Chapter Text
1 Thessalonians 3:12- And may the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all, as we do for you
Sitting in front of Rio’s old desktop computer wasn’t exactly the intended destination when Agatha decided she wanted to be out of her house, but Rio was adamant about showing her all the gaming she’d missed out on as a kid living with Evanora.
It was the same way when Agatha had confessed to never watching SpongeBob when they were 14, how Rio forced her to binge the first five seasons on her Paramount plus account, claiming Agatha had to understand her references or they couldn’t possibly be friends.
Agatha hated to admit that she liked when Rio got all excited about showing her something, like a kid getting their favorite toy, only it was Rio staring at Agatha as she watched the episode with the Hash Slinging Slasher for the first time, or forcing her to try oysters (Rio laughed as Agatha scrunched her nose up at the texture), or, like now, playing Duck Life 4.
Rio’s swivel chair was clunky and heavy, allowing Agatha to sit in it with her legs crossed, now in a long sleeve shirt and shorts, a combo she usually detested, but she needed the chance for both cool air and coverage, not sure if the panic in her mind would trigger goose bumps or sweat. She’s trying her best to pay attention to the little duck on the screen and not Rio hovering over her.
Her eyes have been caught on her abdomen ever since Rio had put on the cropped t-shirt, light gray and maybe a little see-through, the short sleeves barely covering her shoulders, her biceps exposed. As much as she loves Rio in a skirt, the sweatpants are hugging her hips tightly, the perfect window of skin framing her belly button. It’s a distraction. Agatha knows Rio is trying to distract her from the heaviness of the day with silly games and lighthearted conversation. But it’s another war to keep her focus on feeding and training the pixelated duck to win a race.
“I can’t believe you missed out on club penguin,” Rio gasps, truly forlorn at the realization. “You can still play on private forums, but I feel like you’re too vulnerable right now, you might get addicted.”
”I don’t know if I have the mental capacity for you to even explain to me what club penguin is right now,” Agatha deadpans, her fingers jamming against the left and right arrows on the old keyboard, now training the duck in climbing.
“Just know my username was TheeGreenWitch, two E’s in thee, and two E’s in green,” she clarifies without prompting, “And I was flirting with all the other 8 year old girls.”
”Oh, so I’m not the first girl you’ve played computer games with? Wild.”
”Look, Rachel took my computer game virginity, but now I only want you baby,” Rio quips, Agatha losing the level as soon as the words leave her mouth.
“Who the fuck is Rachel?” Agatha pushes back from the desk, just enough to fully face the girl standing beside her.
Rio smirks, allowing a moment for Agatha to stay grumpy, the wrinkle in her brow holding strong.
”Someone I made up to make you jealous.”
“You made my little duck die,” Agatha grumbles, the pout on her lips a mix of honesty and exaggeration.
”So you do like this game.” Rio’s smile shifts from smug to joy, happy she’s done an even semi-adequate job at entertaining Agatha.
“Shut up”
”Is it cliche if I say ‘make me’?” Rio leans down, bringing their faces closer together, her hands pressing into the armrests of the computer chair, sinking forward until they’re only a few inches apart.
“Is it evil if I make you shut up by sewing your mouth shut?” Agatha asks, pretending to be unaffected by the proximity, the smile on her face a clear contrast to her words, like it wasn’t a question, but a threat, an act of violence that would bring her joy, “Would you like that, kitten?”
Rio holds her stare, processes the words, doesn’t move back, afraid to show her cards, pushing down any semblance of a reaction.
She swallows hard. Blinks.
”God, you’re a freak.” Agatha laughs, pushing Rio backwards by the shoulders, breaking the closeness is just as much punishment for Rio as it is for herself, but she needs to breathe, recenter herself, take back the upper hand.
“You’ve deprived me of this stuff for years, my daydreams have gotten a little creative,” Rio shrugs, unashamed of her desires, a carefree air that Agatha has always admired.
”Years?” Agatha’s face curls in disgust, “I do not want to think about 14-year-old us fucking.”
”But 17-year-old us is fine?” Rio questions, her eyebrows raised.
Agatha knows Rio is joking, that as much as she wants them to get to that at some point, she isn’t pushing, isn’t actually upset at the course of their relationship, would wait forever if it meant getting just a glimpse of being their most authentic selves, loving each other to their highest capacity.
”Rio.” Agatha still says her name like a warning, rolling her eyes for the full effect.
“I’m not hearing a no.”
”Don’t make me choke you again.” Agatha tries to stir up all the bite she can muster.
“I thought we already established that kitten likes that,” Rio is smiling, smug and self-assured.
“I can’t believe I’m the traumatized one”
Rio laughs, her eyes fighting between joy and lust.
“I know,” Rio acts surprised, dumbfounded by reality, “I can’t believe I’m the product of loving parents either.”
”My duck is dead.” Agatha’s voice shakes, a full performance ready, “My duck is dead, and you’re not taking it seriously.” She gestures at the computer screen ‘level failed’ staring back at her, ignoring the convenient option to replay it.
