Chapter Text
Imogen can’t breathe.
She’s trying, but the longer Sahar looks at her, not saying a word the harder it becomes. She used to be able to read her fluently. Used to be so familiar with her that any slight tilt or twitch or slope of her features would read like sentences. But that was a long time ago, before boys and secrets and unsaid words had creeped their way in between them. She didn’t have that privilege anymore, and for all she could tell from Sahar’s face she may as well have been looking at the ground.
She’s bitten through her lip at some point and blood fills her mouth, bitter and metallic but somehow a welcome distraction. Because Sahar still wasn’t saying anything. Still just sitting there, her hand long since dropped from Imogen's cheek. (She missed it, all warmth and comfort and safety.) An unsaid promise that whatever was wrong, whatever had upset her was fixable, that she would help. That's what it had always meant before.
But it isn’t before, and now Sahar still sits silent. Imogen’s confession hanging thick and heavy in the air between them. Or it must do, because she still can’t breathe. Her words transforming the air into something solid, separate from its original purpose, now only existing to hold the irrefutable proof of her mess.
She wants to take it back. Or she thinks she does, or she thinks she would want to if she could really think at all. She still hates loose ends, hates the unsaid and regrets. She and Sahar have more than enough between them now, the last thing they need is another. But she's starting to understand why people have them at all. Why they defend them so vehemently, hold them so close. Why they run and hide and wall off their feelings. Sometimes leaving things unsaid stops you from self destructing, stops you from running the one good thing you’ve ever truly had into the ground. Not that she would know anything about preventing destruction. All she’s ever done is cause it.
Too much. To silly, to stupid, to desperate, to insecure. Too slutty, too much of a prude. Always jumping in blind and talking without thinking. It’s no wonder she has barely any friends. It’s no wonder Sahar is still silent. It kills her but really, how are you even meant to respond to that? How do you break a silence built off an unasked confession that monumental? She wouldn’t know.
She tries anyway.
“Sahar?”
It’s whispered, her voice wet and thick and breaking. She knows she sounds pathetic, but she can’t breath or speak, not properly anyway. And even still the word spills beautifully into the silence, like something magic, murmured like a prayer.
Sahar still doesn’t speak herself but she reaches out again, taking Imogen’s shaking hands in her own, rubbing small circles on the back of her palms. A gentle shushing sound comes, and Imogen realises she’s truly crying again. Sahar’s hands are so soft, firm yet achingly gentle, practised in the way that proves they’ve done this dance a husband times before.
All she can smell is citrus and vanilla, and when she looks up from her hands she sees Sahar’s eyes again. Beautiful eyes and glossy hair and- she’s crying harder now, a drop of blood dripping down her chin because god damn. She’s in love with this girl. And not like a friend, and not like a boy. She tries and fails to avoid looking at her lips and suddenly it all comes back.
Prom. The lights and music, her dress shimmering, guitar vibrating, strong calloused hands moving expertly across the strings. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. And she nearly breaks apart at the implications of all that, because it’s how she’s always felt for Sahar, how she’s always dreamed her and heard her and touched her. It’s really no different. There shouldn't be a difference.
But there is. She’s older now. Wiser, hopeful, and she knows. She knows what this means. About her, for her, for how she has to exist now. She thinks back to Paris again, “everything would be so much easier if I was into girls.” Would it now Imogen? Would it really? Because right now it seems like the end of the world.
Sahar’s hand reaches to her face again, wiping away the blood that slowly drips down her chin, taking out a few tears with her. Her lips part, soft and pink and- (god help her) she finally speaks.
“Can I hug you?”
Imogen doesn’t answer. Doesn’t really think she can. Just nods and throws her arms around Sahar, nuzzling her face in the crooking of her neck as familiar arms come around her. One cups the back of her head gently, while the other traces gentle patterns on her back, barely felt through the barriers of Sahar’s blanket and her own Prom dress, but enough to slowly ebb some of the tension in her heart.
