vanilla_alia: stay young, go dancing
Author: flickings
Recipient: vanilla_alia
Title: stay young, go dancing
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,800
Pairings/Character(s): Megan Rapinoe/Sarah Walsh
Warnings: None.
Summary: A preseason injury sends Megan to find herself a world away. | College AU
Notes: Set during Fall 2004, because I'm pretending neither played in the U-19 WWC (Megan) or Olympics (Sarah) that year. So that puts ages at 18 and 21, respectively. Title yoinked from the Death Cab song of the same name. AU really isn't my forte, but hopefully I was able to come up with something you'll enjoy!
Beta'ed by: msmoocow
It starts with a bad training tackle, and fire in her knee, and her first season is over before it starts. There’s surgery, and arguing with the coaching staff until Rachael has to make her sit down. She seethes, and flops face-down onto her bed, leg stretched out awkwardly from her brace.
“This is such shit. I can make it in six months.”
Rachel’s hand comes to rest on the small of her back as she groans and presses her face into her pillow; it’s still fresh from home, and smells like calm, and she clenches her jaw as she breathes it in.
“If you rush it, you’ll be worse off in the long run.”
Megan knows she’s right - Rachael always is - but she groans again anyway.
“Well the long run doesn’t feel like now. Sitting in the stands is going to suck.”
The bed shifts as Rachael shrugs. “Then don’t.”
“I’m not going to not watch you play.” Megan rolls over, and Rachael’s hand moves to her knee, making her flinch.
“If you’re not here you won’t.”
A pamphlet is dropped onto Megan’s stomach, and she squints at it.
Study abroad.
-
It’s colder in Lyon than Megan expects, and she spends the first week of the term rushing from class to class with her head down against the wind. The campus is huge, and while half the students she asks for directions speak passable English, it’s always with a superior lilt.
She spends $20 calling Rachael collect from a payphone outside the Dean’s office. Twice.
“There’s other foreign students, you know. Try talking to them.”
Megan presses her forehead against the old bricks, and promises to try.
-
It’s soccer - or football, she reminds herself - that draws her in. Most days it’s all boys racing between goals made of backpacks, but today there’s a girl, and when she calls for the ball her accent is decidedly not French. She’s fast, and scrappy when a ginger twice her size fouls her, and Megan situates herself in the grass, wraps her fingers around her knee, and wishes she were out there too.
She misses it, the way she misses Rachael, and the thought feels sour.
A goal is scored, and it takes a moment to register that it was a snap shot from the girl, and she brushes off the heckling in a way Megan envies until she’s shaking her head and walking off the field. Megan drops her chin as she walks past.
“Hey!”
It vaguely registers as Australian, and Megan snaps her head up. There’s a hand offered, and she takes it.
“I’m Sarah.”
“Megan.”
Her hand is warm, clasped in Megan’s, and Megan feels dazed and pins it on the cold getting to her head. Sarah waves the ball off when it’s kicked in their direction, and drops to the grass beside Megan, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles.
“You’re a footballer, yeah?”
Megan blinks in surprise, and turns to squint at her, and tries to keep the corners of her lips straight. “How’d you guess?”
“How you watch. You really zero in, you know. What position?”
“Forward, kind of out wide.”
“Same. Not enough height to post up, you know.”
Her laugh is self-deprecating in a way that makes Megan want to join in, but she bites her tongue and makes herself smile instead. Sarah leans in closer and starts pointing out the other players, their names and weaknesses, and when she’s through she nudges Megan with the back of a hand.
“You should go play.”
“I-I can’t.”
The suggestion startles her, and Sarah smiles. “It’s just pickup.”
“No,” Megan clarifies, feeling the heat rising on her cheeks. She scrunches up her pants leg, making her brace visible. “I tore my ACL, that’s why I’m here.”
Sarah grimaces, and her eyes linger when Megan pulls her jeans back down around her ankle. “You play for your uni, then?”
“I did, yeah. Portland.” She pauses just long enough to irritate herself with hesitation - it’s a simple question. “You?”
“Nah, didn’t want to go to an American uni - it’s not big in Australia, uni football.” Megan is surprised to see Sarah falter too, and even moreso when she continues. “I play for the Matildas, the national side.”
Megan can’t place her from the feeder teams she’s played, and tries to keep her expression straight. “The senior team?”
“Ours is really young. You guys, you’re insane.”
“Yeah.”
It hangs in the air, and Sarah seems to already know that Megan won’t break it and does so herself.
“What’re you doing for lunch?”
-
When it really starts, it’s with Sarah’s books dropped to Megan’s dinner table and a grin that looks a little suspicious as she slips onto the chair across from her.
“Do you have weekend classes?”
Megan has a mouth full of soup, and she hastily sucks it down. “No.”
“Great,” she smiles between her words, and it’s all teeth, and Megan would think it predatory from someone else, “how do you feel about Paris?”
