Fic: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur - Chapter 10, Part 2 (2/2)
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Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
by interpol_ice
Chapter 10: (We're On A Sinking Ship) We're Escaping It
~continued~
= = = *** = = =
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= = = ** NAOMI ** = = =
I was hoping she’d be asleep by the time I come out but no, Emily’s still
very much awake and waiting (in the standard Emily waiting position of hands
clasped together and resting on top of a stomach).
“Took you a while,” she says, like she’s stoned.
“I was dirty. Too dirty,” I answer, meaning my mind more than the rest of me
(which, I should remind you, used to be covered in all kinds of icky food).
I tip-toe over to the side panel and adjust the thermostat. It’s too cold in
here.
So I get in there with her, into a place of guaranteed warmth.
= = = = = = = =
We’re propped on our sides, up on our elbows, heads in a hand, just
examining the other. We haven’t said a word ever since I got in and the
silence has grown into this awful monster that’s begging me to slay it.
“Why wouldn’t you speak to me? You know, earlier?” I finally hear myself
say.
Emily’s mouth twitches. She has just successfully hid back a smirk, very
satisfied about not being the one who raised the white flag first. She
actually savours those rare moments when the forever righteous Naomi
Campbell swallows her pride.
“Speaking isn’t your thing, remember? Else you’d have spoken to me about
certain important things,” she says in this mild, biting tone.
I flinch inwardly. We’re going to have a row. We’re going to have a fucking
row. I can feel it.
So imagine my surprise when Emily starts singing. She breaks into this
adorably bad falsetto, just belting out her favourite Weezer song.
“I’m a lot like you, so please... hello! I’m here... I’m waiting! I think
I’d be good for you and you’d be good for me. Oh, how stupid is it? I can’t
talk about it, I’ve gotta sing about it and make a record of my heart...”
I join in, answer back with another stanza of the same song. After all, it’s
my favourite from Weezer as well.
“But you won’t talk, won’t look, won’t think of me. I’m the epitome of
Public Enemy. Why you wanna go and do me like that?” I croon, pausing
before the last line.
I sneak a hand into her open bathrobe and let my fingers graze over her bare
shoulder. She’s so smooth and warm and lovely. She’s being all the reasons
to sing, “Come down on the street and dance with me.”
And then...
There it is. A smile. A little morsel or assurance. “Stop it,” she says, her
eyes twinkling happily.
“Stop what?”
“Stop making me stop being mad at you.”
I have to play that back a couple of times in my head before it makes any
sense to me. She could use a little coherence.
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re going to Oxford.”
She shrugs my hand off of her shoulder. I can’t explain how that small
action gutted all the good vibes inside of me. I open my mouth to speak. But
it’s futile because, once again, I’ve got nothing good to say.
Emily’s disappointed in me all over again. Gone are her smiles and happy
eyes.
“Right. Like I said, you can’t talk shit,” she says, sitting up in a huff,
distressing the state of the bed covers.
I get up in alarm, accidentally hitting my backside against the headboard in
the process. “Emily...” I try.
She lashes out in quick, angry bursts. “Katie knew before I did. My Mum knew
before I did. And I’m your fucking girlfriend, Naomi! What the fuck?”
Emily stares at me hard, her shoulders heaving from exertion. She’s looking
for any explanation. For the truth.
“I told Effy,” I finally admit.
“Why did you tell Effy? Is she suddenly more important than me? Do want to
fuck her in secret or some-?”
“Because!” I interrupt forcefully because now she’s just being mental. “I
wanted to fucking tell someone! What’s so fucking wrong with that?”
She starts crying. And oh, how I fucking loathe myself right now that it has
come to this. I can’t stand it when her cheeks get wet.
“Oh, Naomi. You had to tell someone because you were so happy about it.” She
wipes at her eyes fiercely, clearly frustrated about crying. “And it just
hurts, you know... because I found out by mistake. Because you would have
never shared how happy it made you with me.”
“Em...” I say, voice cracking horribly. I don’t know what to say. I just
want to reach out for her.
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
And it’s like my hand caught fucking fire.