She doesn’t know exactly why she’s crying. Only that suddenly everything is overwhelming, and everything is embarrassing. She’s always considered herself an ally, always meant well, even if she speaks without thinking how she sounds. But she had never thought of being- of girls liking- of not being straight as a bad thing. She didn’t know what her dad thought, but she didn’t know what he thought of anything. Her mum however (Oh god oh hell. Her mum. She’s going to absolutely despise her now. If she knew she would never want to touch her again. Never even try to love her. She feels sick.)
But it’s not a bad thing, she knows that. It’s just not her. It’s not, it’s not. It can’t be. She thinks of everything boy she’d let touch her, kiss her, use her. Of every short skirt she didn’t want to wear, or every predatory gaze she’d convinced herself was flattory. She thinks of every girl she found pretty and of every boy she hadn't. She thinks of chases and regrets and soft (beautiful) eyes leading her like a lighthouse in the dark sea.
It is her. In some way she doesn’t understand yet. In some way she can’t and doesn’t want to. Imogen Heney is something other than straight. That in and of itself feels like something too big to handle alone. Something she feels she has to mourn, because lying to herself was always so much easier. But she knows it’s more than that. Because loving Sahar feels as natural as breathing, but being in love with her seems to suck all the air from her lungs.
But maybe they were never that different.
Because right now she feels both. The crushing and the giving. The ease and the overwhelming pain and uncertainty. She doesn’t know what it means, for her, or them, or whatever they could be. She may have ruined everything, she probably did. But she’s back in her arms for the first time in over a year and she’s learning how to breathe again.
And it happens slowly. She’s not sure how long they sit there, how much mascara she’s left stained on Sahar’s dress, and she quite frankly doesn’t want to. It’s embarrassing enough as it is, having to have the breath coaxed back into her. She doesn’t need to see how long it took. She doesn’t deserve Sahar’s patients or her kindness, she knows that, and all she does is prove it to them both time and time again.
“Last year Imogen got a boyfriend and stopped texting me.”
“No you stopped texting me.”
There were three versions of every story. Yours, theirs, and the truth. She wonders desperately how she finds out what the truth even is, then decides it doesn’t matter. She sees it as she pulls away, as she looks at her again and finds Sahar crying for the second time in her life. Whatever the truth is, the damage is done.
It takes almost no time at all for the roles to reverse, for Imogen's hand to come to Sahar’s cheek, skin soft and warm beneath her fingers. She hopes it’s not too cold, hopes it brings her one fraction of the comfort she brought her.
She should probably let the silence sit, or rather let Sahar be the one to break it, but they both know she won’t.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Her voice is still shaky, still slightly hoarse from crying but she sounds much less pathetic now. Strong enough to be on the asking end of the question.
Sahar laughs softly, then sniffs, reaching up and bringing Imogen's hand down to hold between her own.
“You know I don’t like watching you cry.”
And Imogen really doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Well, it’s not rare.” Is what she lands on, giving Sahar’s hand a small squeeze. An offer.
“I know, but I never get used to it.” She squeezes back harder. An acceptance.
That brings her a smile, but the response itself sort of makes her want to cry again. What had she done for something like this to care about her so much? How could she possibly ever deserve a second chance?
Sahar had a way of looking at her that made her turn to glass. Fragile, and completely see through. It should have been invasive, like with a single flutter of those lashes she had her wired up to a lie detector. Like she could ruin her right there and then if she wanted, or complete her instead.
But being under that look now, she craves it more than anything. It may have been invasive, but it was also the only real thing she’d felt in months. Like Sahar was slicing her open and holding her fractured heart like something fixable, like she could meld it with her own.
“Imogen-” She starts. Stops. Thinks. Because there lies maybe the biggest difference between them, Sahar has always thought first.
“Did you mean it?”
She could easily play dumb. Save herself the embarrassment and Sahar the uncomfortable task of turning her down. But she can’t. Not really. She won’t discredit them like that, won’t disrespect Sahar by lying right to her face. Not after everything.