“My sincerest apologies,” Rio clutches her non-existent pearls, “When is the funeral? I’ll make sure to send some azaleas”
“The family is requesting 12 dozen at the very least.” Agatha crosses her arms, ready to keep the joke going, settling into her fake anger with all the dramatics of an award winning actress.
Rio blinks.
”Azaleas kill ducks, Agatha.” Rio voices like Agatha should know better, like the fact is one of common sense, shaking her head and scoffing, a flippant portrayal of disappointment.
“So, my duck dies. And now you’re trying to take out his entire bloodline?”
”You’ve known that duck for 20 minutes and you’re already taking his side?” Rio lifts the back of her hand to her forehead, making a show of flailing back as if about to faint, “I thought I meant more to you than that.” Her voice on the edge of a fake sob.
“Watch it, Vidal. That’s my son you’re talking about.” Agatha seethes.
”You two sound like an old married couple.”
Both girls freeze at the sound of Rio’s mother’s voice from the bedroom door. Both heads swing around to see the woman standing in the threshold, her brown eyes trace over the contents of Rio’s room: the pile of clothes on the floor (that usually find a home on the computer chair Agatha is currently sitting in), the bowl on the nightstand only holding 3-day-old dorito crumbs, the art supplies haphazardly stacked in the corner, the two teenage girls who look like they’ve just seen a ghost.
Mrs. Vidal smiles at them as she steps into the room, it feels close to getting caught in the act even if they weren’t doing anything scandalous, fake-fighting over the fake-death of a computerized duck.
“You scared me,” Rio confesses, thrown by her mother’s sudden appearance.
”You were too busy yapping to hear me come up the stairs,” she laughs, “you got your big mouth from your father.”
Rio meets her mother half way, letting her pull her into a brief hug. Agatha watches from her seat, sunken into the crisp feeling, something to treasure in the way Rio clings to her mother even now. It makes her look young, even a few inches taller than her, the embrace pulls at something warm and foreign in Agatha’s chest. It isn’t jealousy. But maybe a new truth. That this warmth could be hers too.
Rio’s family had always welcomed her, had always offered her their love and their comfort without batting an eye. Being Rio’s friend had always felt like getting a piece of the pie, fitting in with the same cherry filling. But she wanted more now, wanted to feel like she was a step in the recipe, not just an optional ingredient.
It was insane actually, settling on that realization, that she trusted not only Rio, but her parents enough to truly let them in, to tell them the truth, to feel the full extent of their embrace.
“Hey, mija.” Mrs. Vidal steps to Agatha, caressing the back of her head in greeting, “Are you staying for dinner?”
Agatha nods, looking to Rio for confirmation, to further explain for her, unable to use her own words to clarify, to ask for help.
”About that,” Rio starts, her eyes settling back on her mother, a deep breath to break the tension, “Can Agatha sleep over tonight?”
”It’s a school night, chispita” Her voice glows with maternal dismissal, a spark of questioning Rio’s intentions, the instinct to compare spontaneous sleepovers to the possibility of unplanned pregnancy, or destroyed property, or getting on the wrong side of the drug trade.
“Please, Mami,” Rio pulls out her puppy dog eyes, an expert restraint in pout, poking her lip out just enough to make her mother feel pity, but not enough to oversell it.
Mrs. Vidal looks between them, the seconds passing as she seems to contemplate it, seemingly weighing the pros and cons, trying to decide if she could trust her teenage daughter to make it to school on time if the two girls would definitely be staying up past 3 am.
”Purple socks,” the code word leaves Agatha’s mouth before she can provide them with a certain answer. She’d remembered it from when Rio used it on the phone with her mother weeks ago, how it cemented that Agatha needed Rio, how no further questions were asked.
She remembers how angry she was then, that Rio had possibly betrayed her trust, how embarrassed she was, that her parents were dragged into it too.
The words ring now like a cry for help, a yield sign, giving them enough time to slow down and look, find the truth of Agatha’s need without telling the whole story. Now it only makes her feel warm, overwhelmed by care, that Rio had the love and forethought to create a signal for her parents to know without knowing, a way to protect her two-fold.
Rio looks at her like she can’t believe she used it, a small tinge of pride in her eyes, like Agatha had found some comfort in it, a way to ask for help without explicitly asking for it.
“Okay,” Rio’s mother resolves, sighing slightly at her own shift in opinion, but also noting the gravity of the situation, trying to put the pieces together, “But we're discussing this at dinner with your father.”
Rio is still looking at Agatha, waiting for some reaction, holding her breath at the chance she might run, go back to Evanora instead of staying and explaining.
Agatha nods.
“What’s for dinner?”
—-
1 Samuel 12:24- But be sure to fear the Lord and serve him faithfully with all your heart; consider what great things he has done for you.
“You’re sure you wanna tell them?” Rio asks a few minutes after her mother leaves the room. Rio had offered to help cook dinner, but Mrs. Vidal had waved her off from the threshold of the door, lingering to look at between the two girls as if to tell Rio to stay with Agatha without saying the words.
“No,” Agatha sighs, shaking her head, the words pointed down towards Rio, splayed out awkwardly on her bed, Agatha sat up next to her, her back pressed into the headboard, baby duck completely forgotten. “but something has to change.”