“I don’t fucking get it,” she says in between sobs. “Why couldn’t you have
told me yourself?” Her eyes are all puffy and red and wet and just so bloody
hurt. And I feel like absolute scum, if you must know.
I will out the words. Even though they shame me. “Because... if I told you,
you’d make me go.”
“And that’s what I think,” Emily replies immediately. “You should go. You
can’t put off something as... prestigious as Oxford.”
Prestigious. She just said prestigious.
“See? This is what I mean. Now you’re saying I should go,” I snap back,
feeling the pressure build up in the tiny spaces in my brain.
“And what’s so wrong with that?” Emily demands, crossing her arms.
“I think you know very well what’s wrong with that.”
And she does. Her face falls. She’s sucking her lips back in and her eyes
are pooling up again.
“But it’s stupid-it’s so fucking selfish...” she says, all worked up.
“Emily, it’s not like that,” I plead. I don’t want her feeling worse. I inch
closer, rub her back gently to cry and calm her down.
“I mean, before me. Before we got together, you had your whole life laid
out. You have so fucking much going for you... You could be great. You could
be someone, you know? Oh, God, I feel like I’ve... Jesus, why’d you let me
fuck it up for you?”
“Emily, don’t-”
“No, Naomi,” she cuts in, whipping her head to the side to look me in the
eye. “I know you want things,” she whispers. Quietly. Desperately.
It overwhelms me. All these things she’s saying. I almost wish I could
unhear them. But I can’t, so I try thinking it over. Our rights, our wrongs,
flashing across her eyes. I can’t really tell the difference anymore. All
they have in common is that they’re ours. Mine and Emily’s.
And more importantly, Emily’s mine.
My lips are against her ear, almost kissing the words into it. “Don’t you
get it, Em? I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I want so many things... But that’s
all temporary. I fucking know that when I wake up the next day, it’s still
you I’d want. Do you understand, Emily? I need you, and I’ve got you now.
I’ve got you.”
And oh, I’m crying already. No surprises there. Say hello to the thespian.
She looks away and her fringe covers her eyes. She kicks her legs out and
off the bed, about to get up completely. “I feel like I’m holding you back.”
Something in me constricts painfully when I hear that. I scramble up behind
her and pull her into my arms, desperate to show her how wrong she is. Her
back is flush against my chest and we just fucking fit together like
everything else in this world that makes sense.
“No, Emily... Not when you’re the only one who’s holding me up.”
We’re so close that I can feel it when her breath hitches.
I pull her robe down so that it falls to her waist, then tenderly gather her
hair up and let it all rest on one side. And I take a moment to admire her
neck, her shoulder, her creamy skin. I don’t understand. How you can see the
same thing everyday and still be amazed by it just as much as the first time
you saw it.
I press a kiss onto her shoulder and my mouth tastes her all the way to her
neck. Emily starts humming and I feel all my muscles below tighten in a way
that’s all too hot and familiar.
“Don’t ever say that, yeah?” I say, holding her closer. I bury my face into
the angle of her neck and inhale Emily and vanilla. And it’s delicious. Just
like everything else about her is.
“Because, Emily... My life was shit before you came along. I love you. I
love you so much.” And I’m just speaking and kissing whatever I could at the
same time.
She trembles each time my lips land on her skin and I’m fucking sorry,
Katie, but I am getting it on tonight.
I’m caught completely off-guard when Emily reaches behind her, hand finding
my stomach without the slightest difficulty. And I know where this is going,
pretty excited about it myself. Her hand is impatient, shoving itself into
my knickers, nimble fingers finding my heat in seconds.
Emily begins moving her digits and it feels so good that I return the favour
by grabbing her tits and then just let my hands squeeze and let my body
touch hers wherever it can. Wherever there’s an opening, I hurry inside. And
the sounds we make then are absolutely filthy. And I’m shuddering and oh,
God...
I want it so much. So fucking much.
But no, I can’t. I’m the one who’s been holding back a part of myself. It’s
time for me to make up for it. I grab her wrist and she freezes. After a
little coaxing, she reluctantly lets me pull her hand out of my underwear.
“Let me,” I say, hoping my voice is low, gentle and hypnotic enough.
