Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

It's temporary, Lottie tells herself. Except the voice isn't really hers. It's Doctor #1 and Chubby, Mousey Doctor and Stubby Doctor and Obnoxious, Mean Doctor — their voices all overlaid like an annoying, reoccurring incantation scratching at the back of her brain. 

It's temporary — her body just has to acclimate to the higher dosage then the haziness will go away; except not completely— never completely. She honestly doesn't remember the last time life hasn't felt filmy, hasn’t felt like she's submerged in a thick fog, like she’s constantly having to run to the outskirts of her mind just to draw one clean breath before she’s absorbed again. 

It's worse now, she thinks; because yes, she knows what's real and not real now and the not real is rare —is somewhere deeper in the fog where she has absolutely no energy to even try to run to— but the real feels kinda rare too, like maybe the only thing she has really acclimated to is the fog; like she's unwittingly made herself a home out of it where she can sit and watch herself on the outside, and out there, out here, she's mostly doing the right things and mostly saying the right things, but in the fog, she's not really feeling any of it. 

Wiskayok High helps a little. It's nothing at all like her middle school — the private, out-of-state boarding school, where the teachers had, at her father's monetarily-backed behest, watched her like she was exhibit, not girl, constantly jotting down notes and compiling reports of her oddities for her father's monthly reading pleasure. She had to literally beg her father to let her enroll here, had spent the majority of her summer running up his long distance phone bill calling him in every country he found himself in, pleading with him to let her at least try to be normal since normal is all he ever seems to want from her anyway. He had caved at that, worn down, and she was right, mostly, because here at Wiskayok, she is normal, or at very least, she's certain that most of the other kids here are wading through some suffocating fog of their own, so she blends in. 

Soccer helps a bit too because unlike her middle school (where the starting 11 was firmly decided by whose parents donated how much to whichever foundation), she had to earn her place here; she went through try-outs, didn't completely bomb during them like that Misty girl (who seemed to panic under the pressure every time the ball was kicked anywhere in her vicinity) and okay, she made JV, which isn't anything special really; even amongst the other freshman selected, Lottie isn't really a standout. For instance, she isn't like Jackie, who —despite there being sophomores and a couple juniors also on JV—  has carefully shaped herself into a leader amongst them, meticulously selected from them a core group to beguile with her pep talks and plans of “making a difference at Wiskayok,” of “becoming the Yellowjackets to remember.” (Lottie has somehow found herself sucked into that core group, doesn’t really even recall how it happened, but she goes along with it, because well, why not? She kind of admires Jackie for it honestly, appreciates how easy she makes it to follow, how thoughtless it becomes to heel when the dominion is discreet; that isn’t a skill Lottie possesses; she’s not a leader like that; doesn’t think she could ever be even if she tried). 

She isn't like Taissa either, who is padding her resume for her college applications, steadfastly soaking up instances to apply buzzwords like teamwork and determination to; “Yellowjackets midfielder” to be but a tiny footnote in a presidential biography someday (and Lottie admires that too because, well, she isn't aspirational like that; doesn't know what she wants to eat for dinner tomorrow let alone what she wants to do with her life in 20 years — the truth is, she probably won't decide either; dinner will be on the table at 7 PM sharp, something balanced and nutritious, all food groups accounted for with her nighttime dosage in a cup just slightly to the right of her dinner knife; and if it’s a Wednesday, she’ll get dessert because Alexis is working and that’s a treat but also an apology — a “sorry that you're alone again”; “sorry, your parents haven’t called”; “sorry that this is all the comfort I can offer” — and she’ll pick around her dinner those days, drawn to the pastries and cookies and scoops of ice cream, desperate to liken the sweetness to kindness, not to pity, until her taste buds are bittered by her nighttime pill and then she’ll go to bed alone, only to do it again the next day and the day after that and 20 years after that, she’s sure, if she’s still here). 

She really, really isn't like Shauna, who is athletic, sure —naturally quick and strong—  but clearly mostly on the team by happenstance, somehow caught up in Jackie’s orbit, sometimes spun, sometimes flung, sometimes carefully placed, but always at Jackie's behest (Lottie doesn’t know what that’s like — to be tethered to another person like that. She thinks it might be thrilling. She thinks it might also be terrifying. She's certain she'll never know as detached to reality as she feels most days).

She wants to say she's nothing like Natalie as well, but, the funny thing is, as diametrically opposed they are —Natalie and her dark and sullen brooding and Lottie and her carefully and colorfully disguised apathy— they might actually be the most alike. Natalie would probably cringe at any comparison between them, probably wouldn’t even stick around to hear the explanation, but Lottie knows that Natalie clearly ran into soccer to run from something (what that thing is, Lottie isn’t sure; is somehow completely sure she’ll never actually find out), but she recognizes the running because that’s what she’s doing too —running from the emptiness of her house, running from the fogginess of her mind. 

And the thing is, even though soccer and Wiskayok help, even though she blends, she passes, for all intents and purposes, as a normal girl, she's not… fixed. 

On some days, the fog is just too thick to wade through; sometimes she just doesn't have the energy to even try, and on those days, she feels hollow; she's moody; she’s sluggish; she's forgetful. She does stupid little things like forgets to take off the sunglasses she was trying on before leaving a store; she forgets her homework on the kitchen table; she forgets to study for her French test; and sometimes, the little things feel like big things, like how she forgets her fucking shin guards in her locker on the exact day that JV is supposed to scrimmage against Varsity in practice.   

Jackie has an actual notebook tallying JV wins vs Varsity wins, has little notes scribbled into the margins about Varsity weaknesses and vulnerabilities, because Varsity is floundering; with no clear path to States, the seniors are playing with mostly one foot on the pitch and the other at Prom or college orientation or work or something; the juniors really just aren’t that good either and Jackie has been pep talking the hell out of this impending scrimmage for a couple of weeks now because it’s an opportunity — an opportunity to show Coach Martinez their potential; an opportunity to snap Coach Scott out of his indolence, an opportunity to get him to actually coach them instead of brood over his own torn potential; most importantly, it's the first step towards Jackie’s plan — a plan that somehow includes Lottie and Lottie is going with it because why not, right? That would be the normal thing to do. 

Lottie knows that Jackie is just going to be so fucking Jackie about it if she shows up to this practice unprepared or worse, late, which is why Lottie is running, like actually running, through the halls (she even shoves some guy — honestly, she kind of thinks it was Coach Martinez’s son— out of her way) in her quest to make it back to the locker room, grab her shin guards and somehow get back to the practice pitch in under 2 minutes.  

She thinks she can actually do it, is almost at the locker room in a time that would meet track team standards except the moment she flings the locker room doors open, she comes to a screeching halt; just narrowly avoids careening into someone on the floor in the middle of the locker room. 

Well, not on the floor exactly. And not just someone either.

It's Laura Lee. On her knees. In the middle of the locker room, one minute before practice is supposed to begin. 

Lottie glances around, half expecting to find someone fleeing the scene, but there's no one else around and she doesn't know why she'd even think that either because it's Laura Lee.

The thing is, Lottie is an observer; often finds herself fighting the fog to snatch up little details about the things and people around her. It helps, because when there are things that are real and things that are not real, sometimes the not real is so close to the real that the details matter, that her discernment hinges on it, so she keeps a little mental dossier, has one on all her teammates really — random info she just picks up and pockets, silly little habits; things they may not even realize themselves. 

Yet, when it comes to Laura Lee, Lottie knows nothing. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. 

She knows this: 

Laura Lee is blonde — not like pin-up in one of those magazines that Lottie shouldn't be glancing at blonde; not like stereotypical ditzy blonde either. She's soft blonde. Cornfed blonde; like both of her parents are probably blonde, like if she has siblings, they're probably all blonde too; like the family on the back of a cookbook where the mom does all the cooking and it's hearty meals like meatloaf and potatoes because the dad's been working all day kind of blonde. Like maybe one day Laura Lee will be that mom on the back of the cookbook type blonde. 