Rio only stares from her layed position, something soft and understanding in her eyes, Agatha is still getting used to the pride directed at her in brown eyes, the calm resolute gratification. It was enough to stir the fear in Agatha’s soul, the way Rio never moved too fast to scare her, never offered empty pity or clapped loudly in response to Agatha’s growth. She knew that it made Agatha feel weak. Instead, she observed, she sat patiently, witnessing Agatha bloom over years of delicate friendship, over years of untouched feelings. But Rio couldn’t hide the satisfaction in her eyes anymore.
It was there, and Agatha could see it. And it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. For once, she agreed that maybe Rio had something to be proud of.
Because admitting that she wanted better for herself, that she didn’t want to live like this anymore, that she was willing to try even if she didn’t feel completely ready, wasn’t sure that there would be a better outcome, it felt like more than a baby step.
And Rio still didn’t clap, didn’t praise her with patronizing words, just stayed with her, reached for her hand, stroked over her knuckles like a chance for stability.
Maybe one day Agatha would feel comfortable in self celebration, and when that day comes, Rio will be waiting with the banners and the balloons, but for now she’s content to hold off, sink into what Agatha needs over what she knows she deserves.
They sit in the silence for a few minutes, Rio’s hands playing with Agatha’s fingers, soothing yet free, a gentle caress that warps the seriousness, the warmth of Rio’s eyes undemanding. Agatha remembers that silence isn’t war. Reminds herself that there is ease in not having to fill the space, that she can relax here, that she doesn’t have to live life in the margins waiting for her savior, always on guard for the next act of violence.
All of her life had been written by her mother, coiled up and cold. Evanora had always decided what words made it into the story, the character she was painted as. Rio had been the first person to encourage her to rip out pages, to pick up her own pen. It had happened slowly, brown eyes weaseling into her psyche through weighted gestures, and silly jokes, but what really kept Agatha held up was the unconditional presence. Agatha let Rio see all the ugly, gave her the tweezers and flashlight to pick through it, and instead of power washing out the dirt, Rio had tangled herself into the roots, had made a home in all the things Agatha thought made her unworthy, whispered strength into all the cracks until they felt like stickers instead of scars.
Rio had never asked to change her, had never chained herself to a tree and begged Agatha to let her fix her. Not when they were fourteen and confessing acts of abuse in sleeping bags, not when Agatha was finally confessing feelings but still holding back from acting on them.
There had always been that unspoken agreement. That Rio could hold some of the weight, cover her bruises in makeup, talk her through the darker parts, distract her from it all with ice cream and computer games. But she didn’t have the power to heal her. That was Agatha’s part.
And now was no different.
Rio could offer Agatha her home, her bed, a tunnel towards escape. But Agatha still had to make the choice to take it.
Here she was. Sat in Rio’s bed, allowing Rio to spread comfort through them both, the careful press of fingertips tracing against her palm, not running, not giving in to the desire to pull away from the unconditional affection that still felt foreign even if Rio had been offering it quietly for years.
It felt like choosing. A decision that spun the anxiety in her gut, but still settled something in her heart. Something like intuition, a sense she hadn’t recognized in a long time.
“Rio! Agatha! Dinner!” Mr.Vidal’s voice carries from the first floor calling them downstairs.
“Ready?” Rio sits up, perching herself on her elbows, her neck turned awkwardly to find Agatha’s eyes, still giving her an out, still masking sure this wasn’t forced, Agatha’s decision.
“Feels like judgement day,” Agatha mumbles.
“Don’t worry,” Rio turns more of her body, her hand settling against Agatha’s collarbone, “The only sin you’ve committed is kissing a girl,”
Agatha rolls her eyes at Rio’s attempt to settle her brain, her thoughts screaming out all the reasons she’s going to hell.
Honor thy father and thy mother.
Well that kind of went out the window.
Agatha pushes Rio’s hand away with a quiet huff, hiding the smile that spills out at the way Rio looks at her like something worth devouring. She pushes herself up from the bed to stand, knowing without looking back that Rio is following her.
She turns back regardless, the magnet pulling her back in, resting her forearms against Rio’s shoulders, basking in the ease of Rio’s hands finding her waist, the act starting to feel less like exploration and more like a practiced certainty.
“Can I sin one more time before I go to hell?” Agatha asks, a clipped edge to the words like she’s not asking for a kiss in the most Agatha way possible.
“You don’t want to ask for forgiveness instead?” Rio bites her lip for a moment, shifts her tongue in her own mouth, “There’s still time to repent.”
Agatha shakes her head no, dissolving the game of teasing, sinking forward just enough to connect their lips. She finds herself reeling in the tenderness, not pushing further to up the pace, just deepening the brush of lips into something more intimate, tilting Rio’s head, her fingers caught on the back of her neck, slow and passionate. The raw desire from earlier in the bathroom isn’t there, caught somewhere in the back of her throat, instead her lips move with quiet purpose, a ‘thank you’ she can’t verbalize.