She’s not sure why she fumbles for an excuse, but she does, and it’s out before she can stop it. “I’m- I mean I can’t, you know, drink. I don’t want to ruin the fun.”
Sarah laughs, and it stings for a moment until she’s smiling again, reaching out to nudge Megan’s arm with her own.
“Nice try, drinking age’s 16 here.” She hesitates, and when she speaks again it’s soft. “I won’t drag you if you’re uncomfortable, but the train leaves at 8:00. I think you’ll have fun.”
Gathering her books in her arms, Sarah pushes her chair in and turns to leave before Megan finds her voice.
“Sarah! What do I wear?”
-
Megan spends enough time packing - then hesitating, then packing again - that she ends up sprinting down the platform, her knee faltering with each step, and when she collapses in the seat next to Sarah she hisses through her teeth and slips her fingers beneath her brace and against her kneecap.
“You alright?”
Sarah’s hand comes to rest on her good knee, and the warmth is distracting in the exact way Megan needs right now. She sits up, pressing her head back against the seat cushion.
“Yeah, just feel like there’s a million little needles down there.”
“Can I get you anything?”
The train starts to rock forward, and it masks Megan’s blink of surprise.
“Nah, I’ll be fine.”
Sarah humors her with stories of Australian wildlife, and Megan is midway through arguing that Australian possums can’t possibly be real possums, they aren’t ugly enough, when Sarah’s friend Luc sticks his head between their seats.
“Walshy, settle a debate for us. Who,” he mutters under his breath, “is hotter? Seat 6A or 7A? Evan says the blonde, I think it’s the ginger.”
Megan turns to look instinctively, and feels her cheeks heat up - there aren’t any men in those rows, and Sarah’s authoritative “the blonde, are you blind?” is tinged with a laugh. She pulls at the end of her bottle dirty blonde ponytail as she turns back to Sarah, and focuses on keeping her expression neutral.
-
They have a room in a hostel on the outskirts of Le Marais, which Luc calls ‘The Poof District’ when Megan asks. She must still look confused, because Sarah bumps shoulders with her and clarifies once Luc is out of hearing range.
“It’s the gay neighborhood.”
“Oh.”
There’s a set of bunkbeds and a double, and Megan already has her backpack on the bottom bunk when Evan, the other boy Luc dragged along, makes a dive for it and splays out. “Girls get to share.”
Megan hesitates - she’s shared beds before, but always with Rachael; twins are built in roommates, and no one had felt the need to challenge that before now, when Megan is alone - but Sarah slings an arm around her shoulders and she focuses on not dropping her backpack in surprise.
“I promise I’m not a blanket hog.”
-
Sarah is a blanket hog.
-
Megan wakes up early and beats the boys to the shower, and lets her hair hang down against her shoulders while she brushes her teeth. There’s a knock on the door, and she cracks it open to see Sarah, looking far too happy for the time.
“Can I squeeze in? Just need to do my hair.”
Stepping back from the door, Megan drops her head to rinse and jumps when Sarah’s fingers comb back through her hair; Sarah pulls back and laughs, and reaches for her brush.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you. You should leave it down more.”
Megan stalls, swishing the water in her cheeks and forcing it through her teeth. “I don’t really like it. Down, I mean.”
“What if it were shorter?”
“My mom says I don’t really have the face for it.”
Sarah tugs her own hair back into a bun, then reaches out, tipping Megan’s chin toward her with her fingers. She purses her lips, and gives a theatrical hum as she tucks the stray strands behind Megan’s ears.
“I think you do. Does your mum pick your clothes too?”
It’s meant to make Megan smile, and she does.
“Only Christmas sweaters.”
-
It takes drawing straws to decide where to go first, and they spend four hours at the Louvre - one just trying to get close enough to snap a picture of the Mona Lisa - then they split for lunch. Luc and Evan want McDonalds, which Sarah rolls her eyes at.
“We,” she drapes her arm around Megan’s neck, “are going to have crepes.”
They end up on a footbridge crossing an offshoot of the Seine, and Sarah hoists herself to sit on the brick railing - she offers Megan a hand up, and it’s awkward with her knee but she makes it, and she clenches the arm of Sarah’s coat in her fist as she leans over to look down.
“You’re light enough to float, no worries.”
Megan relaxes, and Sarah takes a bite out of her lunch before nudging their knees together.
“You’re funny when you loosen up, you know.”
“I-” Megan busies herself with wiping a trail of molten nutella off her thumb with a napkin, stalling. “I’m not always uptight.”
“Not uptight, I guess. Kind of shy.” Sarah tilts her head to the side, and shrugs. “Why is that?”
“I miss Rachael.”
She’s surprised to find herself admitting it aloud, embarrassed until she realizes that Sarah has no clue who Rachael is to her, and it fades until Sarah speaks again.
“Is Rachael your girlfriend?”
Megan blinks in surprise, pulling her head back and knocking it on a brace - it’s not that Rachael would be mistaken for her girlfriend, but that she would be read for someone that would have one, and it’s not off base but the idea from someone else’s mouth gives her a headache.
