awful with decisions.”

Sana’s kicks were gentle, her shrilly whines should’ve been annoying but were not. Sana smiled the same smile she had when they were 4. There on the playground, Momo had bumped into Sana.

“You’re so pretty. Let’s be friends.”

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Liking someone is silly. To look at a person among 8 billion and go yup that’s the one? Silly.

Momo waddles out of the bedroom, looking snuggly in Sana’s old tee. “What’s on your mind?”

“Why you of course.” Sana smiles easily. She loves teasing Momo. People often laugh at her corny lines. Momo, though, blushes at the words, whispers a half-hearted “shut up”, and turns on the stove.

The oil soon starts to splatter. Momo looks ridiculous jumping wildly on her feet, muttering obscenities, and Sana tries not to be silly, but goddamnit. She totally only wants this one.

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Momo was walking with her girlfriend Sana to their favorite kbbq restaurant. At an alleyway, Sana brilliantly decided to make a confession.

“Momo, I’m a vampire.” So naturally, Momo laughed which annoyed Sana?!

“Look at me,” Sana commanded and started baring her fangs. Instantly, the air stilled.

Silence hung over them.

“I love you though,” Sana amended, tapping her fingers at a preternatural speed and how had Momo not noticed that.

Sighing, Momo decided that it was “hot!” linked her arm with Sana’s, “now can we please dinner?” and kissed her vampire girlfriend on the cheek. “My cute little bat.”

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Momo,

I resent this but I think you have a right to know: I saw you in a dream last night.

You didn’t look like yourself, but I think I liked you still. Wanted to relearn your body. I wonder if your ears would still perk up, your abs tighten when I kiss you there.

Still I woke up grateful that it was only a dream. I love the way you look, Momo, won’t you send me a photograph of you of you of you?

Don’t tell anyone this: I love your body but I think I love you more.

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“Does that hurt?”

A bit, but Momo shrugged, eyes stuck on Dobby who was sleeping at her feet, swallowed by his own coat. “We should take Dobby to the groomers tomorrow.”

“Momo.” Sana tightened the wrap. “Sure you don’t wanna talk about it?”

Very, but Sana’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes searching for something in Momo’s eyes, so she tried. “Maybe later.”

“I know you love me—” Sana clicked the safety pin into place, lifted Momo’s hand to the lights. Her legs brushed the inner of Momo’s legs. “—but I love you, too.” And she kissed Momo’s knuckles, although torn, although bandaged.

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it happens like this: her hand, outstretched, rising like a drowning sailor. momo touches the cloud that looks like a rabbit, its ears sitting just above a mountain peak. it takes up to hundreds of thousands of years for mountains to form, sana has told her that. momo wonders, wonders wonders, if she’s seeing this, too, the years that have created them.

it happened like this: i think we should stop. stop what? but sana didn’t answer. okay. whatever you want. the sun was dipping then as it is now. her fingers fall into a loose fist, momo holds air.

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“could you believe it? the audacity.” momo catches another red m&m in her mouth and nods vaguely. nayeon is complaining about her science partner again.

“cheerleaders, man.” nayeon concludes, rolling her eyes with no real malice—she has a crush on mina after all.

“they’re the worst.” chocolates in her palm, momo nudges nayeon’s arm. nayeon picks out a green one. momo smiles. if only she knew who bought it.

“here.” sana stood at momo’s locker early morning, hand outstretched. her voice was too sweet for the hour, but it matched the ribbon in her hair. “thanks for yesterday.”

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there’s nothing sacred about this.

if anyone knows, i’d kill you. momo groans as sana gets to her knees, hands coasting from the sides of momo’s ribcage to her hips. sana doesn’t bother to answer. instead, she catches momo’s eyes and smiles.

relax, princess.

momo could have sana killed right now. one yell and the guards would barge in. momo hates that word, princess, and momo knows that sana knows. momo could have sana killed right now, but sana touches her there, and momo can only let out a weak yelp biting through her own hand.

oh. fuck. god. sana.

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they’d been staring at the ceiling for an hour. “what happened?” nayeon asked even though she’d said she wouldn’t. habits, momo thought and smiled.

“we talked.” momo was being difficult but she didn’t have any other words. their breathings synced. momo closed her eyes.

“she told me she misses me.”

nayeon scoffed. “of course she did.”

“i know you think she’s—”

“it’s not that,” nayeon sounded younger in the dark somehow, “you’re my best friend, momo.”

nayeon’s hand kept pulling at the fabrics between them. momo wondered if she knew that sana used to do that, too.

“so was she.”

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sana’s fingers circle the handle of the dagger one by one. in seven minutes she will have to leave it behind. in two months it will become the ruin of her, but for now, it feels full and fresh in her palm and she has a mission to fulfill.

the duchess is having tea alone in her silk dress. after the duke’s death, she is rarely seen. they say that she has fallen ill with grief, but sana knows the truth. every night she has watched her eyes glimmer behind a thin veil of steam. chamomile, sana notes—

“you came.”

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someone needs to be sacrificed. the boy who lived lives no longer. no one knows who did it but someone needs to atone for the sin. must be a slytherin, that much is obvious.

the silence is taut in sana’s room. the air is thicker in the dungeon but momo’s used to it.

