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Chapter Text

Helen takes a big gulp of lukewarm coffee and runs a hand over her face. It’s been a long day, and third period has only just started.

Midterm season is fast approaching, and with a shocking amount of fourteen-year-olds who are barely even literate, she’s got her work cut out for her trying to teach them Shakespeare. She led each class with a reassuring but firm hand, supplying them with the same old rhetoric that she’s there to help as much as she can but not to do the work for them, and she won’t be there to hold their hands as they fight for their lives, trying to decipher Macbeth’s soliloquy at the beginning of Act 2. 

Helen is a good teacher; she knows this, knows from the above-average exam results and the sheer number of students from her classes that have gone on to study literature at college, a fact that has her grinning like a fool whenever she thinks about it. But since the pandemic and online school, and the steady transition back into in-person teaching, something has shifted among the student body. It’s worrying, she thinks, as she types up her fourth virtual detention slip (whatever happened to good old-fashioned paper slips?!) of the day, this time for a sophomore boy who felt it was appropriate to start regurgitating what she’s heard the kids refer to as “Italian brainrot” during what she felt was a rather riveting deep-dive into the gender politics of the Scottish medieval court. Attention spans and respect for teachers are shrinking at an alarming rate, and it makes her feel like she’s floundering on an open sea.

She’s so preoccupied with her unnecessarily detailed recount of the offence that she doesn’t notice a shy hand snake upwards into the air on the third row. “Uh, Ms Sharp?”

“Yes? Sorry, Ava, didn’t see you there.”

Ava hesitates, blushing. A quiet, unassuming kid, she’s perhaps a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but she’s relatively harmless compared to some of her peers. “What’s a dagger?” A slow hum of solidarity arises across the room as others chime in with their own confusion.

Helen bites back the cruel response that forms on the tip of her tongue. How can these kids not know what a dagger is?! She sighs quietly to herself and picks up a marker to write a definition on the whiteboard. It’s not their fault, she supposes, that their parents couldn’t be bothered to engage their children in something more intellectually stimulating than Disney Channel and Cocomelon.

There’s a ripple of laughter as she turns her back to the class at the board. It almost yanks her back to her own school days, when she’d sit alone at lunch and the people around her would treat her with either total indifference or outright disdain - she wasn’t sure which was worse, really. They’d read out the title of whatever classic novel she’d had her nose buried in with mocking voices and cold laughter, and she’d shrink further into herself in response. Your high school days are long over, Helen, she reminds herself. But really, why are they laughing? She continues to face the board, breathing deeply until she’s semi-confident that her face isn’t bright red, then whips around, the laughter slowly dying down. “What’s so funny?”

Another girl, Ellie, pipes up. “Ms Sharp, you have a little… something… on your back.”

Helen reaches around and peels the offending item off the back of her sweater. It’s a pink Post-it note with the words HIT ME scrawled out crudely in darker pink Sharpie, the colours stark enough against the cream wool of her clothing that she knows anyone who’s walked behind her at any point today would’ve seen it. What the fuck? Is that why people have been laughing behind her back all day? She almost asks the class who’s responsible, but knows in her heart that there’s exactly one person in the building who could’ve done this.

Ms Madeline Ashton. Head of Drama and Theatre Studies, Helen’s former best friend turned mortal enemy, and the biggest bitch in the world. A title the well-versed feminist in her doesn’t like using, but she can’t think of anything more suitable.

Helen nearly shakes with rage. How could she have been so naïve, to think that the sly pat on the back Madeline had given her during that morning’s staff briefing had been one of encouragement after she’d shyly announced the launching of a new book club for students? “So nice of you to finally venture out of your shell,” she’d wheedled, “are you finally tired of the wounded wallflower act?” She almost kicks herself for her own stupidity, close to tears from the hot embarrassment with a side of betrayal that courses through her as she thinks about the number of people that probably noticed it but didn’t bother mentioning it to her.

No. She will not let Madeline get to her, especially through such a ridiculously childish prank. She’ll just have to plot her revenge move instead. When she has time to think about it, of course. She barely has time to go to the bathroom between classes these days.

The class finally settles back down, and Helen is able to get onto that definition, saying the words as she writes them out carefully in large, neat cursive. “Dagger: a short, pointed knife that was once used as a weapon.” It briefly crosses her mind that if the opportunity presented itself, she wouldn’t mind plunging a dagger deep into Madeline’s perfectly sculpted shoulder blade.