Sarah reads it wrong, and she almost drops her lunch when she reaches out to pat at Megan’s leg.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I assumed, and I just- sorry, right? Sorry.”
That Sarah’s flustered makes guilt flutter in Megan’s stomach, and she makes herself smile. “It’s alright, really. Rachael’s my sister.”
It takes a moment, but Sarah composes herself and she purses her lips. “I didn’t realize you had a sister.”
“Twin, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She’s older, and I just kind of- I don’t know, I always stuck to her.” She picks at her lunch, and takes another bite, mulling over it. “I haven’t been away from her like this before.”
Sarah tosses the remains of her crepe to the pigeons, and taps fingers on Megan’s knees.
“I think you’re doing pretty okay.”
-
The rest of the day is spent on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower, and when Sarah joins a game of pickup with some German tourists, Megan doesn’t watch anyone else. She’s fast, and quick to smile after a bump, and when she scores she finds Megan to celebrate.
Megan decides study abroad wasn’t such a bad idea.
-
“Come on, Megs.”
Luc is whining, and when Sarah flicks the back of his head he flops next to Megan theatrically, splaying his limbs out across the double mattress, face pressed into Megan’s leg.
“If she doesn’t want to go out, she doesn’t have to.”
“But Walshy,” he makes a show of rubbing a bump beneath his hair, and Megan laughs despite herself. “Someone has to protect me from you.”
“Isn’t that what you’re dating Evan for?”
“Low blow, Down Under.”
She moves to hit him again, and he wraps his arms around Megan’s waist. Megan grins, and shoves him off, hands planted against his forehead and cheek.
“Get off me and I’ll go, okay?”
-
The barkeeper recommends the best local beers, and Megan has three in her before she thinks to slow down. It’s dark inside, and more of a social club than a bar, but there’s a dance floor and Sarah has been trying to coax her onto it for the better part of an hour.
“Come on, please?”
Megan smacks the taste off her lips, her head finally pleasantly fuzzy, and turns to face Sarah - she’s closer than expected, and Megan takes a wobbly step back; she’s always been a lightweight. Sarah laughs, and wraps a hand around Megan’s wrist, using her leverage to drag Megan away from the bar.
“Just one dance!”
“That doesn’t sound like a request.”
“Because it’s not!”
Sarah keeps her close, and the second time Sarah’s front is pressed to her back she’s not sure if it’s for her own comfort, or for Sarah’s. The thought leaves her head spinning worse than before, and Sarah must notice because suddenly they’re facing and Sarah has an arm draped across her shoulders, keeping her steady.
Megan shies from the eye contact, and stares at Sarah’s lips instead.
That’s worse.
There’s a weight in the bottom of Megan’s stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol, and when the song ends she tugs away from Sarah and mumbles something about getting air. She only has a moment to lean against the bricks outside when Sarah stumbles out the side door after her.
“Are you okay?”
Megan doesn’t answer, and focuses on sucking in cool air.
“Do you need to leave?”
The thought of being back in a confined space - charged and moving - with Sarah makes her head spin, and she kicks her toes into the cobblestone and nods. Sarah’s hand runs across her back, pulling her away from the wall and towards the line of taxis. Megan digs her heels in.
“You don’t have to go too, I can handle myself.”
Sarah looks stung, rocking back for a moment before rocking back in.
“Can’t have you wandering the streets of Paris alone, can we?”
-
The taxi ride is comfortable, and Megan wonders briefly what Rachael would think, pressed in the back seat with Megan and a girl she met just two weeks ago. Especially when the weight in Megan’s stomach doesn’t stop, but warms her from the inside out, and she wants to unzip her coat but doesn’t want to draw attention.
Megan is better at stairs while drunk than Sarah is, and she ends up tugging her along the two flights to their door, and when she’s able to breathe she has to keep from laughing at Sarah fumbling with the key and lock. Finally she’s dropping down onto the foot of the bed, crouching over to unlace her boots.
Sarah beelines for the bathroom, leaving the door open as she focuses on lining paste up properly with her toothbrush. She stretches as she goes, up on her toes, rolling her shoulders, little peeks of skin at her waist showing when she lifts her arms or leans to a side, and Megan finds herself staring, trying to count the little blemishes that dot her lower back.
Sarah catches her at seven, and the corner of her lips turn up and it’s all Megan needs to let it slip.
“I think I’m gay.”
Megan isn’t sure what reaction she expected, but it’s not what she gets - Sarah blinks, turns, and ducks her head to rinse her mouth out. It’s not a rejection, Megan knows, but it’s not an easy smile like she expected, and the alcohol in her stomach is starting to make her nauseous.
Pulling the tie from her hair, Sarah runs her hands back through her hair and shuffles over, dropping onto the foot of the bed next to Megan. She tucks her hands under her knees, and swallows, and Megan watches her jaw move when she talks.