Laura Lee is polite. Almost painfully so. At the beginning of the season, Laura Lee even used to call her Charlotte which nobody, except maybe a substitute teacher here or there, ever does. Seriously, her parents don't even do it anymore; Charlotte is the kid her parents wanted, the normal one, the one who would just be instead of pretend to be, and Lottie's not that. Lottie is Lottie, and she had corrected Laura Lee once and well, she never called her Charlotte again, so, yeah, polite. In fact, Lottie doesn't think she's ever heard her raise her voice or talk shit about an opponent or curse or even complain — the locker room is full of complaining; there's constantly a cacophony of groans and sighs and gripes about tests and parents and coaches and boyfriends and teachers and schedules and Laura Lee adds her voice to none of it, doesn't even seem affected by any of it. 

Laura Lee is consistent. This, Lottie knows well, because they play side by side most games, with Laura Lee at right-back or right wing-back and Lottie at center-back, or sometimes, if Coach Scott is feeling bold (less broody), then he'll slot Lottie in at left-back and then they're parallel, balanced; either way, Lottie is always aware of her, always cognizant of Laura Lee's movement. She’s noticed that she's a bit hesitant in 1v1s, sometimes reluctant to put in a good, hard tackle, but she's quick up and down the wing, and just as likely to make an overlapping run with Natalie in the 79th minute as she is in the 1st. Honestly, Lottie can only remember her having one bad game, way earlier in the season where she spent the whole first half of the match ball-watching and at the halftime, Lottie had told her to get her fucking head in the game, which, had kinda felt like kicking a puppy, and Lottie had almost apologized but then Laura Lee actually got her fucking head in the game and even sent in a cross that Shauna scored off of and ended up winning them the game so that was that. She's been consistent since then and consistent in high school JV girls soccer is equivalent to good which means that she’s “core group” in Jackie's little plan for high school soccer infamy or whatever. Or perhaps not exactly core group, but core group adjacent, only because she doesn't think Jackie has Laura Lee quite figured out just yet either. The thing is, Laura Lee will heel, will be pulled into the pep talks and group celebrations, will respect the established hierarchy with Jackie at the head if it’s just the freshmen, however, Lottie doesn't trust that she’d back Jackie over seniority in her JV leadership coup either. Lottie's not worried about it though; she's sure Jackie is working on that. 

Laura Lee is modest, like as a defining trait. Cardigans and knee length dresses kind of modest; the occasional pair of loose fitting jeans sometimes too. And the thing is, Lottie knows about blending, knows intimately about bleeding into the background, and whatever Laura Lee's thing is, it isn't that. And it’s not hiding either — too many sunny yellows and deep purples and springtime florals to really ever disappear. It's more like a minimizing, a withholding of sorts, and honestly, Lottie has absolutely no idea what to even make of that; doesn't really know any other girls who want to mollify themselves like that.

Laura Lee is sad. Lottie doesn't know how she knows this one, has no context for it, has no point of reference where she discovered this to be fact, and somehow, still, she knows it — knows it inherently like how she knows the sky is still blue on a summer day even if she closes her eyes. 

She wonders if this, Laura Lee on her knees alone in the locker room when she should really be at practice by now, is a sad thing — if maybe the sadness is a type of fog of its own, if maybe Laura Lee’s gotten lost in it.

“Hey,” Lottie approaches slowly, cautiously, like she would a baby animal — careful not to startle. “Laura Lee?” 

Laura Lee opens her eyes, unclasps her hands. 

“Lottie,” She gasps, seemingly genuinely surprised to see her, like she really didn't hear Lottie clatter through the doors like a rhinoceros on stilts. And well, maybe she truly didn't; maybe her fog is thicker than Lottie thought.  

“Are you okay?” Lottie asks, careful, cautious, and Laura Lee’s brow knits, like maybe it’s not a question she’s used to answering, like maybe she’s not asked it often enough; maybe it’s something she has to think on. 

“Yeah” she finally answers though the way her brow is still knitted, it seems she isn't entirely sure of the answer herself, “I—” she purses her lips and stops, just leaves it right there, like she doesn't even know how to finish that sentence; or maybe she knows exactly how to finish it and just doesn’t want to. Either way, Lottie gets it; offers her a hand instead.

Laura Lee hesitates, glances from her face to her hand wearily, which is weird because, well, they play side by side; Lottie has tugged her from the turf many times without giving it a second thought, so the hesitance is new, is different, is kind of sad in itself.

She's about to rescind the offer, not offended exactly, but thoroughly rebuked, when Laura Lee eventually grabs onto her hand; allows Lottie to pull her to her feet and, it's not exactly like out on the pitch because well, it's just the two of them in the locker room and maybe Lottie doesn't know her own strength because they end up closer than they usually would and with no attackers barreling towards them and no Van screaming at them to get back into position, they're close enough that Lottie can see that Laura Lee’s eyes are like really blue — she's not sure why that's something she's never been aware of before or why it's fought its way through the fog now, but she pockets it; thinks it might be useful somewhere down the line. 

The proximity seems to startle Laura Lee because she recoils, cheeks suddenly red, clearing her throat as she dusts off her knees — they're aggrieved red, blotchy and bruised, from more than the locker room floor, Lottie thinks, from more than soccer even.

“You're gonna be late for practice,” Lottie warns, tries to diffuse the sudden nervous energy.

“You too,” Laura Lee points out, which, well, yeah, shit; she’s right. Lottie almost forgot why she's here in the first place; is definitely going to be late now. 

“Forgot my shin guards,” she explains, moving to open her locker where her shin guards are right there, right on top of her folded clothes, right where she should have seen them. She grabs them, hastily shoving them into her socks. 

She expects Laura Lee to be gone, halfway to practice by the time she turns around, but Laura Lee does the most peculiar thing; she waits for her. 

Their walk to the practice pitch is quiet and polite but not unpleasant, whatever that sudden unease was earlier gone just as suddenly. If it were any other teammate, Lottie might feel inclined to fill the silence, might feel inclined to pretend; to blend; but for whatever reason, she feels comfortable with Laura Lee, just two teammates, traveling through completely separate fogs, together.  

Jackie glares at them when they arrive to practice late —well, Jackie thinks the glare and Shauna does the glare which is kind of just how those two operate sometimes— but Coach Scott only assigns the late laps to her and Laura Lee instead of punishing the whole team and that settles any impending resentment.  

Lottie’s goal line clearance right before Misty (yes, that Misty who can’t kick the ball straight but can apparently blow the hell out of a whistle) signals their practice to its conclusion, ends their totally important scrimmage on a high with a scoreline of JV: 1 - Varsity: 0.   

Jackie is ecstatic. 

Coach Scott is a little less broody. 

And it still doesn’t get her out of her late laps. 

Laura Lee is quick, Lottie knows that, but Lottie is long-limbed, could probably have at least a minute on her by the end of their 5 laps if she really pushes herself, but she realizes as she starts running that she kind of doesn't want to; instead she finds herself doing the most peculiar thing; Lottie waits for her, syncs their strides —left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. 

Done. 

Last in and last out of the locker room, Laura Lee shoots Lottie a small, polite smile before leaving for the evening and well, it’s not happy or anything, but it’s not completely sad either and either way, it’s Lottie’s. 

Partners in lateness. Partners in sadness or whatever (not that Lottie's even sad —just numb or hazy or spacey or whatever). Not friends or anything but unwitting partners nonetheless and it's nice really — a nice, real thing that somehow rises through the fog and Lottie takes those as they come. 

Chapter Text

2.

By sophomore year, Lottie has taken to pocketing more than just information. 

She collects experiences; tries all sort of new things — accepts strong drinks from seniors at parties she shouldn't be at, chugs them even when they burn all the way to the pits of her stomach, waits until the fog feels blurry and then downs another and another and sometimes another after that; she smokes with the kids who hang out outside of those parties, puffs until her outside feels as foggy as her inside; she lets the junior pitcher on the baseball team reel her in by her waist, lets some football jock skate his fingers high on her inner thigh, lets them linger even when she wants to recoil. Sometimes, she skips breakfast, skips lunch, skips dinner too and then does it again the next day and sometimes the day after that until the hunger feels like it's eating her from the inside, until she feels like she's ravenous enough to maybe eat away at the fog, and then she raids the kitchen, eats whatever they have prepared for breakfast the next day, picks at the fruit piled high on the dining table, bites into the raw vegetables neatly chopped to be prepared for dinner, slowly moves onto pastries and ice cream and too sweet chocolate bars, tears into everything she can find until she feels so full that it's almost like sinking, until she feels so sick that she thinks the fullness might cleave her in two; still, she feels mostly nothing. 