She turns around, making her surrender more evident by the second. I capture
her lips and that’s all it takes for our bodies to move like clockwork
together.
I flip her over and drag her to the center of the bed. I take a moment to
observe how the red lighting makes our shadows seem more sinister and
seductive on the wall. Fucking hot, that.
Then going back to the task at hand, I unbelt her bathrobe at the waist and
slice it open, revealing its lovely insides: the most gorgeous girl in the
world.
I push her down onto the bed and poise above her on all fours, thigh lodged
in between her legs. I do it a bit too forcefully so now the bed’s jiggling
and my arms are buckling unsteadily. I laugh a little, considering that
wasn’t sexy at all.
But then Emily’s here, looking so very serious. I see the fear in her eyes
and I’m thinking this is Emily, the bravest girl I know and I’m not used to
finding it in the honey liquid of her irises.
And there’s something so different about now that it’s scaring the shit out
of me. It’s so clear. I need us to be together. And it reflects in her eyes.
Does eyes, like a Disney princess’s, stare back at me. They show me all I
need to see. That Emily trusts me with her life. That Emily, despite the
fear, trusts me to stay. My fingers skate around her face and those Disney
eyes flutter shut at my touch. This. I wouldn’t give this up for the fucking
world.
The air is heavy with an intoxicating heat. It spurs on my hungry descent.
My lips trail and touch breasts, nipples, ribcages, a belly button, and then
teasingly at thighs until I finally do it.
And fuck, is she wet.
I go down on her. Start doing things that make the sweat sink down her
thighs. Make her feel so weak and so good that she almost can’t take it
anymore (it’s in the way that she clamps her legs together around my head).
It’s an art, really. I think of a brush, lapping up paint around a blank
canvas. Everything’s wet, and repetitive. The change in direction, the
length of the strokes. My tongue blending my spit and her juice, painting
pleasure onto Emily.
Painting orbits of planets and satellites going round and round her
scorching centers. And her moans and screams tell me she’s out there in a
place where there the stars are too bright to see and right about to
explode.
Her hand’s in my hair. Some of it is trapped in a fist shut out of pleasure.
A painful yank signals her climax and I try to ignore how hard she’s pulling
at my hair as I lick softer to help her ride down the waves.
I place kisses on her thighs, rub at her legs, wait until her breathing
evens out again. And when it does, I come back up to her lips and kiss her
properly. Pray that she’ll always remember how I made her feel tonight.
She hooks her arms around my neck, brings me so much closer, giving a better
arena for our tongues to battle it out. I’ve got a hand on her hip and I
move it over her arse. I grab a cheek and push her against me roughly to
which Emily responds to with a delighted squeak.
My hand roams again, until my fingers hover teasingly over coarse hair. Soon
enough, the naughty little things find her clit and Emily hisses at the
contact. “Oh, fuck. Please,” she groans, her hips raised and titled for
more.
Christ, it’s ridiculously slippery in between my legs. I’m so fucking wet.
She’s so hot for me sometimes that I can’t bear it. I move my fingers
faster, picking up the speed of her breathing before plunging one, two
fingers inside of her.
The whimpers and the pants don’t qualify as words but they tell me something
anyway by picking up in number. You can call it a sexual statistic, I call
it the record I have to beat the next time.
My thumb works on her clit while my fingers curl and feel inside of her. And
judging by the way Emily’s writhing below me, it’s driving her to the
absolute edge. She’s crumbling beneath me, hips bucking to meet the thrusts
of my fingers. My hand’s sore but this is just so fucking worth it.
I want her whispering in my ear. I want to know what she wants. What she
needs.
And now she’s telling me my name.
She tells me again.
And again.
And again.
She’s pink all over and her chest is rising and falling emphatically. The
air is even hotter and denser around us. The red lights are all over the
room but I ignore them and everything they stand for.
I can’t stop this. It’s inevitable.
Take it, I think.
I’m making the angles more extreme, reach inside her like I’ve never done
before. She cries. Drags her nails across my back. That’s going to hurt
tomorrow, most definitely. But I can’t possibly care about that right now,
can I?