She focuses on Rio’s breathing, the way it sags against her like a pattern of hushed treasure. The way she melts under her touch, responds with the same patient intensity. She lets Agatha lead, happy to follow.
Downstairs Mr. Vidal smiles at her, winks like they share some secret as he hands her cups from the cabinet. Rio takes plates from him right after, a seamless process of setting the table. A practice Agatha falls into like she has so many times before. She pours water into each cup from the filtered pitcher kept in the fridge as Rio sets out napkins and grabs forks.
A large pan of arroz con pollo sits on one of the burners of the stove, simmering slightly on low, just enough to stay warm. The cover is on, hiding the contents, the bubbles of condensations painted over the inside of the glass surface like a work of art, but Agatha recognizes the aroma, a comforting mix of spices that Evanora has never used. Beside it is another pan, a shallow bath of hot oil still cooling from frying smooshed slices of plantains, the plate of fresh tostones steaming on the counter, the grease slipping into the paper towel they’re carefully placed on.
Agatha grabs two of the plates, and Rio grabs the others, handing one at a time to Mrs. Vidal to transfer food onto each one, the wooden spoon scooping the chicken and rice with ease, Rio wincing as she picks at the still hot tostones with her bare hands, a common occurrence. Her father passes her a fork with a scoff, seeing himself in the act. She slides a few onto each plate with Agatha bringing each one back to the table.
When they all sit to say grace. It doesn’t feel like grounds for a performance, the prayer never one person’s responsibility, never said out loud. Instead they join hands silently, Agatha in between Rio and her mother, her father across from her at the square table. They all bow their heads, close their eyes, say their own personal prayer, a place to express quiet gratitude, and never to be judged.
And for the first time in a while Agatha prays.
She’s not sure who she’s talking to, who she’s directing her thoughts at.
Maybe God. Maybe the universe. Maybe Rio.
Thank you for this. For giving me a chance. For food. For patience. For family.
Whoever she’s speaking to. She hopes they hear it.
They share a whispered “Amen” before diving in, the clink of Mr. VIdal’s fork hitting the plate first, no question where Rio got her insatiable appetite from. As many times as Agatha has eaten dinner in the Vidal household, the depth of flavor never fails to surprise her, like her tastebuds are waking up again, the love the food is prepared with just as clear as the memorized recipes, the way they always yielded enough to be shared.
When Rio’s mother opens her mouth to ask how school was today it doesn’t feel like judgement day, no harrowed interrogation at the pearly gates, just care, just curiosity.
Rio shrugs, swallowing before she speaks, brushing it off like nothing remarkable happened today, like making out with her best friend was typical, like said best friend’s mother being a demon was normal.
Agatha can only agree with one of those things.
“The usual.” She pushes the rice around her plate, “Brother Morales is still teaching first year stuff.”
Agatha smiles because it’s true, amused that Rio is bothered by the repetitive curriculum, but also trying to find where to start her own truth.
Because Rio is keeping it light, steering them away from the hard conversation, giving Agatha the opportunity to ruin dinner with her burden.
“Agatha?” Her mother turns the question to her, the careful press of affection. Like Agatha was their daughter too, like they genuinely cared how her day was, how she felt. She wondered if that would ever stop feeling new.
Agatha takes a sip of her water, scrunches her napkin in her hands for something to do, fights the desire to reach out for Rio’s hand instead.
“Are you alright, cariño?” Mr. Vidal asks.
And that's the nail in the coffin.
Proof that this family cared about her enough to recognize the warning signs, that they knew her better than her own mother, could sense the trouble from the way she blinked too hard, hesitated to speak. Because Agatha wasn’t usually scared in their presence, always found comfort in their care even when she didn’t feel like she deserved it. And now she felt overwhelmed by how easily she was being read, Rio pushing rice around her plate, her mother’s eyes watching Agatha like she was waiting to jump into protection mode, her father’s question hanging in the air like a patient void.
She was scared. Not of being hit, not of raised voices or tainted retaliation. She was scared of hurting them, of showing her truth, of forcing them to carry the weight. Because even if they kept looking at her like something to protect, even if they said she could stay, it would never be something she could repay.
Agatha didn’t know how to begin to explain. She looks to Rio, finds strength in her eyes. For half a second, she thinks to ask her to explain for her, to spill it all to her parents while she listens, but for all the words Agatha can’t find, she knows Rio’s thoughts are even more unclear, forced to tread the line of what Agatha was okay with revealing.
She reaches for Rio’s hand instead, a pillar of comfort, a boost over the wall. Rio gives her this, the touch of skin, hands clasped over the table like a warm confession. Rio strokes over her knuckles, nods at her slightly.
It feels like permission, permission to open the flood gates, the freedom to speak her truth, unlock the safe she’d kept all the pain in and live with the consequences.
”I- my mother, she,” Agatha tries, tripping over her own words, not knowing where to start. Abuse. Violence. It all feels too clinical, too simple, no words to describe it all at once, “She hits me.”
It tumbles out like a release, an exhale, a balloon slowly losing air, no abrupt pop. Just a shaking voice that holds strong enough to keep explaining.