She starts collecting things too — on purpose. She takes the pens from her doctors visits, takes stupid little things from stores in the mall, like a rubix cube she’ll never solve and a funny little car toy that breaks open into a toy man; she finds she enjoys the vigilance of taking, feels surprisingly astute when carefully tracking the security guards and her path to the door. It’s something, so she takes more — a handbag and then two, a flowy dress with a neckline far too mature for her age, a cotton sweater that fits both her knees if they are carefully tucked to her chest. She wonders what would happen if she gets caught, wonders if her father would get on a plane right away, if he’ll quietly seethe, wave it away with a stack of cash or if he’ll find another doctor who will call it a symptom, who will find another medication to make her still; she wonders if that isn’t exactly what she deserves and then she takes her biggest haul yet; takes a bag from the store shelf and fills it with two skirts, a hat, a pair of tacky earrings and a dress; she walks right out the doors like it’s nothing, like she’s invisible. It’s just too easy, too simple, and in a moment of madness, she walks right back into the store, intent to turn herself in, and the clerk, a teenage boy maybe a year or two older than her, raises an eyebrow at the items strewn before him and then offers her store credit for her return. And, well, fuck it, she starts collecting that too. 

She never stops collecting information either, and with the new year comes new things to learn about her teammates. 

She notices how Natalie is running faster than ever, here one second, gone the next; thinks that if she’s not careful, she’ll outrun her shoes, outrun herself even; she thinks that might be exactly what she wants. 

She notices that Shauna is wilting next to Jackie, over-watered on some days, dehydrated on others and almost always thirsty for Jackie’s approval, for Jackie’s attention, for Jackie. 

Tai and Van seem to be orbiting each other now too, a careful but deliberate retrograde and prograde, much more purposeful than Jackie and Shauna’s, cute even, but also exhausting, it seems, with the way Tai seems to always be looking over her shoulder, always noticing if other people are noticing. 

Lottie thinks that maybe there’s just too much fog now, that maybe they're all just wading through something too big and too different for it all to fit on a 115 yard field and that’s why Jackie's plan is collapsing faster than a house of cards in the middle of a tornado. Unlike last year, they just can’t seem to work as a team, too many passes are missed, chances are missed too; they’re 6 matches into the season and they’ve won 1, drawn 2 and lost 3. Lottie doesn't know whether to put her back against the collapsing structure of Jackie’s plan and brace, try to keep it all up, or add her breath to the tornado, blow until it all collapses a little quicker. She doesn't know which one would make her feel… something, therefore, she does nothing. 

That's why she's not even running this time; 15 minutes until kick-off, her shin guards forgotten in her locker again and she's casually strolling into the locker room to retrieve them. She isn't surprised this time to find Laura Lee, on her knees, hands clasped together, because new year equals new information and now Lottie’s got context to this particular scenario; now, Lottie knows that Laura Lee wears a gold cross necklace almost all the time recently, only ever really takes it off for games. Lottie had noticed it on the very first day of the school year, noticed it right away because it's shiny is all. Also, sometimes, when the sun catches the gleaming edges of the cross just right, it kind of looks like the light is shining through Laura Lee, like there are rays of sunshine tearing out of her chest, settling on anything within her proximity, warming everything within her reach. 

And okay, that's obviously a not real thing! It's one of the few not real things to squeeze through the medicated haze, but of all the not real things Lottie has experienced in her life, this one is not really a bad one, not scary or daunting — it just is. 

“Long prayer today, Laura Lee?” Lottie asks and, well, Lottie is not religious in any sense, hadn’t really been brought up with any specific belief system, except a sneaking sense that her father's God might be the stock market and her mother's God may have at one point been her father, and everything else, Lottie has picked up here and there because of proximity, because of TV and classmates and housekeepers who pray to different Gods and history books with wars fought over which God is better. Lottie is at least mostly sure that she doesn't really believe in the Christian God, has spent so much of her life separating her thoughts into real and not real and is honestly not even a little prepared to analyze why an omnipotent creator of the universe who loves his creations and also damns them to eternal burning for mundane things like drinking and premarital sex is real and the shadows sometimes screaming at her is not; still, she’s curious; she's curious, because Laura Lee is polite, is hardly ever late, except for when she's doing this, and Lottie just wants to understand why. 

Lottie doesn't miss the way Laura Lee's eyes seem to soften when she opens them; doesn’t completely understand why Laura Lee always seems so surprised to see her when they’re alone since they technically see each other a lot, obviously, because they play side by side, pretty much exclusively now (Coach Scott is broodier than ever) and they have two classes together this year —English and Algebra (Lottie sits somewhere behind her in both)— and Lottie knows things about her, like how she's made of stardust, like how she’s got the incandescence of the sun trapped within her chest…

And okay, yeah, maybe not that last one but Lottie’s point still stands. 

“Lottie, hi,” Laura Lee says and she sounds a little breathless when she settles, but she doesn’t hesitate to take Lottie’s hand when she offers it, lets Lottie effortlessly pull her to her feet. “Yeah, I suppose time got away from me,” she explains, bashful, cheeks pink as she dusts off her knees — they’re not as aggrieved as last year, Lottie notices, not quite as red. 

“I know we haven't been playing well lately but Cardinals are like 0 and 6; I don't think we need divine intervention for this one,” Lottie says and she means it as a joke, means to abate the soft unease that has colored Laura Lee’s cheeks but Laura Lee seems to weigh her words carefully, nods gently.  

“Winning, losing, how we play, that's on us, not God,” she resolves, “but I know you see it too — the suffering, the distress out there,” she gestures vaguely around her, probably referencing where their teammates are (on the field, probably wondering what the fuck is taking them so long and which freshmen will have to be fielded in their place if they don’t make it out there before kick-off), but Lottie also gets the feeling that Laura Lee means in here too, in Lottie too. “And well, in Philippians, the apostle Paul says, “the Lord is at hand. Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” And that’s what I pray for, I guess, for all of us; peace, so we can be our best selves. It’s, well — you probably find it silly...” 

“I don't,” Lottie interjects, grasping at Laura Lee’s words, trying to find all the meaning in them and between them. “I don’t find it silly at all,” she says and it's not until she says it that she finds that she actually really means it; because while she doesn’t really understand it —Laura  Lee’s faith— she kind of really wants to. “You really pray for all of us?” She asks, hoping to a God she doesn't really believe in that Laura Lee doesn't recognize the desperation in her voice because Lottie doesn't like at all how suddenly needy, how pathetic, she sounds, how she seems to be screaming, ‘me, too? You want that for me too? ’

Laura Lee just tilts her head a little, looks at Lottie like she's a little kid who asked a really stupid but endearing question; Lottie doesn't know which one was the stupid question — the one she said or the one she means. 

“Well, yeah, you’re my teammates. I know we don't always hang out or talk all the time but I hope you find the things that bring you happiness always. I want that for all of you,” she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world when it’s not really, not at all; but it's nice that Laura Lee cares enough to bruise her knees for people so lost in fog that they probably don't even see her, probably didn’t even see how sad she was, probably haven't noticed how she’s not anymore; how she's resolute now, how she filled with light and warmth. 

Lottie noticed. 

Lottie notices. 

“That's actually really nice, Laura Lee,” Lottie praises; finds herself fascinated by the way her words seem to spread a soft blush all the way from Laura Lee's collar to the tips of her ears; finds herself even more fascinated by how Laura Lee suddenly won't meet her eyes. 

“Yeah, well, I also selfishly prayed extra hard that you won't get a yellow card in the first minute again so I don't have to cover you all game,” Laura Lee gently teases, bottom lip caught between her teeth, all quietly bashful, and it catches Lottie off guard, pulls from her chest a sharp laugh that she's not even expecting. 