So she swallows. Bites her lip again, wincing as she hits the cut she’s created. Breathes.
“Yeah. I did. I don’t-” She has to get this right. She has to she has to. So she thinks. Sahar waits, Imogen's hands still enclosed in her own.
“I don’t really know anything. I don’t know who I am or what I like, I don’t even know who I like apparently but- but I think it might be girls. Or like also girls. I-” She cuts herself off.
Just breathe Imogen. In for four, hold for four, out for four. (Sahar’s voice. From earlier that night on her porch, from her fourteenth birthday when her dad forgot, from outside the changing room after a call with her mum, from the first time a boy broke her.)
Just breathe Imogen. And so she does.
“I don’t really know anything. But I know when I saw you tonight… well you’ve always been beautiful. I didn’t feel any different really, I think I just knew what it meant. I don’t know anything Sahar and I- I am so, so scared. But I think I like you. I know I like you. I think I’m a bit in love with you actually.” She pauses, blinks back more tears. “God I’m sorry.”
Sahar just looks at her, head tilted slightly to the side. “Why are you sorry?”
And Imogen laughs. Wetly and slightly hysterical because she’s tired, and stressed and really, was that not the only clear or understandable thing about her disjointed mess of a confession. When she does find her voice it comes out ranting.
“Because I just said I like you? We’re barely even friends again and I just drop that on you, and now you have to turn me down without making it weird because I got to obsessed with boys I didn’t even like and turned my back on you and spent the last who knows how long crying into you about a sexuality crisis I wasn’t even there to help you through when it was your turn and you don’t even like me like that or at all anymore, not that I blame you no one like me anymore and I’ve ruined everything again which is all I seem to do with you and god I just want to do something right by you for once because I fucking love you and-”
She stops. Starts to breathe again. She can feel a second round of tears gathering but she refuses to let them fall. Sahar looks at her wide eyed now. There’s no prizes for guessing what she thinks, but Imogen still has no idea.
“We are friends Imogen. I don’t- I don’t hate you now or anything. I missed you. A lot. I answered for a reason.” Sahar smiles slightly, unclasping their hands and tucking a rogue piece of hair behind her ear.
“And I don’t know where you got it in your head that everyone hates you. You just have new friends now yeah? Darcy, and Tara, and Elle. They all like you, you know that.”
Imogen tastes blood again, but it’s better than crying. “I didn’t actually think they liked me all that much.”
When Sahar drops her hand it’s different from before. Slower, more purposeful. The back of her fingers trace down Imogen's exposed arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
“Of course they like you. You’re pretty impossible not to like you know. I’ve never managed it anyway.” Sahar’s hands find her again, squeezing tightly. It’s not tight enough though. Nothing could be, not when it feels as if it’s the only thing holding her together.
“You can get it over with.” It comes out closer to a whisper, so much more unsure then she wanted. It gently stokes the anger she carries for herself, she shouldn’t be making this any harder than it has to be for her. Not when she can’t even look at her.
“I can’t actually.” Sahar says it with a second squeeze, tighter this time, on the brink of painful. She’s thankful for it though, it’s a distraction from the stinging heat behind her eyes.
Imogen looks up at her, barely managing it. Expecting anguish or resentment or bitterness but she's desperate. She’s had her comfort, it's time for the rejection. But she’s faced with something else entirely. Sahar’s eyes water again, glassy earth, but there’s a soft smile gracing her lips. Imogen knows she must look pathetic and confused and more then slightly pitiful because Sahar leans closer, letting their foreheads touch.
“I can’t, because I like you too. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.” She whispers.
And Imogen can feel the words being said, the lingering warmth on her nose and mouth proof that it happened. It was real. And she blinks hard against tears once last time, unlinking their hands and bringing it to Sahar’s cheek again. She feels Sahar’s hand go around her waist and together they stand. It reminds her of those old primary school exercises. She was never good at them, never seeing the point in matching balance or trust falls, and perhaps she was right. She doesn’t seem to need to practise now.