She feels Rio squeeze her hand slightly, a sign that she’s still there, the motivation to keep going even if her eyes are trained down, unable to meet any of their eyes. She can feel someone shift, hear forks hit the table, the soft clink echoing like an opening for Agatha to fill.
They’re listening. They care.
”She um,” Agatha tries to breathe, focus on the softness of Rio’s fingers, remind herself she’s safe, “she leaves marks. Rio’s been helping me cover them for years.”
”Rio’s been trying to get me to tell you for a long time, but I told her not to.” She continues, the shake of her voice shifting, somehow easier when she’s remembering the care of her best friend, not wanting her to shoulder any of the blame of keeping her secret when Rio was only trying to protect her.
When no one responds, Agatha continues, spurred on by the fact that nothing bad had happened yet, the ground not opening under her and claiming her back to the dirt, no spontaneous combustion.
“It’s been happening for a long time. Since I was really little. The beatings.” She clarifies, “Anytime I did something she didn’t like, or spoke too loud, or stayed out 5 minutes past curfew, or didn’t sit up straight enough at church, or anytime she felt like it.”
Now that she’d started, it felt kind of cathartic, saying it out loud, tracing over it like reality, like it didn’t have to hide in the shadows, like she couldn’t protect Evanora anymore if it meant suffocating herself.
Agatha looks up briefly trying to gauge their reaction. Needing to be grounded somehow, a sense of reassurance.
She isn’t expecting the silent streaks of tears falling down Mr. Vidal’s face or the way Mrs. Vidal is gripping Rio’s other hand, her eyes pained but also angry. Rio’s face is sad too, her eyes watery, but her lips flat and tight, maybe a mix of her parents. But behind it is still that undeniable pride, a proud joy a layer buried, that in this pain they find the path towards a better tomorrow, like Agatha is walking towards the light on her own.
“Sorry,” Agatha half-laughs, stunned into a scoff, unsure of how to process, she feels the tears on her own face suddenly, flashing back into her body, like she’d disassociated from it for a moment, only feeling Rio’s fingers, now she can feel the goosebumps rising over her legs, the way she’d shivering slightly, the cool rush of tears streaked down her cheeks. She wipes at her cheek abruptly with her sleeve, sniffles harshly.
“Cariño, don’t you dare apologize,” Mrs. Vidal warns, but her tone is soft, no bite, just the solid weight of sympathy, finally knowing Agatha’s struggle and never giving her the opportunity to blame herself.
“I ruined dinner,” Agatha tries to explain, her voice rough, her eyes still glassy as she meets her gaze.
”The only thing that could ruin dinner is Papa trying to cook,” Rio inserts, lightening the mood, taking the worry from Agatha’s brain without pressing in offensive pity.
“Aye, chispita.” Mr. Vidal kisses his teeth, unprepared for the stray bullet fired by his daughter, “That was one time.”
”Yeah,” Rio smiles, “Cause Mami still won’t let you in the kitchen after you almost fed me undercooked chicken.”
Mr. Vidal shakes his head, a laughing release of breath. Mrs. Vidal offers her a look like they shouldn’t get involved in this lighthearted fight, a silent agreement that the father and daughter were crazy and that had nothing to do with them.
“Wasn’t that like years ago?” Agatha asks, “It’s not time to let it go?”
Agatha’s not sure why she’s on Mr. Vidal’s side, maybe trying to stay in his good graces, maybe amused by the way Rio could get so competitive and exasperated.
“She was 6”
”I was 6”
They both respond at the same time, Rio sending a death glare at her father only capable from a teenage girl.
“Too young to fend for myself.” Rio grumbles, picking up her fork again, ready to tuck back into her food now, her other hand still holding onto Agatha’s, not willing to be the one to pull away first.
Agatha tries not to think about how Rio wasn’t trying to hide it, wasn’t ashamed of holding her hand in front of her parents or the assumptions that might come from it, that Rio hadn’t come out to them yet, but was willing to show them this clear picture of affection, wouldn’t let that secret stop her from supporting Agatha.
She lets that truth wash over her, thinks about Rio, her parents, the way the world was still turning, Rio was still cracking jokes, how change hadn’t eaten her whole.
They knew. Someone knew that wasn’t Rio, and she was still okay.
Mrs. Vidal clears her throat suddenly, putting to bed the little argument, making room for comfort.
“You can stay here as long as you want, Agatha.” Rio’s mother finally answers the earlier question, offering more than a one night sleepover, giving it to her without having to ask, opening up their home in a more permanent sense, knowing this went beyond being seniors wanting to slack off or one night of staying up too late to function, this was seeking protection, needing somewhere to go when all of it became too much to handle, and they were leaving the door open for her. For all the sense of belonging she found in the little nicknames, joined into a culture like it was her own, the way Mrs. Vidal said her name was so grounding, a second level to the way she needed the words to be heard. It wasn’t ’as long as you need’, but ‘want’. A reminder that they wanted her here too, that she wasn’t a burden, that they’d take her in her glory and her struggle.
“And please,” Rio’s father speaks, “If you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.”