“I didn’t mean to get in your head with that, calling Rachael your girlfriend. I just thought- it doesn’t matter what I thought. Sorry.”
Everything is still hazy, and it takes Megan a moment for it to click, and she overcompensates in her turn and bumps into Sarah, who tries to laugh it off. It makes Megan cringe, and her tongue feels heavy.
“No, I’m- you’re right. That I’m . . . ”
It’s still hard to say, and she finds herself trailing off. Suddenly Sarah is a little too close, and she hasn’t moved but Megan has, and Megan decides she doesn’t mind. Sarah’s lips are still wet from rinsing, and Megan only has a moment to wonder if they’re as cool as the water before she’s leaning in.
She’s nervous, and she must be shaking because Sarah reaches out immediately, laying a hand against Megan’s collar to steady her. Sarah tastes a bit like beer and a bit like spearmint, and everything from her hand against Megan to their legs pressed alongside each other is warm, and there’s a buzzing low in Megan’s stomach that she can’t pin on alcohol this time.
When Megan pulls back for air, Sarah coaxes her coat down off her shoulders.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Sarah’s hand is warm when it comes to rest on Megan’s knee.
“Do you want to stop?”
They both know the answer, and when Megan finds she can’t say it it’s Sarah that closes the distance. Megan is taller but Sarah is stronger, and Megan lets herself fall back against the sheets when Sarah directs; she doesn’t follow, though, and Megan presses her head into the comforter and tries to keep the flush from her cheeks.
When she opens her eyes, Sarah is grinning, and Megan is surprised to feel the instinct to smile back.
“What?”
“You’ve got a great smile.”
She scoots forward, careful of Megan’s knee with her own on either side, and when they’re level she dips her head down and a strangled gasp is pushed from Megan’s lungs when Sarah’s lips drop to her jaw, then slide to her neck - there’ll be a mark in the morning, and Megan’s hand flies to Sarah’s shoulder, almost tugging her away until she realizes she doesn’t mind the way she thought she would.
It feels unbalanced for a moment, until Megan slides her shaking hands down Sarah’s sides and slips her fingers back up, beneath the edge of Sarah’s sweater. She’s not quite sure what to do, so she traces patterns, and there’s a nip against her neck and then Sarah is laughing in her ear.
“I’m ticklish.”
She sits back, and Megan can feel the rush of blood in her cheeks and drops her hands to the bed. Sarah grins, and in one fluid moment her sweater is somewhere back on the floor and Megan has more skin to look at than she knows what to do with, and she doesn’t have much time to contemplate when Sarah’s coaxing her up and peeling the shirt from her body.
Megan’s always been scrawny for an athlete, and without hours of training it’s even more pronounced against Sarah’s muscle, but again there’s no time to think because Sarah’s fingers are toying with her bra clasp and Megan is pressing her face against Sarah’s collar in return.
It’s a bit hazy with the alcohol swirling in her stomach, but not enough to mask Sarah’s fumbling, and after a while Megan can’t hold in her laughing; she pulls back, swatting away Sarah’s hands and reaching for the clasp herself, easily undoing it and dropping the bra before she thinks better of it, and immediately she’s crossing her arms across her chest.
Sarah is staring, and Megan cracks her words.
“I was under the impression you were good at this.”
“And I thought you were shy.”
“I told you I’m not.”
Sarah scoots her knee forward, pressed between Megan’s legs, and she feels herself flush from her chest up, and she expects Sarah to laugh, to call her a tomato, to - anything but lean in the way she does, lips going to Megan’s collarbone and her weight pressing Megan back into the bed, and Megan especially does not expect the pressure between her legs and how she wants to press back.
The humor is gone, but Megan is happy to replace it with hands against Sarah’s skin - back, shoulders, collars, until she decides that against Sarah’s pulse in her neck, just along her jaw, is her favorite. It’s there that she feels it first, the rapid heartbeat and hard breathing that both brings Sarah’s lips up to Megan’s, and her hand down to the seam of Megan’s jeans.
From there it’s a blur.
Sarah loses her bra, and Megan eventually loses her composure and is left gasping, and the tension in her shoulders builds to the point where she’s left arcing off them, the blankets stuck to her back. She’s never done this quite like this before, and the way Sarah knows to move her hand isn’t comparable to her own, and she’s not quite sure what to do other than to pull Sarah closer, arms around her shoulders, her breath harsh against Megan’s neck.
Just when there’s a stitch forming in Megan’s side, hips finally finding a comfortable rhythm against Sarah, there’s a coiling in her stomach and she latches her fingers onto Sarah’s arm when she pulls back to watch.
Then she’s struggling to catch her breath, and Sarah’s hands are on her stomach, calming and anchoring and Megan isn’t sure if she ever wants them to move again. They eventually do, when Sarah tips to the side and splays out on her back, evening her own breathing and tipping her head to the side to watch Megan.
Megan feels exposed, but instead of reaching for the blankets, she talks.
“I’m pretty freaking gay.”
Sarah snorts, the weight loosening in her chest.