“Okay, wow,” Lottie chuckles, remembers vividly the exact match last year that Laura Lee is referencing, remembers how Laura Lee had indeed stayed close, had readily went in for the type of tackles she normally wouldn't. “That was a strategic yellow! I was setting the tone. Taking one for the team, you know,” Lottie jokes right back, likes the way it makes Laura Lee smile, vast enough that it exposes her dimples, enchanted right through to muscle and bone; it suits her, the contentment, far more than the melancholy did, Lottie thinks. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it though because she glances at the clock on the locker room wall and realizes that Akilah and Melissa are probably the freshman Coach Scott will slot into the starting line-up if they don’t head out there soon and well, to do that, he’d probably have to push Shauna and Tai into the defense which Shauna would hate and Lottie really isn’t trying to get on Shauna’s bad side right now, not when she’s wilting. “We should go before Jackie sends a search party for us,” she suggests.

"Yeah," Laura Lee agrees, still smiling softly. 

Lottie is halfway to the locker room door when Laura Lee calls her back, gesturing to Lottie's locker.  

“Your shin guards?” She reminds her, and, well, yeah, fuck; Lottie had honestly forgotten that she had forgotten those. 

“I might have to glue these things to my socks,” she grumbles, which makes Laura Lee giggle — a vibrant, joyful, airy sort of vibration that very much feels like light and warmth.

And the thing is, Lottie likes to collect things, likes to fill the spaces between her synapses with little dregs of information that are all hers, that she wouldn't typically share, but this —how Laura Lee has emerged from her fog, how she's light and warmth, how she's single-handedly, on her knees, trying to pull others from their fog the only way she knows how— desperately feels like something she can't pocket for herself alone, which is why, right before she pushes open the door to the field, she stops.  

"Hey, Laura Lee," she addresses, waits until Laura Lee stops in front of her, waits until Laura Lee meets her eyes; her eyes are like really blue (and okay, maybe that's a little piece of information that will never really be useful except it just feels clarifying, purifying, like seeing a slither of sky through the fog and Lottie kinda likes that). "You do know you don't have to hide away in the locker room, right?" Lottie asks, trying her best to form her words in the way she means them, but she's pretty sure she's failing already, pretty sure there aren't words that mean what she really needs them to mean. "I mean, everyone’s got their thing, I guess; like, how we're all probably gonna get mono from kissing Van's lucky glove before penalties; which is kinda, well — what I'm trying to say is, you can pray, out there, you know," she gestures to the door behind her, beyond which is the pitch which they really need to be on in the next like 5 minutes if they want to be on it again, but Lottie needs a minute, needs to get her words right. "You're allowed to be you, out there, with everyone.”

Laura Lee seems to really consider her words, eyebrow knitting softly as she works through them before smiling gently — a wistful sort of thing; enchanted right through to muscle and bone. 

"Thanks, Lottie," she acknowledges, cheeks tinting again, bashful again. "I'll give it some thought," she promises.

Jackie glares at them (with her own two eyes) when they join the pre-game huddle right at the end of her pep talk, but they win the match 7-0 and when even Natalie joins in on Jackie's excited "buzz, buzz, buzz" chant, elation echoing all the way back to the locker room and then some, Lottie thinks that maybe Jackie's plan isn't fucked after all; Lottie thinks that maybe prayers work after all. Or maybe just Laura Lee's prayers work, because they're genuine and kind and she's warmth and light.

Either way, Lottie feels something, a spark, a flutter, something warm and bright suddenly ablaze inside her chest and that feeling — that's something worth collecting.

Chapter Text

3.

Jackie's plan somehow swinging itself back into motion manages to keep Lottie reasonably busy; she starts actually studying for her classes (most of them anyway — French really can go fuck itself), constantly cognizant of Jackie's warning that keeping their grades up will have an impact on whether they make Varsity or not; she stops the bouts of starvation, fuels for practice, fuels for matches, fuels for fun too because fuck it, sometimes a second dessert feels like kindness; she stops going to random parties as well, mostly just shows up for the ones Jackie deems “team bonding” even though those seem like an excuse for Jackie to get close to Jeff Sadecki — which is an interesting development, one that has not gone unnoticed by other teammates either (Van especially, who seems to always catch Lottie’s eye across a room, wagging an eyebrow in Jackie’s direction when Jackie and Jeff are the only ones bonding and Shauna is concurrently brooding).

Whatever is languidly brewing up between Jackie and Shauna (plus Jeff) aside, the team is actually doing pretty well. They’re on a win streak —5 wins in a row— and honestly, Lottie likes having something to focus on; finds it makes her feel surprisingly well for someone who has long since resigned herself to the unwellness. The fog is still there, of course, but it’s bearable, breathable even, and when she feels herself sinking into it, she can pull herself out; hones in instead on tactics. On her grades. On footwork. On what's going on with her teammates. On one teammate in particular. 

On Laura Lee. 

It's just — Lottie’s fascinated by her really; fascinated by her conviction, by her kindness, by how the not real has seemed to burrow within her chest and how that sort of makes the not real feel not so bad. 

Laura Lee does pray for the team more openly now and sometimes they groan or whine about it, but they groan and whine about just about everything anyway so Laura Lee's pre-match prayers get assimilated quickly into their team dynamic, fit right in amongst Van's super obscure TV and movie references and Mari's blunt assessments and Jackie's overly optimistic pep talks, almost as if it were always a thing, like they've never gone a day without feeling Laura Lee's faith. 

Laura Lee still prays by herself too, specifically before games, Lottie has noticed —the blonde somehow always in her peripheral— as she takes a moment away from the usual locker room commotion, head bowed by her locker, eyes closed, lips pursed into a deep frown for a minute before she unclasps her necklace and places it delicately onto her folded clothes in her locker. 

The necklace is just a necklace, Lottie knows this, knows that the light that it wields, that it forces between the crevices in Laura Lee’s bones, that it slices through the soft thickness of her skin is not real and whatever displeasure Laura Lee feels in taking it off is short-lived, is gone in moments, is nothing at all like the sadness that had once overthrown her resolve and yet, the frown stays with Lottie, is the only thing that permeates her fog for days.  

It's what gives her the idea. 

When she asks Coach Scott for the handbook, he looks at her suspiciously for about five seconds before she assumes he decides she isn't Tai or Shauna (who would most likely devour the thing line by line and then proceed to use memorized lines to make every ref's life a living nightmare) and then digs the thick book out of a drawer and tells her to bring it back by tomorrow. 

She gets halfway through it before she finds the information she’s looking for, does that alone in the stillness of her room for a couple of hours instead of studying for her French test.

She waits patiently until their next match, waits until she glances over and sees Laura Lee’s head bowed, frown concave.

She’s pretty sure she leaves Shauna hanging mid-sentence to reach her. 

“Hey, Laura Lee, wait!” Her hand catches Laura Lee’s over the clasp of her necklace, gently stills her before she can unclasp the latch; Laura Lee turns to look at her, blue eyes earnestly curious, questioning; Lottie can forgive her for looking so surprised to see her this time because Lottie’s surprised herself by her resolve. “It's— well, you don't have to take it off if you don't want to,” Lottie explains. “Your necklace,” she clarifies. “The handbook clearly states a religious exemption for certain jewelry so long as it is taped securely to the body and,” she holds out her hand, revealing the roll of athletic tape she had stashed. “I've got tape.”

Lottie had actually bought the tape too, took her time in the pharmacy looking over the different types, different colors, different sizes; she ended up buying five whole rolls of the most expensive kind, charged it to the emergency credit card too and wondered if her dad would find out about the charges and speculate as to what she was doing at a pharmacy across town at 11:39 PM on a Thursday, wondered if he’d worry and call. He didn’t. Whatever. She wasn't really expecting him to anyway. 

“Lottie,” There’s a certain breathlessness to the way Laura Lee says her name, on an exhale, like it’s breaking out of somewhere it’s stored deep. “Did you read the handbook for me?” she asks quietly — cautiously even. 

“I— uhh,” Lottie doesn't expect the question; doesn’t know why her first instinct is to lie, and also doesn't know a lie that sounds even remotely plausible because who the fuck reads the high school student athlete rule book for giggles? (well, actually, once again, maybe Tai or Shauna and somehow Lottie would still be labeled a psychopath before either of them so… That's kinda fucked really.) “Well, yeah, I did,” she admits, and it's easier than it probably should be, being honest with Laura Lee, because just being in her presence feels honest and Lottie wonders what other truths could spill from her lips, wonders if Laura Lee would catch them with as much soft keenness as she does this. “You just seemed sad to have to take it off and—” nothing feels quite right when you’re sad, she thinks. “Well, now you don't have to,” she says.