Agatha nods, whispering a soft “Thank you,” even if she knows it would take life and death for her to ask for their help directly, and even then she’d hesitate.
“Agatha doesn’t want anyone else knowing,” Rio chimes in like a warning, her voice edged like a crystal clear rule, like she knows her parents will jump in to help in all the typical ways they know how, that they’d try use their power in all the ways Agatha wasn’t ready for, sweeping in to say the parts she’d forgotten, a protection that seeped from her skin like a natural barrier, “Not the police, or the school nurse, or anyone. Okay?”
It’s a heavy ask, bringing two more people into the fold, telling them of her trauma and then promptly tying their hands behind their backs, telling them not to help her anymore than they could directly. But Rio’s voice sings like it demands respect, not just for her words, but for Agatha, a reminder that this is her life and her wishes for it matter.
Mr. Vidal nods quickly, knowing the strength of his daughter rivals the strength of his wife, knowing not to fight her on this.
”Mami?” Rio turns to her, needing confirmation, knowing her to be the more stubborn of the two.
“Fine,” She relents, turning to Agatha to add, “But if you change your mind I’ve got CPS on speed dial.”
It’s not a joke, but Agatha smiles like it is, needs to catalog it that way for now.
It’s enough to leave like that, feeling less like an open wound and more like a bandaid pressed over it, a kiss settled over the skin, a prayer said for healing.
Dinner isn’t ruined. If anything the salt of her tears offer more seasoning.
—-
Isaiah 40:28-29 - Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the Earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.
Agatha helps Rio clean the dishes, mostly by leaning on the counter and watching her work. She packs away the leftovers in containers, takes an extra moment to admire how full the refrigerator is, a medley of fresh ingredients and premade food, a bag of red onions, the sugary juice Rio prefers, turkey slices from the deli that Evanora never allowed in the house.
When she was younger, Agatha convinced herself that she must be allergic to a lot of things, that her mother was keeping her safe, that was the reason she couldn’t have soda, or candy, or anything with preservatives. It was easier that way, convincing herself that Evanora wasn’t depriving her as a means of control, that telling herself little white lies was better than facing the truth.
But Rio had shared Skittles with her the first week she’d moved to Westview and she hadn’t died. They had met a few days earlier in school. Rio saw her that Sunday at Church, had walked up to her after mass and poured a couple into her hand like it meant nothing.
Agatha remembers thanking God that Evanora was off somewhere talking to a priest, didn’t bear witness to the candy she was about to consume or the way Rio was already looking at her like a friend, two things she wasn’t allowed to have.
She drank soda all that summer in Rio’s backyard with her parents, family barbecues with extended family, Rio’s father spraying them with the hose when it got too hot. Evanora was just happy to not have to look at her for 3 months.
She tried not to think about how much Rio had done for her, gave her so many firsts, never judged her for the things she had yet to experience, just pressed in the opportunities to try new things. It was overwhelming, thinking about all the things they’d done together, all the feelings that bubbled under the surface for so long.
They don’t say much even when Rio’s parents make their way into the living room, turn the TV up enough to not hear any conversation from the kitchen.
“That went well,” Agatha’s hip juts into the countertop, standing close to Rio as she scrubs the last of the dishes.
”Hmm”, Rio hums in answer, soft and contemplative.
Agatha reaches into the stream of water from the faucet, flicks the fist of droplets into Rio’s face, the closest she can get to checking in without voicing something too vulnerable.
“What’s your problem?” Rio laughs, looking down at her gray crop top now pebbled in black droplets of water, her face marked too, a few drops she tries to blink out of her eyes.
“I have this condition where I can’t go too long without annoying you or I transform into a bunny,” Agatha shrugs like it’s common sense, no big deal.
”Lucky for you, I quite enjoy cute little animals.” Rio places the last dish on the drying rack, turning to dry her hands on a towel.
“So, I should stop annoying you?”
“Hmm,” Rio stops, looking up in deep thought, like the choice made a big difference, “I quite enjoy being annoyed by you too, so, up to you I guess.”
Getting ready for bed feels a little strange. Agatha had slept over before, the few times Evanora was out of town, the few times she could get away with it.
It hadn’t happened in a while, Evanora’s leash feeling tighter than usual the last year or so, until the recent break.
But sliding under Rio’s covers, getting comfortable against the pillow, waiting for Rio to finish brushing her teeth, it filled her with warmth, an even stream of breathing, her hair was still a little wet from the shower, her own teeth still tasted like mint, Rio’s fan blowing over her as she slid towards the wall and made room, fluffing Rio’s pillow without thought, trying to focus on the TV, a WNBA game Rio put on that Agatha could barely follow.
“The blue team is beating the white team,” Agatha offers her insight when Rio comes back into the room, trying to press in the information as avoidance, not ready to discuss much else.
”Thanks,” Rio chuckles as she turns off the lights, the brightness of the TV still illuminating half the room, before pulling back the blankets and sliding into bed beside her.
Rio’s full-sized mattress gives them enough room to not touch, would grant them space if they wanted it. But Rio shifts towards the center of the bed, maybe out of habit, encroaching on Agatha’s side easily. Agatha faces her, eyes no longer watching the TV, the commentators’ voices, the chant of the crowd, the squeaking sneakers all falling into the background, Rio taking center stage.