“I’d say so.”
Recipient: vanilla_alia
Title: stay young, go dancing
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,800
Pairings/Character(s): Megan Rapinoe/Sarah Walsh
Warnings: None.
Summary: A preseason injury sends Megan to find herself a world away. | College AU
Notes: Set during Fall 2004, because I'm pretending neither played in the U-19 WWC (Megan) or Olympics (Sarah) that year. So that puts ages at 18 and 21, respectively. Title yoinked from the Death Cab song of the same name. AU really isn't my forte, but hopefully I was able to come up with something you'll enjoy!
Beta'ed by: msmoocow
It starts with a bad training tackle, and fire in her knee, and her first season is over before it starts. There’s surgery, and arguing with the coaching staff until Rachael has to make her sit down. She seethes, and flops face-down onto her bed, leg stretched out awkwardly from her brace.
“This is such shit. I can make it in six months.”
Rachel’s hand comes to rest on the small of her back as she groans and presses her face into her pillow; it’s still fresh from home, and smells like calm, and she clenches her jaw as she breathes it in.
“If you rush it, you’ll be worse off in the long run.”
Megan knows she’s right - Rachael always is - but she groans again anyway.
“Well the long run doesn’t feel like now. Sitting in the stands is going to suck.”
The bed shifts as Rachael shrugs. “Then don’t.”
“I’m not going to not watch you play.” Megan rolls over, and Rachael’s hand moves to her knee, making her flinch.
“If you’re not here you won’t.”
A pamphlet is dropped onto Megan’s stomach, and she squints at it.
Study abroad.
-
It’s colder in Lyon than Megan expects, and she spends the first week of the term rushing from class to class with her head down against the wind. The campus is huge, and while half the students she asks for directions speak passable English, it’s always with a superior lilt.
She spends $20 calling Rachael collect from a payphone outside the Dean’s office. Twice.
“There’s other foreign students, you know. Try talking to them.”
Megan presses her forehead against the old bricks, and promises to try.
-
It’s soccer - or football, she reminds herself - that draws her in. Most days it’s all boys racing between goals made of backpacks, but today there’s a girl, and when she calls for the ball her accent is decidedly not French. She’s fast, and scrappy when a ginger twice her size fouls her, and Megan situates herself in the grass, wraps her fingers around her knee, and wishes she were out there too.
She misses it, the way she misses Rachael, and the thought feels sour.
A goal is scored, and it takes a moment to register that it was a snap shot from the girl, and she brushes off the heckling in a way Megan envies until she’s shaking her head and walking off the field. Megan drops her chin as she walks past.
“Hey!”
It vaguely registers as Australian, and Megan snaps her head up. There’s a hand offered, and she takes it.
“I’m Sarah.”
“Megan.”
Her hand is warm, clasped in Megan’s, and Megan feels dazed and pins it on the cold getting to her head. Sarah waves the ball off when it’s kicked in their direction, and drops to the grass beside Megan, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles.
“You’re a footballer, yeah?”
Megan blinks in surprise, and turns to squint at her, and tries to keep the corners of her lips straight. “How’d you guess?”
“How you watch. You really zero in, you know. What position?”
“Forward, kind of out wide.”
“Same. Not enough height to post up, you know.”
Her laugh is self-deprecating in a way that makes Megan want to join in, but she bites her tongue and makes herself smile instead. Sarah leans in closer and starts pointing out the other players, their names and weaknesses, and when she’s through she nudges Megan with the back of a hand.
“You should go play.”
“I-I can’t.”
The suggestion startles her, and Sarah smiles. “It’s just pickup.”
“No,” Megan clarifies, feeling the heat rising on her cheeks. She scrunches up her pants leg, making her brace visible. “I tore my ACL, that’s why I’m here.”
Sarah grimaces, and her eyes linger when Megan pulls her jeans back down around her ankle. “You play for your uni, then?”
“I did, yeah. Portland.” She pauses just long enough to irritate herself with hesitation - it’s a simple question. “You?”
“Nah, didn’t want to go to an American uni - it’s not big in Australia, uni football.” Megan is surprised to see Sarah falter too, and even moreso when she continues. “I play for the Matildas, the national side.”
Megan can’t place her from the feeder teams she’s played, and tries to keep her expression straight. “The senior team?”
“Ours is really young. You guys, you’re insane.”
“Yeah.”
It hangs in the air, and Sarah seems to already know that Megan won’t break it and does so herself.
“What’re you doing for lunch?”
-
When it really starts, it’s with Sarah’s books dropped to Megan’s dinner table and a grin that looks a little suspicious as she slips onto the chair across from her.
“Do you have weekend classes?”
Megan has a mouth full of soup, and she hastily sucks it down. “No.”
“Great,” she smiles between her words, and it’s all teeth, and Megan would think it predatory from someone else, “how do you feel about Paris?”
She’s not sure why she fumbles for an excuse, but she does, and it’s out before she can stop it. “I’m- I mean I can’t, you know, drink. I don’t want to ruin the fun.”