The rest of the period drags on and on, seemingly endless, but mercifully without further incident. Two minutes before the bell, she instructs the kids to start packing up their belongings - she’s never been a believer in “the bell is a signal for me and not you,” and frankly finds it irritating when other teachers, especially Madeline, whom she knows to be a firm proponent of it, ascribe to this rule - when there’s a polite knock at her door. “Come in!” she calls out.

It’s Mr Moustakas - Stefan - the flamboyant and permanently stressed music teacher who’s closer to Madeline than he is to Helen due to the adjacency of their departments, but still makes an effort to get to know each and every staff member regardless of the internal politics between them. It’s something she’s always respected about him, but she wonders if it contributes to his near-constant frazzlement. “Ms Sharp - a word, please?”

Helen nods, shuffling some paperwork on her desk that’s been knocked askew back into a neat pile. “You’re dismissed,” she addresses the class, and they all leave surprisingly quickly for a group that usually lacks a sense of urgency. She watches them go, feeling a glimmer of fear as she remembers just how little they know and just how close their first English midterm is (three weeks away), mentally preparing herself for the verbal dressing-down she’ll inevitably receive from Principal Van Horn when half the class fails and the other half barely scrapes a pass.

“Viola wants to see you in her office after school,” Stefan starts, as if reading her mind.

“Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?” she quips, but her insides are churning. What could she have done this time? Last time she’d been called to the principal’s office, it had been over a freshman taking her sarcasm to heart a little too hard and bursting into tears in the guidance counsellor’s office. She couldn’t recall any other incidents in this vein, but she’s uncomfortably aware that her sharp tongue can get away from her sometimes.

“Yeah. She saw your browsing history.” Stefan’s face is completely straight. Helen pales. What?! Then Stefan’s shrieking with laughter, and Helen smacks him on the arm a little harder than intended. “Ow! Oh my god, your face! I’m kidding - she wants your input on something.”

It’s suspiciously vague. “What do you mean by something? Oh god, I hope it’s not another revision of my recommended reading list. I already amended it to take out The Handmaid’s Tale and The Color Purple because of parental complaints . Ridiculous, by the way. God forbid children ever read anything that challenges them, right?”

Stefan laughs. “Tell me about it. They wouldn’t even let me teach the score from La Cages aux Folles because it’s ‘too risqué.’” He illustrates his point with air quotes. “No, it’s nothing like that. Just… wait for her to tell you. It’s important.”

Helen squirms uncomfortably. If there’s anything she hates besides Madeline, it’s being out of the loop. But there’s something in Stefan’s tone that suggests he’s not going to bend to her whims, no matter how many questions she asks, so she drops it. “Fine. But just know I’ll be clawing at the bars of my cage by the end of the day in anticipation.” She fashions her fingers into claws and mimes swiping at him. He jumps, squealing in a way that is just so Stefan, and they both cackle at the other’s antics. Then the bell goes, loud and obnoxious as ever, and they both jump, Helen actually letting out a little yelp that embarrasses her more than she’d care to admit. “Okay, I need to use the bathroom before my next class or I’m going to have a very unfortunate accident.” 

She ponders telling him about the Post-it incident, but refrains, knowing that Stefan isn’t above gossip and that it would eventually make its way back to Madeline that it had bothered her. She doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction she knows she craves so badly. Instead, she just follows Stefan out into the hall, waving him goodbye and locking her door behind her because she doesn’t want to return to her room with the desks all upended and chewing gum pressed into the back of her favourite coat. Again.

Three o’clock finally arrives, and Helen’s at the end of her tether. She’d started Lord of the Flies with her fifth-period freshman class, and was close to crying with the sheer number of times she’d heard increasingly poor imitations of a British accent call out “nothing beats a Jet2 Holiday!” throughout the duration of the first chapter. Two impassioned rants and nine detentions later, she’s about as grateful for her free sixth period as she would be for an oasis in a desert. 

She’s perched on the little bench outside Viola’s office, drumming her fingers erratically on her own knee, unable to quell the nervousness that being in close proximity to authority always draws out of her. That’s a part of her that will never go away, she thinks. Stefan is across the hall from her, getting increasingly frustrated at a picture frame that just will not sit straight, no matter how many times he adjusts it. “Just leave it, Stefan. Must be an issue with the wall fixture.”

He grumbles, but leaves it alone, dragging his feet as he comes over to sit beside her. “It’s disturbing how little care goes into the maintenance of aesthetically pleasing hallways in this place.”

“Well, this is high school, not the Louvre.” 