Agatha’s hand finds Rio’s hip, they both lay on their sides facing each other, her fingers keep exploring, tracing over her ribcage, feeling the heat of her skin under the old band t-shirt obviously stolen from her father’s closet, the front decal faded and chipped. She takes an extra moment to feel each jut of bone, memorize the rise and fall of her breathing. Rio’s hand sits still on Agatha’s hip, giving her the freedom to touch, to learn, to take her time. She watches her, patient as fingertips run against her shoulder, careful to avoid Rio’s chest, pressing into her collar bone, scratching slightly at the shirt collar, dragging it down enough to feel the skin over her sternum, hold steady long enough to feel the heart beating under her palm.
She reads the hesitation in brown eyes, the holding back, the way Rio wants to feel her, learn all the curves of her skin, but waits. Gives Agatha the room to do it, but doesn’t allow her own hands to move.
“Should we say the things?” Agatha whispers like it holds the possibilities she’s too afraid to want. An attempt at pushing them towards a conversation she knows is necessary even if she’s scared of looking her feelings in the eye.
Because she knows her and Rio aren’t exactly friends anymore, and redefining felt like the only thing that could stop her from floating away. If they weren’t friends, they were nothing, no new words pressed in to quell the loss, and she desperately needed them to be something.
”The things?”
“Like feelings, things.”
”Are you ready for that conversation?” Rio isn’t trying to be mean, truly looking for the right moment to cross this bridge, reminding Agatha that she could wait.
“You’re too patient with me,” Agatha says instead of answering her question, like she’s mad about it, offended by how easy RIo makes everything.
Rio doesn’t respond verbally, nods in closer giving Agatha ample time to push her away, presses a short kiss to Agatha’s lips like that’s the only necessary answer, looks at her with such gentle intensity that Agatha wants to hide, sink into the springs of the mattress and never come back, but she doesn’t have the power to transform herself into slime, so she stares back at Rio, the feeling of her lips still etched into her own.
“I don’t want to make you wait forever,” Agatha whispers into the space between them, clenching at the front of Rio’s t-shirt like it grounded her, something to keep her from falling. It sings like a shamed confession, a fear she didn’t like hitting the air, a truth that told too much about how she was still afraid of Rio leaving, still afraid Rio would decide she was too much and walk away.
“Agatha. Baby,” Rio tries to comfort her, the words coated in affection, an attempt at reminding her where they were, the events of the day, the way Rio had stayed by her side waiting for years, would be stupid to walk away now when Agatha was finding her own voice.
“I see you holding back,” Agatha accuses, her voice still small, hidden in the dim light, “You keep letting me decide and I appreciate you trying to let me figure out my own shit but…” she pauses, waiting for Rio to disagree, to tell her that what she’s witnessed over the last few weeks, over their entire friendship has ever been Rio choosing something for the both of them. “I know it hurts, swallowing your feelings, waiting for me to let you in, I don’t want to do that to you anymore.”
Rio takes a moment to feel it, her hand moving up from Agatha’s hip to rest on her cheek, let her thumb graze against her jaw line, before stroking underneath her bottom lip, a space for contemplation.
”What do you want?” Rio finally asks.
Agatha smiles, recognizing the patterns they’d placed themselves in, how difficult it could be to break free from what was practiced even if it no longer served them.
“You’re doing it again,” she scoffs, her eyes blinking suddenly, her skin set on fire by Rio’s touch, unable to quiet the pulsing of her heart.
”Doing what?” Rio smiles too, still stroking over Agatha’s chin, the light brush of her thumb enough to make her shiver.
”Putting my wants ahead of yours.”
And Agatha can see the dam break, the shift in brown eyes, being called out without meaning it as an attack, it still takes a moment to rewire her brain, finally catching up with the fact that Agatha wanted her to live for herself, that as much as she appreciated the love, the dedication, she wouldn’t let Rio lose herself in it.
It felt like uncovering hidden treasure, but the gold coins stung her skin. The touch of hot metal begging to be left alone. Agatha knew it must hurt, being told that she didn’t need her, at least not in a way that made Rio feel like her loyalty to Agatha meant sacrificing her own desires, putting Agatha as her ultimate priority even if it meant holding herself back. But Agatha tried to seal the wound, pressing into Rio’s space again.
Agatha kisses her, a teasing hunger that traces the movement, memorizing the way Rio’s lips respond with little prompting, the ease of conversation with no words. She tries to tell her through connected lips, the rush of tongue and teeth.
I don’t need you to save me. But I want you to stay to see me save myself.
As harsh as it felt, she wanted to feel the full extent of Rio’s pride casted over her, wanted Rio to let loose all the hindered coils of want, free herself from what she thought Agatha couldn’t handle.
Agatha pulls back, her hand still fisted in the collar of Rio’s shirt, Rio’s hand still holding her face. Brown eyes that hang dark against the low light. Blue irises catching the reflection of the TV. It feels like a stalemate, a second of recon, a moment before pressing them over the edge.