“it will pass.”

“you don’t know that.”

sana’s clipped when she’s jittery but momo’s used to it, too. she pulls sana down from her pacing, her fingers touching where sana’s dark mark would be. horrified, sana accuses, “you can’t possibly—“

“no. never.”

but sana doesn’t trust her.

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the lines on momo’s hand bloom like flowers. with one brush of the fingers, the seer gathers momo’s future into a bouquet and knots them in a perfect bow.

“you’re free now.”

momo flexes her hand. empty air flits through her skin where fire should be. momo didn’t know freedom would feel like this, a fist in the gut, but she nods.

“sana will show you out.”

sana offers momo a hand. it is cold to touch, but her ash grey eyes darken the way momo’s eyes darken. how could she forget? these humanoids do, after all, run on blood.

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strings of words sewn carelessly into one long meaningless sentence but the world needs it, that sentence, long and winding with no end in sight but the world needs it, sana, stepping onto the podium pocketful of words sewn carelessly into one long—

there’s meaning behind all this. precarious but it’s there, at the bottom of her pocket sparkling for no one, but momo, momo would have understood. before the end of the world there was this: a croak of a sore throat and momo, on her knees handing sana a promise.

“marry me sa—”

then the whole world shifted.

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sana trembles, if only slightly. the blade feels cold against her throat, but momo’s body is warm all over.

“do it.” sana lays her hand over momo’s hand over the knife that will never hurt her.

momo’s first mistake is this: her hands slacken, begging for sana to take the knife away. her second goes back to the before time. sana’s hand was as cold as the blade when it handed momo half a bread.

her third mistake. against sana’s chest, momo sucks in a lungful that hurts more than the stab itself.

“i love you.”

softly then, momo chuckles.

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momo could count the days. the first one was brief but exciting. sana’s eyes were bright, sharp, full of secrets, but they were better on the second day, kinder, sober, urging momo to place her hand onto sana’s heart.

“it’s beating really fast.”

“is it?”

it was. as it is now. they’ve been friends for almost a year. sana’s been dating some jock for more than two. but today, the third day, sana’s nose is inches from momo’s nose when she whispers, “i love you more than anything on this earth.” it doesn’t have to mean anything. but it does.

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face towards the white light, momo launches her body into the air. for a few seconds, she’s truly flying, lightweight like a petal before the curtain drops. it’s not until she’s back inside her dressing room that her ears would stop ringing.

“you were magnificent.” mina hands her a soda.

“you think so?”

“when have i ever lied to you?”

momo lets the bubbles reach the roof of her mouth before gulping them down along with a bitter answer. instead, momo asks out of routine. “was she there?”

“maybe tomorrow. there’s this big bouquet of—“

tulips. red. momo isn’t listening.

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“taste these,” sana says, backlit by the setting summer sun, so momo obliges. it’s sweet, the wild strawberries that no one cares for, that are already two shades too red, that were just now sitting snugly in sana’s palm.

“mhm here,” momo presents her own harvest. hasn’t yet learned how to let someone give her a good thing, but it doesn’t matter. sana’s eyes twinkle smartly as she takes momo’s hand to her mouth. was sana thinking what momo’s thinking? the ghost touch of a girl’s lips, so sticky and plump, and sweet too momo imagines. from the strawberries’ juice.

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crocodiles are many things. they’re survivors, killed not by asteroids nor frozen stretches of loneliness. they’re cannibals and maybe that explains it. need be, they will eat their own young.

still, these old eaters of the earth are mothers. to keep newborns safe, they hold the babies in their long cavernous snouts; the deadliest bite in the world, a cradle.

i want you, momo caresses sana’s cheek, crocodile caught between their skins.

you have me, sana juts her neck into momo’s palm. her heart thrums beneath momo’s fingertips. in sana’s dilated pupils, momo’s throat bobs with an ancient want. ah.

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momo,

you’re making me feel stupid for writing all these letters and receiving none. there, i said it, you’re making me feel stupid.

and yet. here’s your fool running her unwanted mouth to you again. i remember wanting to tell you something but now it’s just this: i miss you.

i’ve missed you in such a strange way, momo, that is all pervasive but not at all consuming. you know how i was with people. and yet. i miss you momo knowing that you miss me too. so you’re forgiven. write to let me know you’re well if nothing else.

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sana,

you’re the smartest person i know.

no mail because i couldn’t find the words. i’m sorry.

the past few months if i weren’t working then i was in my bed. all of the time i wanted you with me. some of the time you were and honest to goodness, sana, that alone kept me going.

i won’t go into details. i’m sure you’ve read the news. it’s horrifying, sana, what they’re doing to the kids.

but i can’t be so sad. there’s work to do and you to love. i’d make it all better, sana, i need to.

mo

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10pm is a sad hour. sana walks along empty streets under an empty sky with a sinking stomach.

“there you are.” momo says, rising from the stoop before sana even gets there, “shall we?” she asks but they’re already in lockstep. it’s these little things that make sana’s legs itch for a run.

“thanks for coming out.” sana says, head already echoing the response but it’s always nicer in momo’s voice, “of course.”