Sarah laughs, and it stings for a moment until she’s smiling again, reaching out to nudge Megan’s arm with her own.
“Nice try, drinking age’s 16 here.” She hesitates, and when she speaks again it’s soft. “I won’t drag you if you’re uncomfortable, but the train leaves at 8:00. I think you’ll have fun.”
Gathering her books in her arms, Sarah pushes her chair in and turns to leave before Megan finds her voice.
“Sarah! What do I wear?”
-
Megan spends enough time packing - then hesitating, then packing again - that she ends up sprinting down the platform, her knee faltering with each step, and when she collapses in the seat next to Sarah she hisses through her teeth and slips her fingers beneath her brace and against her kneecap.
“You alright?”
Sarah’s hand comes to rest on her good knee, and the warmth is distracting in the exact way Megan needs right now. She sits up, pressing her head back against the seat cushion.
“Yeah, just feel like there’s a million little needles down there.”
“Can I get you anything?”
The train starts to rock forward, and it masks Megan’s blink of surprise.
“Nah, I’ll be fine.”
Sarah humors her with stories of Australian wildlife, and Megan is midway through arguing that Australian possums can’t possibly be real possums, they aren’t ugly enough, when Sarah’s friend Luc sticks his head between their seats.
“Walshy, settle a debate for us. Who,” he mutters under his breath, “is hotter? Seat 6A or 7A? Evan says the blonde, I think it’s the ginger.”
Megan turns to look instinctively, and feels her cheeks heat up - there aren’t any men in those rows, and Sarah’s authoritative “the blonde, are you blind?” is tinged with a laugh. She pulls at the end of her bottle dirty blonde ponytail as she turns back to Sarah, and focuses on keeping her expression neutral.
-
They have a room in a hostel on the outskirts of Le Marais, which Luc calls ‘The Poof District’ when Megan asks. She must still look confused, because Sarah bumps shoulders with her and clarifies once Luc is out of hearing range.
“It’s the gay neighborhood.”
“Oh.”
There’s a set of bunkbeds and a double, and Megan already has her backpack on the bottom bunk when Evan, the other boy Luc dragged along, makes a dive for it and splays out. “Girls get to share.”
Megan hesitates - she’s shared beds before, but always with Rachael; twins are built in roommates, and no one had felt the need to challenge that before now, when Megan is alone - but Sarah slings an arm around her shoulders and she focuses on not dropping her backpack in surprise.
“I promise I’m not a blanket hog.”
-
Sarah is a blanket hog.
-
Megan wakes up early and beats the boys to the shower, and lets her hair hang down against her shoulders while she brushes her teeth. There’s a knock on the door, and she cracks it open to see Sarah, looking far too happy for the time.
“Can I squeeze in? Just need to do my hair.”
Stepping back from the door, Megan drops her head to rinse and jumps when Sarah’s fingers comb back through her hair; Sarah pulls back and laughs, and reaches for her brush.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you. You should leave it down more.”
Megan stalls, swishing the water in her cheeks and forcing it through her teeth. “I don’t really like it. Down, I mean.”
“What if it were shorter?”
“My mom says I don’t really have the face for it.”
Sarah tugs her own hair back into a bun, then reaches out, tipping Megan’s chin toward her with her fingers. She purses her lips, and gives a theatrical hum as she tucks the stray strands behind Megan’s ears.
“I think you do. Does your mum pick your clothes too?”
It’s meant to make Megan smile, and she does.
“Only Christmas sweaters.”
-
It takes drawing straws to decide where to go first, and they spend four hours at the Louvre - one just trying to get close enough to snap a picture of the Mona Lisa - then they split for lunch. Luc and Evan want McDonalds, which Sarah rolls her eyes at.
“We,” she drapes her arm around Megan’s neck, “are going to have crepes.”
They end up on a footbridge crossing an offshoot of the Seine, and Sarah hoists herself to sit on the brick railing - she offers Megan a hand up, and it’s awkward with her knee but she makes it, and she clenches the arm of Sarah’s coat in her fist as she leans over to look down.
“You’re light enough to float, no worries.”
Megan relaxes, and Sarah takes a bite out of her lunch before nudging their knees together.
“You’re funny when you loosen up, you know.”
“I-” Megan busies herself with wiping a trail of molten nutella off her thumb with a napkin, stalling. “I’m not always uptight.”
“Not uptight, I guess. Kind of shy.” Sarah tilts her head to the side, and shrugs. “Why is that?”
“I miss Rachael.”
She’s surprised to find herself admitting it aloud, embarrassed until she realizes that Sarah has no clue who Rachael is to her, and it fades until Sarah speaks again.
“Is Rachael your girlfriend?”
Megan blinks in surprise, pulling her head back and knocking it on a brace - it’s not that Rachael would be mistaken for her girlfriend, but that she would be read for someone that would have one, and it’s not off base but the idea from someone else’s mouth gives her a headache.