They adjust when they come to finally standing, the blanket falling off her shoulder as she rises. She lays her head on Sahar’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around her impossibly tight, as though if she fails to meld them both together, the entire night will have been a dream. It doesn’t seem to bother her though, as Sahar holds her with equal strength, like something gossamer fine and hardly tangible.
They start to sway, as if remembering this was supposed to be Prom night. Dear god this had all started with Prom hadn't it? And Sahar starts humming softly. Something beautiful and sweet that nearly brings her to tears again.
“I’m sorry.” She whispers. “For what happened. For wasting so much time. Whatever happened, whoevers fault it was. I regret it”
Sahar stumbles at the interruption, and a flair of guilt comes before-
“Me too.” It’s said so softly she thinks she imagined it. But Sahar continues. “I’m sorry too. I missed you when I didn’t have to.”
She waits a beat for Imogen to add on, but she doesn’t. She’s not sure what else needs to be said. Sahar must agree, as she starts her hum again. Imogen just closes her eyes, pulls her even closer, and begins to sway.
♫❀♫❀♫❀♫❀♫❀♫
Sahar starts singing at some point.
She’s still not entirely sure this is real. Even as she feels Imogen's heated breath on her neck, feels the soft trace of her fingers on her back, the sticky residue of tears on her own cheeks, she still doubts. She knows, in some part of her made from logic and rationality that it has to be real, but her mind still hasn't come close to catching up.
She’d started Prom night expecting nothing more than watching her friends dance and performing a little. She’d hoped to talk to Imogen a bit, sure she would spend most of the night with Nick and the others. She’d hoped to sneak glimpses of her when she was distracted, to marvel silently about how alive and magnetic and just plain lovely she would look under the moving lights. She had been talking about her dress for weeks, refusing to show anyone but letting slip there would be purple and sparkles. She thought she might observe her for the night, as one would a disco ball. Something lovely and brilliant and beautiful, something that shone on everything, made everyone a little brighter. Something she could only ever receive a fraction of the light from.
Instead their dancing, held so tightly they interlock with each other, in Sahar’s bedroom. Instead she’s holding Imogen, the full force of a thousand spotlights shining directly at her chest. Because Imogen thought she was pretty, and Imogen wanted to kiss her, and Imogen sat there sobbing and confused and sure of only the fact that she liked Sahar Zahid. Because instead of stifled feelings and longing glances for her straight best friend she holds her close, cups her cheek and brushes away tears and waywould strands of hair. Because Imogen cried for an hour as her world got turned over and then went to comfort Sahar at the first sign of a tear. Because Imogen is lovely, and beautiful, and caring. And because Imogen isn’t straight, because Imogen feels the same.
So she sings. The song she started humming was alright inspired by her, witten in that awful lost year. But the lyrics stayed sweet and wistful, a tale of a magic girl with blue opal eyes and hair like lightning and light coffee frosting. She wants Imogen to hear it for some reason, to erase any doubts or insecurities that had led to the assurance in her voice when she thought Sahar would reject her. Imogen is the only person to ever make Sahar feel truly beautiful. That her body could be an added reason someone could want her, not an obstacle to overcome. Like someone undeniably wantable. Not as a friend or a trusted planner. Imogen made her feel like she was worth spending a life with, looked at her like she was something sent from heaven. She needed her to know she felt the same.
So she starts singing the lyrics about a magic girl and prays Imogen is listening. And of course she is, really she never should have wondered. She only makes it through one rendition when Imogen slowly unravels her hold, locking her hands behind Sahar’s neck to properly look at her. Sahar follows suit, loosening her hold and dropping her hands to Imogen's waist. A small head tilt her request and an answering smile and blush her confirmation it was okay.
They sway in circles again, rhythmic and soothing. It feels a little like limbo. A sweet, lovely, perfume filled limbo but limbo all the same. They like each other. They felt the same. Imogen had wanted to kiss her. They were both sorry.
Now what?
The dancing, lovely as it was, was procrastination. A blissful time out with her magic, lively girl before they have to come back to earth. Because one of them has to make a move.