I kiss her harder. Catch her screams and swallow, feeding off of their
energy somehow. Now, the only thing I can hear is our laboured breathing and
our lips being inseparable.
My thumb cranks up the speed. It’s just mad ruthless against her clit. I
think of whirlpools at sea. Fast, spinning currents. Round and round. Round
and round. Like Emily’s patterned gasping.
Take it, Emily. Because this is everything I’ve got.
= = = = = = = =
One of things I enjoy the most is crawling back up to her after she comes.
Her fringe would be plastered to her forehead, a hot mess. Red tendrils
running like blood fire along her pale skin. I love how my fingers collect
the perspiration when I let them run just above her brow. They’ll gather her
hair. Slowly. Carefully. Then it’s fingers grazing an ear and fingers
nowhere near a cunt but Emily’s shivering again anyway.
It’s like going down on her but better. Better because I can see her face as
I’m touching her. See just how I drive her crazy. Her hair swept out of her
eyes, with dry and careful fingers (as opposed to what they were minutes
before: wet and rampant).
Disney doe eyes fluttering shut. Gets me every fucking time.
“Let’s not say anything,” Emily says without actually saying anything.
And it finally sinks in. How your heart sometimes understands better than
your head ever could have.
= = = = = = = =
No matter where I go or whore my mind
I'll always stumble home and pray I'll find you
With your flame-throw eyes and jilted smile
So you can soothe my wounds and drain my bile
- Say Anything with “Baby Girl, I’m a Blur”
= = = = = = = =
In the morning, the place looks even more like a shithole. People are
scattered about, on the floor, on furniture, in various states of undress
and unconsciousness. All the food has dried up and every room in the house
is a different mix of foul smells.
It looks like the art buffoons made a pretty interesting quilt out of all
their metallic scarves and now it’s hanging on one of the walls, gaying up
the scene like no tomorrow.
Random appliances have obviously been mishandled and are now showing their
wires and steaming circuitry. Beethoven keeps streaming out of a busted-
looking speaker that still miraculously functions. It baffles me how
everyone is sleeping through the loud music. It’s Ludwig van for Christ’s
sake.
But anyway...
We did a pretty good job with the home-destruction thing, if you ask me.
Ruth’s never going to recover from this.
Emily takes my hand and together, in our cottony soft Ruth Byatt bathrobes,
we survey the rest of the wreckage.
= = = = = = = =
Ten minutes into our exploration we happen upon what seems to be Ruth’s
studio. It’s got all sorts of unfinished sculptures, paintings and
blueprints strewn around and you can’t exactly make heads or tails out of
it. We sift through her work and give one-lined opinions on them. Try our
hands at being art critics.
There’s one painting of an English flag with huge black ‘X’ marks slashed
over its resplendence. I find it slightly offensive, really but I go ahead
and give it my two cents. England’s so passé,” I say, trying to embody Ruth,
earning a chuckle from Emily.
We eventually move to the center, where there’s actually free space on the
floor for your feet to move. And there at the middle stands an easel mounted
with a blank canvas. Upon closer inspection, it isn’t actually blank. Yes,
it’s white all over but Ruth painted one word in all caps, smack dab in the
middle.
ME
Emily and I just stand there for a bit and take the painting in. I have to
hand it to Ruth. This one’s pretty thought-provoking and shit.
“She likes fucking herself, obviously. See, that has ‘wank’ all over it,” I
say, waving a finger around the entire canvas, starting my bogus explanation
with a seeming confidence. “She’s made a unique use of the minimalist style
and... We’re shit at this. Aren’t we?” I say, turning to Emily with a
stupid, c’mon-agree-with-me grin.
“Shut up, I’m doing just fine,” Emily says, rolling her eyes at me before
gently pushing me aside to center herself in front of the canvas. She
continues on, to prove her point. “It shows loneliness. Isolation. Or
perhaps, a selfishness? Because she only thinks of herself and no one else.”
Why’s she making so much sense? That isn’t fair.
“Ems? We’re supposed to interpret them wrong on purpose.”
“Oh, c’mon. I think this one’s decent enough,” Emily defends, nose scrunched
up at me in disfavour.