Laura Lee’s curiosity turns to contentment, smiling so radiantly that Lottie’s not sure how the locker room calamity continues on around them — is not sure how nobody is as mesmerized as she is.

“Help me tape it?” Laura Lee asks. 

“Yeah, of course,” Lottie agrees, feigns a preparedness that she just doesn’t feel, even as she motions for Laura Lee to turn around so she can tape the clasp.

Laura Lee does; sweeps her hair to the side, revealing the nape of her neck, tiny blonde hairs raised even though the locker room feels sweltering.

Lottie tears a thin strip of tape with her teeth, carefully presses it against the small clasp of the gold necklace; uses her determinedly steadied fingers to smooth the tape into the surrounding skin.

Easy. 

Or not, Lottie realizes, as Laura Lee turns around, eyes a stormy blue that feels clarifying, purifying — Lottie’s a little scared of what Laura Lee sees when she looks at her, terrified of who she’d be wiped clean. 

There’s no disguising the slight tremor of her fingers when she grips the edge of the gold cross, plucks it daintily between thumb and index finger and carefully tucks it beneath the collar of Laura Lee’s jersey to dangle close to her chest but out-of-sight. 

She tears another strip of tape, lays it flat against where the gold chain rests against the raised ridge of Laura Lee's collarbone. Another strip for where the chain lay just below the collar of her shirt. Then the same again, for the other side. 

She runs her thumb over the tape two, three, four, maybe five times too many. 

She does go for a sixth concentrated swipe, just to make sure it's securely taped to the body, but Laura Lee catches her hand still hovering, four fingers wrapping around the back of Lottie's hand, the pad of her thumb gently pressed into the center of Lottie's palm; she holds firm —doesn't tremble at all like Lottie does. 

And Lottie's not religious, not even a little bit, but for some reason, she suddenly thinks of Jesus; well, not Jesus exactly, but the statues she seen of Jesus with holes through his palms, bleeding for the sins of others; she thinks about Laura Lee's reverence, every day, head bowed, knees red, achingly tender, and she thinks how if Jesus were flesh and blood, right here, right now, standing before Laura Lee instead of Lottie, well then, Lottie really can't imagine her holding his hands any gentler than she's holding hers. 

And that’s a weird thought — a weird real, not real thought; she pushes that one back into the fog where it'll hopefully stay. 

“Thank you, Lottie,” Laura Lee says, presses her thumbprint delicately into Lottie’s palm and squeezes so Lottie feels her, before letting go, leaving Lottie’s hand to hang limply by her side. Lottie doesn't know if her hand had been cold before —wonders if that’s what caused gooseflesh to erupt along Laura Lee’s skin—  but it certainly feels cold now. “You're so thoughtful.”

That surprises Lottie a little because, is that what she is? Thoughtful? Lottie doesn't really think so but she also thinks that if that's what Laura Lee thinks, then it must be so. Honestly, Lottie doesn't remember the last time she's really thought of herself as anything, except here, maybe. Here and un-phased and unfeeling and now maybe thoughtful, because Laura Lee has given that to her and who is she not to take that? 

“Yeah,” she agrees, eyes scanning over the criss-crosses of tape she had diligently applied —definitely securely taped— though, she can't quite find it in herself to meet Laura Lee's eyes. “Anytime."

They win the match 1-0 —6 wins in a row now—  and when she glances over at Laura Lee in the post-match huddle, she’s luminous, rays of bright light permeating bone and muscle and skin and tape and shirt.

Lottie feels warm. 

Chapter Text

4.

By junior year, Jackie's plans finally bare fruit. They're not high school girls soccer famous yet or anything but the whole core group are officially elevated to Varsity — even Natalie, who is still with them by the grace of Coach Scott, who somewhere along the line seemed to develop the softest blind spot for her (kindreds in brooding or whatever).  

Jackie's dedication clearly hadn't gone unnoticed either because Coach Martinez bypasses some of the soon departing seniors on the squad and awards her the armband and Captain Jackie —in true Jackie fashion—  responds by immediately hosting a “big team bonding sleepover!”

None of the seniors are here, Lottie notices first thing when she arrives, but Jackie seems happy nonetheless —doesn't seem to mourn their absence at all because it's obvious this isn't for them anyway; they were never part of her plan. 

From the beginning, it's been this group, this weird little core group that Jackie has invested in, and they are indeed a weird group because honestly, Lottie doesn't think most of them would be friends outside of soccer; in fact, they're not even friends now really (except maybe Jackie and Shauna, not that Lottie would really classify that as just friendship, but then again, what does Lottie know? She doesn't really have friends), except as a team, they've got stupid little inside jokes that absolutely no one else in the universe would get and they've got all these traditions carried on from girls they've never known. 

It's a strange bond. 

But it’s also a surprisingly nice one; like how she and Van have zero intersecting interests outside of soccer —don't even have any classes together this year— and somehow they've developed a whole nonverbal language of long side glances and waggled eyebrows all akin to ‘dude, are you seeing this too?’ and ‘what the fucking fuck is happening right now?’ whenever their teammates are being particularly, well, themselves; or like how she never really talks to Natalie outside of soccer but sometimes at a party if she catches her without her weird, goth bodyguards, she'll bum a cigarette and they'll smoke together quietly for a few minutes which isn’t really friendship and yet, when Lottie just so happened to have heard that hockey asshole Johnny Hudson lewdly wolf whistling at Natalie during their lunch period, well, it was kismet or something when right before 5th period, Johnny just so happened to be walking by just as Lottie was opening her locker, causing her locker to totally accidentally smack him right in the trachea. Totally worth being late to her next class two buildings over.

Yellowjackets swarm together; buzz buzz buzz or whatever. 

So, that's the thing; while they're not her friends exactly, Lottie doesn't actually mind being here with them either —might actually kind of prefer it to another night alone in the stillness of her room. 

Also, Laura Lee is actually here too, which is a nice surprise, because she's core group, obviously, but still core group adjacent in spirit —kind of just pops in when she wants and pops out when she wants; it’s always 50/50 whether she’ll show up to these kinds of things and Lottie kinda likes that about her, likes how she doesn't cave to the pressure, likes how little she seems to care about blending; and it is actually her choice, Lottie knows now, because they've accumulated enough quiet locker room conversations —Lottie affixing the incandescent gold cross to pale skin, Laura Lee reminding Lottie to grab her shin guards before she leaves the locker room— for Lottie to find out that Laura Lee's parents are strict with their issued curfews and insistent on her timely youth group Bible study meetings and private piano lesson, but otherwise don't begrudge her a normal high school experience, because they trust her, Laura Lee had said; they trust in her steadfast faith; they trust her to be guided by her doctrine even when met with typical high school depravity, so when Laura Lee doesn't turn up to a party, it's not because her parents restricted her, it's because she doesn't want to and when she does, it's because she does.

Lottie has kinda taken to arriving to parties earlier than usual lately, taken to hanging out with the kids outside smoking and waiting until right on time to see if Laura Lee will show up; if she does, then Lottie will out her cigarette or joint, will search for some punch that isn’t spiked and bring Laura Lee a cup, will spend some time watching Laura Lee watch the crowd, always pleading in her head for them to control themselves for once because there is always a boiling point when the alcohol is a bit too free-flowing and kids will start dry-humping on the dance floor or some jocks will start an impromptu wrestling match or someone will start puking somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t be and Laura Lee will decide that’s her cue for a swift exit and Lottie will miss her, will miss the warmth and light her presence brings even if they weren't actively hanging out. 

Lottie is glad that this sleepover is not that kind of party. Sure, there might be an argument or two at some point and at least one will border on too far (probably started by Shauna if she’s thirsty or Tai if she’s desperate to detract from how quickly she mellows around Van) but Captain Jackie knows how to pacify those quickly so at least Laura Lee will stay. At least there will be warmth. 