“I want you to kiss me when you want to kiss me, touch me without waiting for permission, act on your feelings without thinking I might push you away for feeling too much”
And maybe Rio feels the same way Agatha does when she feels like she’s being read like a book, exposed, vulnerable, not ready to give it words.
But then Rio’s hand loses it’s cautious hesitancy, the memo surging through her like the antidote was kicking in, her fingers feel more solid, pressing Agatha’s hair behind her ear. Her eyes grow darker somehow.
”We have school tomorrow,” Rio reminds like it’s something that slipped their minds, a warning that they can’t lost in the push and pull, that Agatha would have to stop whatever she was pushing them towards at some point, like Agatha’s words had awakened a monster and Rio would have to be restrained if Agatha wanted any sleep tonight.
Agatha nods not knowing the full weight of it, not having the time to really contemplate the consequences.
Rio pushes forward again, this time at Agatha’s hips with enough strength to turn her onto her back, falling over her in the same instance.
She reconnects their lips with no warning, taking Agatha’s consent and running with it. Agatha only knows one way to respond, grabbing hold of Rio and keeping her close, refusing to think of a reality where Rio stopped kissing her. It was an intimate clash, chests pressing together for the first time, Agatha’s nipples hardening without much contact, the pressure of Rio on top of her holding her down, was enough to make her head spin. Rio’s mouth was warm, still fresh from toothpaste, but a taste Agatha could only describe as uniquely Rio, something human and complex. She didn’t need air, didn’t need the space to breathe.
Her thumb digs into Agatha’s hip, feeling the harsh press of bone, holding her like she refused to let her slip away. Her hand trails up slightly as their legs tangle together. Agatha can’t compute all the contact at once, the intentional brush of Rio’s fingers just under her shirt, finding the soft skin of abdomen, gentle yet certain, at the same time Rio’s thigh settles between her legs, the only barrier being the pair of boxers Rio let her wear to bed.
“Fuck,” She breathes into Rio’s lips, feeling the wicked smile Rio presses back into her mouth, like she was getting off on suffocating her, was pleased with how much Agatha’s body screamed for her to continue.
Agatha doesn’t have room for regret, happy that Rio is taking what she wants, loving every second of the show of desire, only mad at the way she’s struggling to conceal her own want.
Rio’s hand travels higher under her shirt, scratching above her belly button, searching for somewhere to sink her nails into. The harsh press of nails sends Agatha’s hips off the bed, an ache to be closer, the involuntary arch of her back, her core seeking friction without conscious thought.
Agatha’s breath hitches, pausing the kiss for just a second, it’s long enough for Rio to mark a different path, reclaiming Agatha’s neck with her lips. She kisses over her throat, licks over her pulse, nibbles on her skin, firm enough to feel, but not enough to leave a mark.
She slides her hand into Rio’s hair, doing her best to keep it out of her face, give her all the space to kiss her neck without it getting in the way, she clenches around a handful, suddenly reminding herself to not hold back either, remembering the way Rio’s eyes darkened at being choked, hoping this pain leveled the same reaction.
Agatha pulls Rio’s hair just enough for her to feel it, her other hand clenched around her back, keeping her close, not letting her escape. Rio groans instantly, the vibration of it pressed into Agatha’s pulse.
Agatha’s hips jump again, Rio’s thigh more solidly against her. They gasp together.
A second of clarity that seems to sober them both.
Rio pushes up onto her forearms, head held high enough to peer down at Agatha, meet her eyes with her own. Rio’s eyes are dark, her eyelids heavy, her lips slightly swollen. Agatha’s hands are still on her shoulders, but her touch is less painful, no longer pressing in heavily. She can see the way they move from Rio still catching her breath, can feel the way her own body shifts trying to catch her own.
She searches Rio’s eyes, using one hand to brush the hair out of her face, the other still held over her shoulder, grounding, solid.
Rio curls forward, meeting Agatha in a short peck.
”We have school tomorrow,” she repeats, this time as a mumble into Agatha’s chin, like a child frustrated they have to wait another year for birthday cake, suddenly impatient in the wake of being responsible, wanting to keep kissing Agatha, wanting to let it unravel into whatever Agatha would allow, but also knowing they should probably wait to cross that line, that they needed to sleep, that they had forever to explore this slowly.
“I know,” Agatha offers, understanding the full meaning without need for explanation.
Rio’s body weight settles against her, relaxed, her face pressed into her collarbone, her arms slung around her without thought. Agatha’s arms wrap around her like a teddy bear, rubbing Rio’s back to calm them both.
Agatha didn’t want to stop in the moment, the yelling voice in her brain thundering in the aftermath. Words that turned themselves into weapons under her skin. Warnings of sin, the things she couldn’t take back once she crossed those lines. The blooming fears of being inexperienced, of making a fool of herself, of messing this up.
They still didn’t have a label. She realizes when Rio’s breathing evens out, just as she finds sleep.
Agatha turns her head back to the TV, careful not to disturb the girl currently using her as a body pillow, the blue team still beating the white team.
It feels like a sign that not everything has to change.