10:30 is a better hour. momo is bellyful of stories and sana smiles when she smiles—white teeth, sharp tongue, lips that make the hour stop.

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“don’t do this,” momo pleads, voice soft as tonight’s moon but there’s a new sureness to it that stops sana in her track.

“hm? don’t do what?”

“that. don’t look at me like that. don’t tilt your head. don’t—“

“okay, sorry.” sana stops tilting her head, eyes back to the faraway road. there’s no mountains or rivers in this city but she can hear water falling from a towering height. cold wind slaps her back to reality.

“you don’t have to like me back sana but this,” momo’s hands gesture wildly in the distance between them, ”this has to stop.”

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momo buries her nose into sana’s hair, filling her lungs up with last night’s shampoo. she remembers lathering it onto sana’s body, her skin, the shape of her being, there under momo’s rough careful hands and still, an island.

“mmh, right there,” sana sighs, body between momo’s legs leaning in. the room, once silent and empty, now swells with a simple joy that neither of them can name. too soon, momo thinks as the pregnant air dampens her forehead. her nails dig into sana’s skull, hoping to draw blood.

“is this too harsh?” she asks.

“no,” sana answers, “just right.”

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“honestly momo,” nayeon stops midwalk to look at her, “just ask sana out already. you want her she wants you. what more do you want?”

momo stares. sighing, she yanks nayeon forward by the arm. as she hooks her own around nayeon’s elbow, momo thinks about how easy it is to show affection like this, platonic and safe. “i love you,” momo would tell nayeon, not ever hoping to hear it back.

“i just,” momo shakes dad’s voice out of her head. you’re not unloveable she reminds herself quietly. “i just want to get to know her better is all.”

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i hate you, sana mouths before taking momo’s hand. as the violin begins to swell, momo responds with a straight face. yes i know.

sana bristles. i wish it had been you instead, she hisses before fully understanding what it means. you should have died. but momo doesn’t flinch. teeth against her own teeth, hand light on sana’s hand, she guides them through another pirouette with practiced ease.

as she watches sana slip into the arms of another partner, her fingers trace out the shape of sana’s knuckles. inside her silk glove, momo’s bloodied hand trembles with want. me too.

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some nights, sana is hard to reach. physically, she’s two shoulders away, but her eyes are not looking into momo’s eyes. chin in palm, baby hair swaying to the song of the blue birds that have made a home just outside of their windows, sana feels like an ocean away.

more tea? momo puts her hand atop of sana’s hand against their cherry table. it’s as cold and bony as the one she kissed this morning.

eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling, sana carefully rolls her hand over so that palm meets palm. no, thanks, she says. stay here.

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momo wants it to be different but the world’s so old, stuck in its way, stubborn like a forgetful father. twigs against grey sky, the world slumps with a giant duffel, 300 million tons of want. i’m sorry sana, she says, eyes closed, heart frozen, waiting to break. what for?

we should, it’s not, i dont know.

momo wants it to be different but the world’s so young, new, quick to cry, born time and again in secrecy, in codes, sounds that reverb, tremble, and echo through the heart.

it’s the short days, long nights, momo knows. but she forgets.

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the road home is long and winding, dimly lit, not much life. the cold here is not like home. it bites through jackets and into the bones. your nose is frozen stiff like it’s about to fall off. when the air blows, it’s a drunk slap to the face. your cheek burns at the moment and in the morning it forgets. you’ve grown good at it, forgetting.

you’re home.
hi.

hi.

she breathes warm air into your neck. it makes you wanna cry—does she understand that this is not like home?

let’s fuck nasty.

mhm no i’ve made soup.

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mama blinks through momo’s broken screen. what you gonna do with that degree?

i don’t know, momo blinks back. by her feet, dobby’s licking his paws lazily where the sun hits. she reminds herself to take him to the vet soon.

momo i love, mama says before the signal cuts her off. when she returns, it’s with a scowl and a sigh. are you there?

yes, ma. i’m here.

momo thinks back to the last time she was home. was it two years ago? three? mama stares at her with disappointment but momo knows, understands, that the world lacks words.

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in sana’s head, the songs of chickadees slowly melt into her beating heart. it’s a friday morning. tomorrow, sana will leave town and momo will stay. this is it, sana thinks, the last ever.

i’m sorry.
for what?
just. you know.

it’s overwhelming, to feel this much and have no words for it. does momo know? that she makes sana smile even when she’s not there? is she feeling it, too? knee against knee like a child’s confession.

i wish—
—i know

last time, sana thinks, delineating herself in momo’s eyes one last time,

here,

an
outline
of a
thought.

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across from momo, sana is beautiful, curious eyes lit by the sun, hair matching the faraway lapping waves. salty air punches momo’s lungs into a coughing fit.

you okay?

yeah i’m fine.

it’s like their third date all over again. momo, sick as a dog, lay next to a tired, worried, careful sana and they talked and laughed and kissed into the small hours of the day.

i’m scared, momo says, eyes trained on the burning concrete beneath her feet, wanting to cry. i break things. i love you but i don’t i—

me, too. a small smile.
then, two.