Sarah reads it wrong, and she almost drops her lunch when she reaches out to pat at Megan’s leg.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I assumed, and I just- sorry, right? Sorry.”
That Sarah’s flustered makes guilt flutter in Megan’s stomach, and she makes herself smile. “It’s alright, really. Rachael’s my sister.”
It takes a moment, but Sarah composes herself and she purses her lips. “I didn’t realize you had a sister.”
“Twin, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She’s older, and I just kind of- I don’t know, I always stuck to her.” She picks at her lunch, and takes another bite, mulling over it. “I haven’t been away from her like this before.”
Sarah tosses the remains of her crepe to the pigeons, and taps fingers on Megan’s knees.
“I think you’re doing pretty okay.”
-
The rest of the day is spent on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower, and when Sarah joins a game of pickup with some German tourists, Megan doesn’t watch anyone else. She’s fast, and quick to smile after a bump, and when she scores she finds Megan to celebrate.
Megan decides study abroad wasn’t such a bad idea.
-
“Come on, Megs.”
Luc is whining, and when Sarah flicks the back of his head he flops next to Megan theatrically, splaying his limbs out across the double mattress, face pressed into Megan’s leg.
“If she doesn’t want to go out, she doesn’t have to.”
“But Walshy,” he makes a show of rubbing a bump beneath his hair, and Megan laughs despite herself. “Someone has to protect me from you.”
“Isn’t that what you’re dating Evan for?”
“Low blow, Down Under.”
She moves to hit him again, and he wraps his arms around Megan’s waist. Megan grins, and shoves him off, hands planted against his forehead and cheek.
“Get off me and I’ll go, okay?”
-
The barkeeper recommends the best local beers, and Megan has three in her before she thinks to slow down. It’s dark inside, and more of a social club than a bar, but there’s a dance floor and Sarah has been trying to coax her onto it for the better part of an hour.
“Come on, please?”
Megan smacks the taste off her lips, her head finally pleasantly fuzzy, and turns to face Sarah - she’s closer than expected, and Megan takes a wobbly step back; she’s always been a lightweight. Sarah laughs, and wraps a hand around Megan’s wrist, using her leverage to drag Megan away from the bar.
“Just one dance!”
“That doesn’t sound like a request.”
“Because it’s not!”
Sarah keeps her close, and the second time Sarah’s front is pressed to her back she’s not sure if it’s for her own comfort, or for Sarah’s. The thought leaves her head spinning worse than before, and Sarah must notice because suddenly they’re facing and Sarah has an arm draped across her shoulders, keeping her steady.
Megan shies from the eye contact, and stares at Sarah’s lips instead.
That’s worse.
There’s a weight in the bottom of Megan’s stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol, and when the song ends she tugs away from Sarah and mumbles something about getting air. She only has a moment to lean against the bricks outside when Sarah stumbles out the side door after her.
“Are you okay?”
Megan doesn’t answer, and focuses on sucking in cool air.
“Do you need to leave?”
The thought of being back in a confined space - charged and moving - with Sarah makes her head spin, and she kicks her toes into the cobblestone and nods. Sarah’s hand runs across her back, pulling her away from the wall and towards the line of taxis. Megan digs her heels in.
“You don’t have to go too, I can handle myself.”
Sarah looks stung, rocking back for a moment before rocking back in.
“Can’t have you wandering the streets of Paris alone, can we?”
-
The taxi ride is comfortable, and Megan wonders briefly what Rachael would think, pressed in the back seat with Megan and a girl she met just two weeks ago. Especially when the weight in Megan’s stomach doesn’t stop, but warms her from the inside out, and she wants to unzip her coat but doesn’t want to draw attention.
Megan is better at stairs while drunk than Sarah is, and she ends up tugging her along the two flights to their door, and when she’s able to breathe she has to keep from laughing at Sarah fumbling with the key and lock. Finally she’s dropping down onto the foot of the bed, crouching over to unlace her boots.
Sarah beelines for the bathroom, leaving the door open as she focuses on lining paste up properly with her toothbrush. She stretches as she goes, up on her toes, rolling her shoulders, little peeks of skin at her waist showing when she lifts her arms or leans to a side, and Megan finds herself staring, trying to count the little blemishes that dot her lower back.
Sarah catches her at seven, and the corner of her lips turn up and it’s all Megan needs to let it slip.
“I think I’m gay.”
Megan isn’t sure what reaction she expected, but it’s not what she gets - Sarah blinks, turns, and ducks her head to rinse her mouth out. It’s not a rejection, Megan knows, but it’s not an easy smile like she expected, and the alcohol in her stomach is starting to make her nauseous.
Pulling the tie from her hair, Sarah runs her hands back through her hair and shuffles over, dropping onto the foot of the bed next to Megan. She tucks her hands under her knees, and swallows, and Megan watches her jaw move when she talks.
“I didn’t mean to get in your head with that, calling Rachael your girlfriend. I just thought- it doesn’t matter what I thought. Sorry.”