It all goes surprisingly well actually; Van teaches everyone some new card games that keep Tai competitive enough to disguise the pining and distracted enough from the constant noticing if others are noticing; the distinct lack of Jeff has Jackie and Shauna acting like typical JackieandShauna; the group gossip stays directed at the girls from teams they will face this year and Jackie manages to dissuade the group from some of the more idiotic bad ideas that crop up, like the giggled suggestion that they prank call Misty Quigley. 

By the time they all settle down to sleep in the spaces carefully allotted to them by Jackie, Lottie thinks that perhaps she should feel calm, perhaps she should feel hopeful even, because things are finally good, better than she’d even hoped for really, and yet, as she stares unseeingly up at the unfamiliar swirls of Jackie’s ceiling, there’s a sudden creeping sense of unease that she just can’t seem to shake —a sinking feeling that this is the calm before the storm; that something bad is going to happen. 

She feels restless; feels like her fog has turned to smog; feels like it has turned to something thick and noxious and choking. 

It's suffocating. 

She kicks off her blankets, tries to assuage the unexpected turbulence by concentrating on her breaths, by concentrating on the soft snores and incongruous breaths around her. 

Her teammates are sleeping peacefully —someone is mumbling in their sleep, someone is sighing contentedly; they are serene; they are safe. 

And Lottie feels like she is crawling out of her own skin. 

In a last ditch attempt at a semblance of calm, she turns in her sleeping bag, squinting her eyes against the darkness and over the slumbering bodies of her teammates to seek out one in particular —to seek out the light; to seek out warmth.

Except there is none.  

Because Laura Lee is gone; the space between Mari and Tai is empty except for the tiny ears of Laura Lee’s stuffed teddy bear, Leonard, sticking out of the top of her discarded blanket. 

Lottie panics.

She almost steps on Nat and Mari in her frenzied scramble to exit the room; somehow manages to make it out, leaving the room’s many occupants unperturbed.    

She finds Laura Lee in Jackie’s living room, perhaps unsurprisingly on her knees, head bowed, eyes closed —praying. 

Laura Lee opens her eyes, startled, as Lottie approaches. 

“Oh, Lottie,” she breathes, surprised —always so surprised. “Sorry,” she murmurs, like she’s the one who has to apologize; like Lottie isn't the one who keeps finding her, drawn to her; like Lottie isn’t the one utilizing her as a beacon, using her effulgent conviction as a lighthouse when her fog feels too thick to navigate alone. 

Lottie wants to feel bad about it. She thinks that she probably should feel bad about it —about taking these moments— because that’s what Lottie does; she takes; takes things that don't belong to her, takes things that she doesn't need; she's a taker. And the thing is, Laura Lee doesn't even know what she's giving; doesn’t know that Lottie is hollow, doesn’t know that sometimes her light is the only thing that can infiltrate her fog; doesn’t know that she is a peace that passeth all understanding for Lottie.

Lottie could never tell her —truly doesn’t think she even possesses the right words— and still, she moves closer; flops down on the floor next to a kneeling Laura Lee. 

“No, it's my fault,” she atones. “I just saw that you were gone and I thought…” well, she doesn't know exactly what she thought, only that the feeling felt like fingers clawing through her chest, felt like they were making their way to wrap around her throat. The doctors would call it irrational; would call it a symptom; would call it anxiety; would call it paranoia, because Laura Lee is obviously safe and Lottie is safe and her teammates are safe; it’s just her mind that’s not. But Laura Lee doesn't know that either. Laura Lee can't know that either. “Doesn't matter.” she resolves. “Couldn't sleep either?” she asks instead. 

Laura Lee shakes her head, pushes off of her knees to sit crossed-legged next to Lottie on the floor, the delicate slope of her shoulder pressing lightly into Lottie’s triceps— if Lottie were a skeevy guy, if she were say, Randy Walsh, she might extend her arm to wrap around Laura Lee’s shoulders, might draw her closer; instead, Lottie stays stock-still.

“Big guy upstairs give you a remedy?” she asks quietly and well, she still doesn't really believe, not like Laura Lee does anyway; she's had no fantastical revelations, nothing at all like what Laura Lee had told her about feeling God as he saved her from drowning and yet somehow, Lottie does believe in Laura Lee's belief, knows with certainty that in this world with real and not real things, even it could not be cruel enough to bring Laura Lee to her knees with no one around to listen.

“Not exactly,” Laura Lee answers, shrugging; she doesn't seem at all bothered by the notion —by an unanswered prayer. 

“Why do you pray so much?” Lottie finds herself asking; realizes even before Laura Lee's nose scrunches, even before her lips drop into a soft pout, even before she shifts, not far, but enough to no longer be touching, enough for Lottie to miss the slight pressure, that maybe her words don’t come out the way she intends. “Sorry, I didn't mean it as judgement,” she explains —softens, and Laura Lee softens just as quickly but doesn’t shift back; Lottie wonders what tape the pharmacy might sell for her stupid mouth. “I just— I meant, like, does it work? You do it so much that it must work, right?” 

“Not always,” Laura Lee answers, candid but no less devoted. “Not even often. And sometimes not in the way I want or expect. But I'm not always asking Him for things or begging for forgiveness; sometimes I'm just thanking Him because I'm here, because I'm alive, you know, and that's a blessing.” 

“Because you almost weren't or because you didn't always want to be?” Lottie ponders, snaps her mouth shut quickly; remembers that they aren't exactly friends; that having a shrink doesn't make her a shrink; that she's going off of inferred information here, because Laura Lee had been less guileless and more cautious when recounting that particular story to her, had chosen her words almost too carefully, had said incident instead of accident, had stuttered too close to the truth over the word dive (into the deep end!) and Lottie's fingers had stuttered over the tape she had been securing when she realized that the incident had taken place during the summer between freshman year and sophomore year, when Laura Lee had been sad, had come back light and somewhere in between could have easily just not come back at all. Lottie had silently thanked a God she doesn’t really believe in then that Laura Lee had been saved; had silently thanked a lifeguard she’ll never know for his vigilance; had stammered out a half-truth of her own about how glad she was that Laura Lee had been rescued because she couldn’t imagine what the team would do without her; she hadn’t for a second let on that she had absorbed the implications between the carefully chosen words, hadn’t let on that she had quickly picked apart the suggestions in the silences; she never even mentioned it —until now. 

And now, Laura Lee is looking at her apprehensively, eyebrow furrowed, eyes searching. Lottie’s not exactly sure what she’s searching for — judgement, maybe, though she’ll find none; understanding, possibly, though Lottie’s still trying to understand.

The tension stretches. 

“Sorry, I’m an idiot,” Lottie backtracks nervously or at least tries to, though her inquiry sits heavy between them still. “I didn’t mean-” Not quite true; she tries again. “I shouldn’t have-” Not quite what she means either. “I mean, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to,” she settles. “I just thought maybe-” 

Laura Lee seems to deflate on an exhale; seems so small all of a sudden, her fingers anxiously fiddling with the edge of the gold cross sitting bright against the sharp white cotton of a nightgown that makes her look pure, like a virgin sacrifice in one of those psychological thriller movies — Van could probably name at least a dozen; Lottie can't name one, has spent too much time trapped inside the psychological thriller that is her mind to waste her time watching them on a big screen. 

Laura Lee is back to herself on an inhale, eyes turning resolute, breath drawing steel. 

“No, it’s-” she breathes deep, “Maybe both,” she finally answers, sighs so softly like it escapes without thought or intent; like it's pulled from that secret place where she sometimes stores Lottie's name; Lottie gets the feeling that this is a truth never spoken out loud before; feels gracious to be the one to receive it. “I was just so lost back then,” Laura Lee confesses. “And my parents and my pastor were pressuring me to take a more active leadership role in the church’s youth group because to them I was this shining example of obedience and virtue, but personally, I was struggling so much with balancing my understanding of God and His word with the church’s perception and I felt like such a hypocrite for even having questions because they trusted me so much, you know?”

Lottie nods; she doesn’t completely get it; doesn’t have a community in the way Laura Lee does, or have faith in the way Laura Lee does; certainly doesn’t have people who trust in her the way Laura Lee does either; but she does intensely understand having to ensconce some of her deepest thoughts and feelings to get by; to blend; she feels silly all of a sudden for having not even considered that Laura Lee, with all her benevolent earnestness, might be blending elsewhere. 