I pick up a brush and dip it in some black paint. “I think Cook’s mum is a
self-important cunt,” I say before unceremoniously doing a Jackson Pollock
on the painting.
Emily gasps beside me and I turn to her to find her kind of horrified.
“What?” I say.
“Well, I actually liked that piece,” she replies, slightly flabbergasted.
Based on her very eloquent critique earlier, I take it she’s telling the
truth. So I get a great, floating-lightbulb-over-head idea. I flash Emily a
wicked smile. “Know how you’ll like it even more?” I say, waggling my
eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
She smirks back despite herself. “Is that still possible even though you’ve
already, like, ruined it? Rather tastelessly, if I do say so myself.”
I let off a mock indignant snort. “Of course it is.”
“Oh? How then?”
I take the brush in my hand, poise it carefully below the ‘ME’ and swirl a
plus sign and a ‘YOU’ onto the canvas. Figured, “fuck it, might as well,”
then add in an equals sign and an infinity sign for good measure.
When I turn back to her she has this pleased little oh, shucks smile on.
Emily bites her lip and she’s got a blush building up. It never gets old, to
be completely honest. All those other times she says it? It’s no different
from this one as she tells me, “Yeah, I know.”
= = = = = = = =
“Let’s add tiny portraits of ourselves,” I declare grandly, wanting to
enhance our artistic collaboration with Ruth Byatt and going along at it
with what little I already know.
And then my dear Emily, my voice of reason, asks me, “Are you on drugs?”
“Yes, I guess. Consider me intoxicated by the mere presence of you,” I try,
because that’s how Edward Cullen sparkles and gets the girl.
Emily giggles and shakes her head at me because admittedly I was little of
my rocker just now. Right, so that pick-up line only works for vampires
then.
Before I know it, Emily’s already making her way outside the studio. I know
that line was bad, but not that bad, you know? Bad enough for her to leave.
I call after her. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
She turns around, mischief lacing her features. “I’m hungry. I was thinking
we make a colour swatch,” she says, deviously.
Is it just me? Or did that not make any sort of sense at all?
= = = = = = = =
So, it eventually makes much more sense when she grabs me by the hand and
rushes the both of us to the kitchen. What I immediately notice about the
kitchen is how colourful it is with its myriad of ingredients literally all
over the place. Now I understand the ‘swatch’ part.
Eager to show Emily how I’ve connected the dots, I grab hold of a bright red
lobster. It’s already dead and cooked, of course. Do you think I’d even
touch it if it were still alive? Great, I’m glad we’re on the same page.
I wave the poor little critter at Emily. “For your hair,” I explain, trying
to suppress a laugh.
Emily looks back, very entertained about it. After which, she scans around
herself until her gaze finally rests on an entire cheese platter. She holds
it up for me to see better.
“For your hair,” she returns, before balancing the platter on one hand and
gingerly snatching a piece of cheddar and popping it in between her parted
lips.
We stagger around the kitchen for a while, searching for other things we
could make good use of, sniggering and tripping over each other all the
while.
I manage to reach the counter and there it is, the missing piece. I call
Emily over excitedly and she stumbles in beside me, the chimney of her
miniature cheese cottage toppling over at the turbulence.
“Condiments,” Emily says in this funny, exaggerated awe.
“Condiments,” I say once more, with just as much reverence.
Feeling very much accomplished, I reach for the mustard bottle and hand it
over to Emily. I stick with ketchup red.
There, sorted.
= = = = = = = =
“Forget what I said about the portraits,” I say to her, throwing our initial
plan out the window because when you really think about it, it’s so much
easier to not screw up a drawing of a lobster.
I can feel the focus in my face as I outline the crustacean with the ketchup
on my fingertip. Furrowed brows and my tongue sneaking out and sticking to
my upper lip (I dunno why it does that, really) prompt Emily to erupt into a
fit of gigglesnorts. What I’m doing is insanely hilarious, yeah... but what
Emily finds even more hilarious is that I’m doing it with an unbelievable
amount of concentration.
If that were any other girl, one I wasn’t so deeply in love with, she
would’ve gotten ketchup to the face. But she’s Emily Fitch. And she should
be aware of how lucky she is that I give her a free pass whenever she makes
fun of me.