She really shouldn’t have been surprised it was Imogen.
“How long-” She bites her lip, Sahar winces with her but no blood falls. “How long have you liked me?”
She exhales slowly. She should have been expecting questions, should have been expecting that question. Should have prepared her answers. But in her defence, this was never supposed to happen anywhere but a daydream. And daydreams didn’t require her to explain herself.
“A while. I don’t know how long exactly but I remember when I realised.”
Imogen tilts her head slightly, a stand of honey gold falling from behind her ear. “When?”
She smiles, taking one hand from Imogen's waist to fix her hair again, letting her palm linger slightly at the curve of her jawline. “It was just another day really. It was summer I remember, you had your hair up because of the heat. You were just ranting about something, I’m not even sure what. I just remember looking up at you and just…” She hesitates.
“Just what?”
“Just knowing I was lost.”
Imogen blinks at her, big doe eyes full to the brim with so many emotions she wonders how she can even breathe. “Oh.”
She stops swaying then. Planting her feet and looking at her so intensely Sahar has no choice but to follow her lead. She opens her mouth, closes it. Frowns slightly, clearly thinking hard. Sahar waits, somewhat busy drowning in whatever lay behind those eyes. She’s almost glad she doesn’t feel things like that. She loves it on Imogen, couldn’t separate her from it, but she knows it would be more weight than she could bear. Eventually the thinking ends, a set entering Imogen's jaw as her eye’s turn from confusing haze to something determined and overwhelming.
“Did you ever want to kiss me?” Is what comes out. And Sahar swears her lungs freeze for a moment.
She knows she should have seen it coming. It wasn’t a particularly odd question to ask. Standard and expected really, in this kind of conversation. But it still throws her off guard.
“What?”
Imogen frowns, and Sahar has the strange desire to rub it away. “Did you ever want to kiss me?”
She doesn’t want to answer this, doesn’t know how. She can feel the comforting weight of Imogen's arms resting on her shoulders, can feel the soft dip of her hips where her hands slot into perfectly. She wants to go back to swaying, to humming, to limbo.
“Why?” She deflects.
Imogen’s frown deepens. Dropping her arms and stepping closer again, taking both her wrists in a monkey grip. Refusing to let her float away.
“Did you?”
She sighs again. “Imogen please-” and she can’t finish. She never could with her. Something about those stupid beautiful eyes stops the words, an icy block that chokes them all back down. But maybe it’s different this time. Maybe it’s not. But it feels different. She still wants soft hazelnut hair between her fingers, still wants rose tinted lips to say her name like something pure. Something worthy. Still wants to stand forehead to forehead and breathe with her until their lungs work in sync. She still wants to kiss her. But maybe it’s different this time. Because it feels different. It feels as if she did, Imogen would kiss her back.
She rubs her thumb against the smooth skin of Imogen’s wrist. She can’t look her in the eye. “Yeah I did.”
Imogen is quiet. Too quiet. She’s about to brave looking up to ask what’s wrong when she hears a sharp inhale and-
“Do you still want to?”
It’s enough for her to look up, unsure she even heard correctly. “What?” She clarifies, but Imogen says nothing.
Just continuous looking at her, eyes wide and slightly bloodshot, but determined. She looks beautiful. And tragic, and her lips are stained pink and tinted red, and she wants to kiss her more than anything. But her cheeks are still marred by the evening's tears and Sahar loves her too much to simply take like that.
“Imogen, I just watched you cry for an hour about the possibility of not being straight. Are you sure that’s what you want?” She slides her hands slowly down her wrists, reaching her hands and intertwining their fingers together.
“Yes. I’m not like using you or anything. I want to kiss you as well. I knew when I saw you up there and I- I want to.” Imogen locks her gaze and suddenly she's trapped there. A butterfly spread wide and vulnerable under blue tinted glass.
Sahar should say something more, double check another time. She thinks she might go to. But then Imogen speaks again. Breathy, and confident, and aching with longing Sahar knows all too well.