“I thought I was disappointing a lot of people. I thought I was disappointing God even,” Laura Lee continues. “And I remember praying so hard and so often for God to change me because I wasn't what I was supposed to be or what everyone expected me to be. And every morning, I woke up exactly the same and I just got so frustrated; with myself at first for having all these feelings that felt so contrary to God and then with God too, I think, for giving me such a burden to carry in the first place.”

There's a grit to her voice that Lottie hasn't heard before — not in her contentment, not in her sadness, not even in the heat of a match when things are simmering; Lottie wonders where she keeps that part buried, the intensity; wonders just how far she has to be pushed for it to be unsealed. 

“And honestly, I don't know what I was thinking; I was concussed after so that's probably why it's such a blur but I remember being so tired and I remember thinking of Moses in the wilderness of Sinai pleading with God to just kill him to relieve him of this massive responsibility God had entrusted him with.”

She's anxiously fiddling with the edge of her necklace again, pressing the edges so hard between her thumb and index finger that Lottie can see the skin turn pale. Her left hand is fisted though, knuckles pressed against the hardwood of Jackie's living room floor and Lottie doesn't know why she does it, but she reaches out, presses the back of her right hand flat into the hardwood next to Laura Lee's fist, pushes her palm up, fingers outstretched, open; she gently brushes Laura Lee's curled pinkie with the knuckle of her thumb —an offering.

Laura Lee glances at the tendered digits for a moment and then meets Lottie's eyes, searching again, though Lottie is still not sure for what exactly; is desperate to know what it is she finds when she slowly unfurls her fist, fits her palm flat against Lottie's. Her hand is smaller than Lottie's, her fingers strong and softly calloused in a few places which Lottie never noticed before, probably from piano lessons, she assumes; Laura Lee is gentle as she curls her fingers into the spaces between Lottie's, fits them neatly, and Lottie responds in kind, weaves her fingers between the spaces of Laura Lee's, presses her fingertips into the raised outline of veins on the back of Laura Lee's hand and squeezes. Instantly, Laura Lee's other hand loosens a little, her grip on the cross turning slack, color returning to indented skin. Still, Lottie holds fast to the hand in her possession, tugs it into her lap — safe. 

“I think what I wanted more than anything was a sign that I was worthy.” Laura Lee begins again, tone measured. “which is not an excuse. It’s silly, bargaining with God. I know what I did was stupid. But in a way, I was glad that I hit my head, because I do remember slowly losing consciousness, sinking into the water, bleeding out and how it felt like a kindness not being able to fight against the burning in my lungs. I was relieved, I think, to know that if I wasn't worthy, if I really was afflicted with something ungodly, then it would be over soon and I wouldn't be able to disappoint anyone anymore.” 

Lottie rubs her thumb over the skin beneath hers, a comfort for herself more than anything; she feels Laura Lee’s fingers tighten between hers; feels muscle and tendon and bone; feels life.  

“I don’t know how long I was in the pool or how long I was unconscious— I never asked, but I remember waking up and feeling held; like God’s divine presence had enveloped me and it was so strong and so vast that I just knew that it was true — that He had saved me. I realized then, without a doubt, because I felt His unconditional love so fully, that all my praying to be changed was fruitless because I was exactly what God made me to be. I am worthy because He loves me and He won’t change me because He wants me to be useful just the way I am.” 

Lottie releases a breath she hadn’t even realized she was even holding, breathes in Laura Lee’s conviction. And there it is again, almost blinding in the late night darkness of Jackie’s living room — a burst of light; not from the cross, Lottie realizes belatedly, but from Laura Lee herself, her skin suddenly illuminated through bone and muscle and pores and it’s not real, not real, absolutely not real, but Lottie can feel the warmth of it buzz along her skin. 

“I'm glad you’re here, Laura Lee,” she says, pressing her fingertips into the tendons of Laura Lee's hand — she still hasn't let go; she doesn't want to let go. “I don't know what I would do without you,” she admits; tells the truth she should have told before, back when Laura Lee's story was so carefully sanitized; she thinks she means it more now than she even did then, thinks she could mean it even more ardently tomorrow, and maybe the day after that too. “I think it's amazing how you see everything so clearly,” she praises. “I wish I could be more like that; more, sure, but I don't know. I'm not - I don't think I’ll ever be useful to anyone,” she admits — and she’s tip-toeing into something here, shuffling closer and closer to spilling something incontrovertible; to splitting open her soul for Laura Lee to parse.  

Maybe one day. 

“You’re already useful, Lottie,” Laura Lee insists, so sincerely resolute. “You do so much. I don't know anybody with instincts like yours or who can read situations like you do. Even when you are getting carded ridiculously early in a match or doing something simple like starting a sing-along in the locker room to ease the tension, you really do set the tone for everyone. And maybe you haven’t found a way to use that yet, or to find fulfillment in it, but I know you will. You’ll find your path,” she asserts, intensely sure. “I’ll add it to my prayer list.”

“Yeah?” Lottie asks, quietly, heart warmed by the conviction, by the notion of Laura Lee taking extra time to pray for her specifically; and who knows, maybe it is exactly what Lottie needs; maybe Laura Lee spilling all her genuine light and warmth and goodwill into the universe will be enough to offset the looming darkness that brought Lottie out here in the first place. Maybe they'll cancel each other out  — create balance. 

“Of course,” Laura Lee affirms, squeezes her hand softly. “I mean, I can pray for you right now if you’d like?” she suggests, gently hopeful. 

“I'd really like that,” Lottie agrees; warms at the way Laura Lee beams — content right through muscle and bone.  

“Okay,” she shuffles to sit right in front of Lottie, slips onto her knees, and Lottie doesn’t really know what she’s doing here, so she follows suit, rocks forward onto her knees; eagerly proffers her other hand when Laura Lee motions for it.  

Laura Lee clasps both her hands tights, bows her head, closes her eyes; Lottie takes a deep breath; follows. 

“Heavenly Father,” Laura Lee begins and Lottie can't help but open her eyes then, because she has to see her, has to see the little concentrated crease between her eyebrows and the feather light shadow of her eyelashes against her skin; has to see her to know she's real. “I come to you with a heart full of gratitude. Today, I bring someone very special to me before You. I ask that You watch over my friend, Lottie. When she travels through unknowns, walk beside her and when she rests, let it be in Your refuge. I ask with unwavering confidence in Your divine power that You guide her, for You see what we cannot, You know what we do not; I pray that you illuminate the path that You have lovingly prepared for her; that You quiet the noise around her so that she may hear Your voice and follow Your divine navigation. I ask that You deliver her from the deceitful spirit of worry and fear; that You surround her like a shield so that her body may remain safe, her heart steady and her mind at peace. Let her always be favorably encompassed by Your love, Your light, Your—” Laura Lee stops abruptly, eyes suddenly meeting Lottie’s. 

“Lottie,” she breathes her name in that way she does sometimes; soft, surprised. 

Lottie half expects to be admonished for having her eyes open, for not being reverent enough, but Laura Lee is looking at her so delicately— so concerned; her eyes are deep blue, like the ocean; wet, like the ocean…

Wait.

Lottie doesn’t even really register what’s happening when Laura Lee untangles their hands, fingers of her right hand moving to curl against Lottie's jaw. 

She doesn't realize until Laura Lee glides the satiny pad of her thumb across her cheek, the digit absorbing wet warmth, that it's her own eyes that are wet  — that she's crying.

“Fuck, sorry,” Lottie groans; nudges Laura Lee's hand away to replace with her own; to rub hard at her eyes with the arches of her palms. She tries her best to make the sudden stream of tears stop; tries harder but to no avail. “I'm sorry. I don't even know why I'm crying,” she sniffles, feeling unexpectedly and uncharacteristically overwhelmed. 

“Hey,” Laura Lee tugs gently at Lottie's hands, pulls them away from her face like she can't stand the harshness of Lottie's actions, even if Lottie is doing it to herself. “It's okay,” she assuages. 

Undeterred, she uses both hands this time to delicately cup Lottie's cheeks between her palms; swipes softly at the tears; the pressure solid and sure; she doesn't tremble — doesn't ever seem to tremble. 

Lottie doesn't think she deserves the tenderness, has done nothing to earn it, but Laura Lee gives it so freely; chooses kindness so freely. 