After I’m done with the lobster, I reckon I could put in caption of sorts. I
reload my finger with more ketchup and I write the first thing I can think
of.
You are my Lobster
I step back and assess my handi-err, fingerwork. Then I look back at the
real lobster in my hand. Is it a splitting image? Not exactly, but... Ace
job anyway, Campbell!
“Oh, I’m definitely taking this home...” I say, turning to Emily and not
expecting her cheeks to be bulging like that. And by ‘like that’ I mean
‘like a blowfish’. I think she just ate her entire cheese cottage.
“Oi! You’re eating our colour swatch!” I say, suddenly, inexplicably upset.
Emily, although looking very guilty with her wide eyes and her puffed cheeks
looks rather precious and adorable as well.
“Wow,” I say, poking her stuffed cheek. “You sure love your cheese.” I nick
a tiny chunk or two of it off the platter and shove it into my mouth
clumsily. I wink at her when we get identically bulge-y.
She rolls her eyes at me as she swallows. “Well,” she says after clearing
her throat, “I love you more.”
“Than cheese?” I ask hopefully, mouth still full.
“More than cheese,” she says, giving into a smile. And then, after thinking
it over for a bit, she adds:
“More than anything, really.”
= = = *** = = =
I read once, (actually, many, many times because I practically memorise it)
in This Realm of England, that...
“There’s nothing quite as satisfying as a good, clean substantial fact.
It can be cherished and recorded, memorised and scrutinised, dropped casually
in the middle of a conversation, or used with impressive effect to begin or
destroy an argument.”
I remember on that first day of college when Keiran asked us to stand up,
say our names, and a unique fact about ourselves. Well, if I could have
another go at it now, I’d answer differently. Because here I am, with a
truth I’ve never been so sure of in my life.
“I’m Naomi. And there’s this girl I know... she makes my heart beat all
kinds of speeds. I’m going to marry her some day.”
Here I am, in my kitchen. With that girl (who’s never had a boyfriend).
There’s a painting mounted somewhere. It used to be Ruth Byatt’s. It’s ours
now. Ours.
Mum has taken out her old James Taylor records. She always used to play them
when I was still a little girl. They’ve been on all week and I’ve got no
complaints. The afterglow they bring is actually welcome and I’m quite happy
about this, pleasantly reliving old memories with this soundtrack while
being excited about making new ones with Emily in the same timeframe. And I
think I know just the perfect James Taylor song.
Oh, Mexico…
It sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low
Moon's so bright like to light up the night
Make everything all right
Oh, Mexico…
I never really been but I'd sure like to go
Oh, Mexico
I guess I'll have to go now
I sing along because I know the words. I’m terribly out of key, yes. But the
way Emily laughs is out of fondness and she’s still so wonderful (despite
being dressed as a Mexican man). I tip my sombrero back and she does the
same with hers. I kiss her. And our moustaches tickle each other’s noses.
And trying to explain this, like, really explain this, is a lost cause. What
I do know, though, is that I can’t wait for the rest of my life to be like
this.
“I love you, Emily Fitch. Forever.”
= = = *FIN* = = =
A/N: And so, it ends. I have to admit, I had a little freak-out. Letting
this go was a big thing since it's the first multi-chaptered story I've
stuck through. And here it is, it's done and I can't touch it again.
I’ve gotta say, I put a lot of my heart and head in this and it'd be great
to know how you felt or what you think about it (as a chapter and as an
entire story). I'm up for all sorts of thoughts and criticisms. I’m even
willing to send over PDFs, if you’re into that fanciness. ;)
So, shoot, my bbs. Shoot. Comments! Comments! ;)
As for my next appearance? Well, I’m working on a couple of stuff. Slowly
but steadily, you know (of course you guys know, I make you wait two months
for updates!)? I’ve got another novel-length fic for you but it probably
won’t be out until a couple of months. In the meantime, I’ll come up with
some one-shots. I’ll make sure you guys won’t miss me. XD
It’s been a long journey. I’m so happy to have walked you through it. Thank
you so much, reader. You’re as dear as an old friend to me. :)
- interpol_ice xx