“I want you.”
And really, she’s only human. She thinks one of the worst kinds of pain is denying yourself something you crave that sits right in front of you. Practically begging for you to take. For you to give. And when Imogen says something like, looks at her like that, well. How could she possibly refuse.
She steps even closer, the tip of her shoe brushing Imogen’s bare toes. Imogen tilts forward, connecting their foreheads and Sahar slots an arm around her waist, her other hand resting gently on her shoulder. She feels Imogen mirror her, laying her hand at the nape of her neck instead of her shoulder.
There's hardly any air between them now, and she can feel each of Imogen’s breaths land against her lips.
“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” She whispers. As it only now hits her that this will be her first kiss. She feels like it should panic her more than it does, but she can’t really pick a better way for it to happen.
Imogen simply tightens her hold on her, brushing their noses together.
“I’ve never kissed a girl.” She says. And Sahar supposes, especially with the sort of guy Imogen’s dated, that it’s almost the same thing.
A spell of silence follows. A second limbo for-
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
.
.
.
Imogen kisses her.
She tastes like sweet tea and the long gone aftertaste of spearmint gum. The warmth of her hands at her neck unravels her, and she soon finds they’re both pulling closer. Crushing any air that dares to exist between them. Her heart is erratic, her brain giving up and succumbing to perfume and tinted lips and soft moisturised skin and years worth of want.
Crushes were embarrassing, and so was kissing and touching and loving and god she wanted it so badly. Wanted it with her. With this girl of sunlight and stardust and something purer than life itself.
She feels Imogen moving against her, feels her lips and breath, her hand trailing up her back and grasping at her shoulder, the other embedding itself in her hair, running her fingers through it like it was worth more than pure gold..
Nothing is close enough anymore, and the hand at Imogen's shoulder moves up to hold her cheek, to further unravel her hair. Silken strands fall around her fingers and she curls them gently. She tries to be gentle everywhere, to mind her bitten lip, but soon a tang of blood joins her and she pulls away. Breathless, dizzy, stunned. Alive.
Imogen looks like fresh lightning. Her hair dishevelled, lips red and cut bleeding, her cheeks flushed a pure rose blush. She breathes heavily, just like Sahar and she won’t take her eyes off her. She’s giving her that look again, like she’s something otherworldly beautiful, and Sahar never wants to step outside of her gaze.
Carefully though, she cleans the blood with her thumb. Imogen doesn’t even flinch, simply tightens her arm around her waist again. As she finishes wiping the blood away, she looks at Sahar’s lips again for a long moment before meeting her gaze one more time.
“Can I-”
“Yes.”
And they’re kissing again.
It’s sweeter this time. Softer. With gentle touch and coxing lips. With the love of years and bone deep understanding. They still pull away breathless though, standing where they started, forehead to forehead, warm breath grazing each other's lips.
“God I love you.” Sahar whispers. Because she does, and because she can finally say so and prove so and act on it. Because she can finally kiss her and she thinks that makes her a special sort of blessed.
And when Imogen kisses her a third time. Short and sweet and closed with a murmured “I love you too.” She’s only more sure.
It takes nothing more than an unspoken agreement and two quick calls for Imogen to spend the night. Sahar lends her some old Pyjamas. Normally the way they sag on her would cause a familiar burning at her core, a heated wave of shame and inadequacy to break over her. But it’s Imogen, and she looks cute and comfortable so Sahar simply kisses her instead.
She can do that now.
They don’t talk about it that night. What they are now, what they should tell people, if they even want to. She may deny it, but Sahar knows Imogen is exhausted. That while this might be her dream come true Imogen’s had her perception of reality turned around in a single night, and pushing a conversation about labels and girlfriends and coming out would be more than unfair.
And besides, it doesn’t feel unfinished, like something shoved aside for easier handling. And as she lays in Imogen’s arms later that night, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breath a wash of calm rushes over her.
They will talk about, when they’re ready. Because if there’s one thing she knows, it’s that neither of them are letting go again.