you're too young & eager to love

So, here is my attempt, I suppose you could say, of contemporary-current Emere and Mia. I had to have some reason for Mia to visit her, and of course my mind went to some slightly morbid, depressing factor. It couldn't be just to say hello.

I also left the ending open. I haven't done enough discussing with my dearest to figure out where exactly they could/should go. I only know how Emere feels about Mia, and how Emere would act with her if she were interested in trying to suggest a reunion.

The only problem with writing two females that both happen to be brunettes is that I run out of potential pronouns and fillers. As a result, there's a lot of name-usage, which interrupts the flow to me a bit by seeming too repetitive.



--



“Come in,” Emere says, gesturing with her hand before wrapping her arms around her waist in a move that is protective and well practiced.

Mia can feel the movement through the air, and she steps cautiously inside the apartment, her fingers feeling along the wall with remembrance. In her mind, it is still the familiar but impersonal space she knew before. She stays four steps in though, waiting for the click of the door closing, the brush of a woman walking past.

“Nothing has changed.” Emere offers, her voice close, still sounding like fire ashes. In a gesture that Mia thinks is intended to be helpful, she takes her hand and places it against the inside of her elbow. Skin warm in the dead of winter, but Mia doesn’t ask why. She tries not to blush, and if she does she hopes the cold from outside has reddened her cheeks and neck.

-

Emere is polite. Casual yet stiff. She makes tea from a kettle instead of using the microwave, relying on the quirks she learned from months before, when her heartstrings were being pulled and tightened. A lifetime of haunts and loves lost, but Mia feels privileged for the small spaces she may have stolen in Emere for herself.

Seated at the kitchen bar, the model jumps, startled for a second when something sleek and furred rubs against her ankle. She lets her hand fall and search, scratching behind an ear once the cat rubs its head against her palm.

Now that Mia is here, now that they are in this closed-in space without the flicker and rustle of the night air offering them escape, Emere starts feeling trapped. An overwhelming type of panic that beats inside of her chest, the flurry pandemonium of a thousand butterfly wings. When the kettle whistles, she pours the hot water into two mugs, taking a moment to really look at Mia. The subtle differences in her face, her body. Her throat closes, a lifetime of emotions lived in the short years she has known the other threatening to spill out in a rush of words, but Emere settles them away. Keeps them for her regrets and guilt.

Dropping the tea bags in, she slides one cup across the counter to the brunette, takes a seat beside her. After a moment of silence, Emere lights a cigarette. The smoke lingers. “So, can I do something for you?”

“Actually,” Mia starts, cupping the mug between her palms like a child, savoring the warmth and turning her face towards the Italian’s voice, “I thought I might … do something for you.”

She thinks she can feel Emere’s smirk, and it makes her smile. A little. Old familiarities. “Your mother.”

Inhaling, and blowing the smoke out slowly, Emere taps her nails against her cup of tea. Silence, mostly, until Mia starts to tread again, gently. The waters are still deep between them. “I know the funeral was last week. I heard. I was going to send flowers – “

“She didn’t need flowers. She needed to die sooner.” It is unkind but not harsh. Not angry. More matter of fact, as if to show that her mother’s death was nothing. Barely a hill to conquer, nowhere near a mountain. Emere, the survivalist.

Mia nods, tucking a piece of hair away from her face. She’s surprised again when other fingers join hers, though they don’t help, they just touch. Sweeping down the length of her jaw and disappearing again before she has a moment to say no. “Emere,” she breathes, like she’s about to apologize for something, or suggest a criticism of some sort, her voice catching slightly.

The space around her stirs, the scratch of a chair being pushed back against wooden floor, then lips are on hers, desperate and hungry in the way that they always are. But now it is instant and she loses herself in the taste, yields when Emere’s hands settle on the back of her neck, against her cheek. Familiar, and a part of her hates that about Emere, hates that she can make her spin after she’s been grounded for so long.

Leaning too far, Emere hits the mug and it shatters on the floor with a loud clatter that makes Mia jump and pull away.

“I’m sorry.” And as usual, Mia isn’t quite sure which thing Emere is apologizing for.

“… I should go.”

“Sure.” She has that casual tone, and Mia pictures her shrugging her shoulders, nonchalant while she stands to clean up the broken ceramic.

-

Emere is still trying to get over her, that’s what Mia hears. The gossip and rumor she tries to ignore, the reasons that surely don’t have anything to do with her visiting. What she doesn’t realize is that, to an extent, it’s true. Emere still has too many demons lurking in her shadows. Still lies to herself about not wanting anyone. Still lies to herself about believing her own lies.

Ever charming when not on the attack, she helps the model back into her coat, loops the scarf around her neck in a way that is near affectionate. Mia doesn’t say anything, because she isn’t sure what to say or where to begin. She still has trouble deciphering the woman’s motives but finds that the pressure of Emere’s hand on her lower back, guiding her without forcing, is a comfort.

-

When she has left, Emere heats up the remains of Mia’s tea in the microwave. She adds a splash of vodka for flavor.

Her hardness stands in sharp contrast to her vulnerability.