Everything is still hazy, and it takes Megan a moment for it to click, and she overcompensates in her turn and bumps into Sarah, who tries to laugh it off. It makes Megan cringe, and her tongue feels heavy.
“No, I’m- you’re right. That I’m . . . ”
It’s still hard to say, and she finds herself trailing off. Suddenly Sarah is a little too close, and she hasn’t moved but Megan has, and Megan decides she doesn’t mind. Sarah’s lips are still wet from rinsing, and Megan only has a moment to wonder if they’re as cool as the water before she’s leaning in.
She’s nervous, and she must be shaking because Sarah reaches out immediately, laying a hand against Megan’s collar to steady her. Sarah tastes a bit like beer and a bit like spearmint, and everything from her hand against Megan to their legs pressed alongside each other is warm, and there’s a buzzing low in Megan’s stomach that she can’t pin on alcohol this time.
When Megan pulls back for air, Sarah coaxes her coat down off her shoulders.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Sarah’s hand is warm when it comes to rest on Megan’s knee.
“Do you want to stop?”
They both know the answer, and when Megan finds she can’t say it it’s Sarah that closes the distance. Megan is taller but Sarah is stronger, and Megan lets herself fall back against the sheets when Sarah directs; she doesn’t follow, though, and Megan presses her head into the comforter and tries to keep the flush from her cheeks.
When she opens her eyes, Sarah is grinning, and Megan is surprised to feel the instinct to smile back.
“What?”
“You’ve got a great smile.”
She scoots forward, careful of Megan’s knee with her own on either side, and when they’re level she dips her head down and a strangled gasp is pushed from Megan’s lungs when Sarah’s lips drop to her jaw, then slide to her neck - there’ll be a mark in the morning, and Megan’s hand flies to Sarah’s shoulder, almost tugging her away until she realizes she doesn’t mind the way she thought she would.
It feels unbalanced for a moment, until Megan slides her shaking hands down Sarah’s sides and slips her fingers back up, beneath the edge of Sarah’s sweater. She’s not quite sure what to do, so she traces patterns, and there’s a nip against her neck and then Sarah is laughing in her ear.
“I’m ticklish.”
She sits back, and Megan can feel the rush of blood in her cheeks and drops her hands to the bed. Sarah grins, and in one fluid moment her sweater is somewhere back on the floor and Megan has more skin to look at than she knows what to do with, and she doesn’t have much time to contemplate when Sarah’s coaxing her up and peeling the shirt from her body.
Megan’s always been scrawny for an athlete, and without hours of training it’s even more pronounced against Sarah’s muscle, but again there’s no time to think because Sarah’s fingers are toying with her bra clasp and Megan is pressing her face against Sarah’s collar in return.
It’s a bit hazy with the alcohol swirling in her stomach, but not enough to mask Sarah’s fumbling, and after a while Megan can’t hold in her laughing; she pulls back, swatting away Sarah’s hands and reaching for the clasp herself, easily undoing it and dropping the bra before she thinks better of it, and immediately she’s crossing her arms across her chest.
Sarah is staring, and Megan cracks her words.
“I was under the impression you were good at this.”
“And I thought you were shy.”
“I told you I’m not.”
Sarah scoots her knee forward, pressed between Megan’s legs, and she feels herself flush from her chest up, and she expects Sarah to laugh, to call her a tomato, to - anything but lean in the way she does, lips going to Megan’s collarbone and her weight pressing Megan back into the bed, and Megan especially does not expect the pressure between her legs and how she wants to press back.
The humor is gone, but Megan is happy to replace it with hands against Sarah’s skin - back, shoulders, collars, until she decides that against Sarah’s pulse in her neck, just along her jaw, is her favorite. It’s there that she feels it first, the rapid heartbeat and hard breathing that both brings Sarah’s lips up to Megan’s, and her hand down to the seam of Megan’s jeans.
From there it’s a blur.
Sarah loses her bra, and Megan eventually loses her composure and is left gasping, and the tension in her shoulders builds to the point where she’s left arcing off them, the blankets stuck to her back. She’s never done this quite like this before, and the way Sarah knows to move her hand isn’t comparable to her own, and she’s not quite sure what to do other than to pull Sarah closer, arms around her shoulders, her breath harsh against Megan’s neck.
Just when there’s a stitch forming in Megan’s side, hips finally finding a comfortable rhythm against Sarah, there’s a coiling in her stomach and she latches her fingers onto Sarah’s arm when she pulls back to watch.
Then she’s struggling to catch her breath, and Sarah’s hands are on her stomach, calming and anchoring and Megan isn’t sure if she ever wants them to move again. They eventually do, when Sarah tips to the side and splays out on her back, evening her own breathing and tipping her head to the side to watch Megan.
Megan feels exposed, but instead of reaching for the blankets, she talks.
“I’m pretty freaking gay.”
Sarah snorts, the weight loosening in her chest.
“I’d say so.”