She doesn't know what's wrong with her; doesn't know why she can't seem to stop a fresh surge of tears; doesn't know why even amongst that, there's a warmth that feels like it's teeming beneath the surface, a passive sort of bliss somehow bursting through the numbness, breaking from her throat in a startling chuckle. 

She expects Laura Lee to recoil, to blanch from the sudden absurdity, but Laura Lee holds fast, expression softly curious as her thumbs still swipe at Lottie's tears. 

She isn't looking at Lottie like she's crazy either, which, honestly, she probably should be, because she's crying and laughing at the same damn time and she kinda feels a little crazy, but Laura Lee is remarkably calm. 

“Sorry,” She tries again, the word choked into a sob, into a giggle; into neither or maybe into both. 

“It's okay,” Laura Lee soothes. “You're okay.” 

Lottie doesn't remember the last time she's been hugged, not like a group hug she ends up unceremoniously caught up in during a goal celebration or a group huddle after a win, but like an actual hug. She figures it must have been a really long time ago because it takes her addled mind a hazy moment to realize that’s what’s happening when Laura Lee's hands fall from her cheeks, only to wrap firmly around her shoulders, pulling her in flush so that the uneven thumping of a heartbeat against her chest isn't just hers — it’s theirs, together.

And maybe this is exactly what the doctors meant by temporary; maybe, just maybe, it's 3 years of emotions finally erupting forth from the fog, or maybe it's brand new feelings all together, because Lottie can't explain it really but, she feels raw; she feels vulnerable and giddy. 

She feels everything, held steady in an embrace of light and warmth. 

“I'm okay,” she half weeps, half laughs into the crook of Laura Lee's neck, buries herself comfortably there; and she’s still crying, spreading tears against pale skin and the white strap of a dated nightgown, but Laura Lee doesn't seem to mind, just pulls her in closer, rubs soothing circles into the muscles of her upper back. 

“You're okay,” she repeats, over and over and over and over until the sobs subside, until the laughter ceases, until Lottie feels cracked open and spent. “You're okay.”

The funny thing is, Lottie is not a believer, but she believes her.

Chapter Text

5.

It's not like Lottie hasn't thought of death — her death specifically. She has thought about the nuisances of death; has thought of dying alone, of dying peacefully, of dying violently, of dying old, of dying young.

She doesn’t necessarily have a preference for a fitting death, except, well, she doesn’t want to die right this minute, which is probably a stupid fucking thing to realize as she's sitting in a plane that is plummeting to the ground. 

There's probably a joke in this tragedy somewhere — something droll and sardonic about her father's apathy finally causing her untimely demise. 

Or perhaps it’s her own naivety that’ll take credit as her executioner, because that’s exactly what she had been — naive, when she had stupidly suggested that her father come to Nationals to watch her play.

And it had been just that; a suggestion — light, airy, offhanded, practiced (multiple times in front of her full-length bedroom mirror) as to not sound desperate; as to not sound needy; as to not sound like a child pleading with her dad to hear her, to look at her, to be proud of her, to love her.    

He had said no to the suggestion (has been saying no to all the carefully unspoken and consciously unheard entreaties for as long as she’s had a diagnosis) and instead chartered two planes — one to get her team safely to their destination, to appease her, to pass off as affection, and one to take him in the complete opposite direction.

Of course it’d be this one to go down. 

Alanis Morissette could probably write a couple new verses based off of this alone. 

Maybe she could write the inscription for Lottie’s headstone too; something simple; something honest, like: 

Here Lies Charlotte Matthews

So unlovable even her parents stopped trying.

Or better yet:  

In (not so) Loving Memory of Lottie

Best known for killing her only friends (but not really friends) with the sheer force of her daddy issues. 

Fuck, she’s really going to die like this.

They’re really all going to die like this. 

This is probably not the kind of high school soccer infamy she thinks Jackie had in mind way back in their freshman year when she had assembled this little antithetical group to ascend together — or to apparently descend together; Yellowjackets die together; buzz, buzz, buzz or whatever. 

Lottie has a fleeting thought that maybe this is a not real thing, that maybe this isn’t all that different than instances from before — before the diagnosis, before the medications, before the fog and the blending — when the real and the not real were so tightly interwoven that Lottie could taste the cloying sweetness of cookies given to her by a nanny that just did not exist; that Lottie could feel the blazing singe of fire against her skin from a car wreck that never came to be.  

Except Lottie heaves in a deep breath, exhales, heaves in another —she can hear her therapist’s voice in the back of her mind, dictating cadence, telling her good, Lottie and again and is it different now, Lottie? Is the scary thing gone now, Lottie? — and the air she sucks in still tastes artificial; still feels cold and bitter; is still being heaved in from the oxygen mask that feels like it deployed ages ago, when the scary thing was just turbulence, just an excess of caution, just low cabin pressure; not yet imminent death.

She counts to ten in her head — slow, Lottie; remember learning the numbers, remember colorful flashcards and sweet kindergarten teachers, remember your mom, apron tied around her waist, laughing as she asks how many pancakes you’ll eat today, fingers just slightly crooked as she starts with her thumb, one, her index finger, two, playfully extends her fingers in quick succession, giggling the whole time until she reaches ten; remember lining up soccer balls in practice, one, two, three, four, five converted penalties; remember that the numbers are real, that the memories are real, that the scary thing is not — and still everybody around her is panicking; still, the plane is falling.  

There’s a ringing in her ears that’s so loud, she's certain she can feel it rattling against her skull and the sound the plane is making is so strange, like fingernails digging into the skin of a ripened orange — ripping; tearing; peeling.

There's so much screaming around her, so much fear and confusion, all of it overlapping and dissonant that she can’t distinguish anything — can't separate the desperate screeching from the acrid scent of metal burning; can't tell if the sound beating against her eardrums is someone wailing behind her or the whistling winds striking the plane's wings next to her. She can't settle; can't grasp onto any one thing, except, well, there are words floating in front of her, frantic but sure, intonation steady and precise. 

It's a prayer, Lottie realizes quickly; it's Laura Lee praying.

Lottie is honestly not sure if Laura Lee is praying for her life, bargaining again, or praying for her soul, but Lottie finds her mind apprehending the words, weaving them together, latching onto the essence of them. 

There's an ataractic quality to the polished ease of Laura Lee’s devotion — to the earnest lilt of her invocation; to the warmth of her being; to tenderness of her temperament. 

And maybe it's selfish — Lottie is a taker after all — but Lottie can't help but be drawn to her; can't help but reach out for the comfort in her light, for the solace in her warmth. 

She strains for whatever she can reach, fumbles to grasp; fingertips grabbing at Laura Lee's shoulder. 

And maybe Laura Lee's just a giver, gives so easily; has already given Lottie more than she could ever know; has given her grace even in the midst of her own darkness, has given her sanctuary for the not real to mellow instead of fester; has given her reassurance and kindness and insight and friendship; and she gives her this too — cuts her prayer short to extend her hands, bestows upon Lottie her warmth. 

It’s a desperate tangle; Lottie can’t tell where she begins and Laura Lee ends as they grasp at each other tightly, hands clutching, fingernails digging into skin; seeking stability; siphoning support; searching for salvation in each other. 

The impact of the plane colliding with the ground, slowed somewhat by large trees and previously splintered debris, is probably one of the few forces in the universe sufficient to rend their grip. 

Lottie lurches backwards into her seat, bounces like a poorly kicked ball on worse kept turf from the shock-wave of the collision.  

It takes her a long, unnerving moment to realize that she's okay; that Laura Lee is okay too. 

Or, perhaps not okay exactly, but they're alive, at least. Still breathing. Still whole. 

The smell of burning is pungent, the ash and dust of decay coating the inside of her nostrils, charring the back of her throat. 

The sounds are worse now too — the screaming, the crying, the coughing, the chaos. 

It’s all so terrifyingly real and as they finally force open the emergency exit, met with a harsh terrain of nature and more wreckage than seems possible to come from one downed plane, there's one pervasive thought that seems to evade the adrenaline spike, that seems to slip through Lottie's persistent fog, and it's that she has to find her luggage — she doesn't know what she'll do if she doesn't find her meds.