Stefan opens his mouth to shoot back something clever, but Viola’s door swings open before he can form his reply. “Come in,” she says brusquely. Always a woman of few words and little patience, Viola seems extra agitated today, and Helen wonders what on Earth could have possibly happened to put her in such a mood.

The inside of her office smells unusual, like an odd mix of incense and Lysol - Helen wonders if she wipes down the surfaces every time someone gets up from her desk. She wouldn’t put it past her, to be honest. There are a couple of fold-out chairs set out at either side of the desk in addition to the two existing ones, and Helen quickly starts to worry about who else might be joining them. There’s another additional chair behind the desk, too, next to where Viola sits - that can’t be good. Usually, if someone else is next to her, it’s another higher-up or even worse, someone from the school board. 

Helen starts mentally taking bets on just how fucked she is, when Stacey, or Miss Devlin as she’s known by the students, the dance teacher and newest addition to the staff cohort, enters. It should ease her nerves, for someone so new and, in the politest way possible, low-down in the pecking order to be there, but if anything, it only serves to confuse her even more. What could she and the dance teacher possibly have in common that requires such an urgent meeting?

Then… oh fuck. Oh shit. 

Who should swan in but Madeline, looking absurdly put-together after what’s felt like the longest Tuesday in the world to Helen. The mild throbbing at her temples that started somewhere around fourth period is in danger of blossoming into a full-blown migraine. Why the fuck is she here? Stefan pulls the chair next to hers out, and Helen thinks he’s going to sit there as she grins up at him… except he was just pulling it out for Madeline to sit there, she realises, smile fading faster than it arrived. He fusses around her like she’s royalty - Helen’s half-surprised he doesn’t pull a fan out of his pocket to cool her down with. She’s sure if she rolled her eyes any harder, they’d fall out of her head. The snark erupts before she can stop it. “Ms Ashton… so gracious of you to join us, your majesty.”

Madeline sneers. “Don’t be jealous, Hel. Green would clash horribly with your hair.”

“Mind you, my eyes are famously green…”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never looked into them for long enough in case I turn to stone.”

They’re so absorbed in their bickering that they don’t even register that the room around them has gone silent, all eyes on them like they’re under a spotlight. Helen at least has the humility to blush and look apologetic, but Madeline simply tosses her hair over her shoulder like she’s the main event. Viola clears her throat.

“Anyway… let’s get started. Some of you already know what this is about,” she begins, looking first to Madeline, then to Stefan, who seem entirely distracted by each other (how rude, Helen thinks), “but for those not in the know, let me clue you in. Actually, Madeline - since it’s your project, why don’t you explain it to us?”

Madeline’s project? Helen thinks about doing a runner - there’s no way she’s letting Madeline boss her around for even a second. She folds her arms and sucks in her face like she’s tasting something sour. Madeline totally ignores her obviously ramped-up performance of displeasure and begins her little presentation, something Helen is sure she’s rehearsed at least twice in her bathroom mirror. The thought makes her stomach twist with something bitter.

“Okay, so! School production season is coming up after midterms, and I figured - why not switch things up this time? Existing musicals - fun as they might be - are a bit been there, done that. I mean, how many awkward, racially insensitive high school versions of West Side Story do we really need to see?” Viola gives her a look. “So, I’ve decided to go with… drum roll please!” 

The only person who complies enthusiastically is Stefan. You little enabler, Helen thinks, then immediately feels bad because what should she expect? Madeline and Stefan are like two sides of the same bedazzled, too-loud coin. Stacey gives the desk a few light taps before ceasing, and Helen and Viola both keep their arms folded firmly. Madeline doesn’t let it faze her, ever the actress. “Shakespeare! More specifically, Romeo and Juliet.”

Oh hell no. If Helen weren’t already fuming, she’d be absolutely furious at the idea of Madeline butchering her beloved Elizabethan playwright. She’s not proud of the ugly, childish feelings that arise - if she had any less self-respect, she’d start whining about how Shakespeare is her thing, and how dare Madeline think she can recreate perfection with a group of high schoolers that can barely string a sentence together?

But something, though she’s not sure what, stops her. Is she really going to hear Madeline out on this one? She eyes everybody else in the room quickly, and they all look genuinely excited. Well, Viola’s lips are curved up very slightly in what might be considered a smile for her. Stefan is obviously over the moon, and Stacey looks rather intrigued. So she keeps quiet.

“So, Stacey, we’ll of course need your help with the choreography as we’d like to make it as period-accurate as possible - time to brush up on your sixteenth-century moves! Stefan, you’ll obviously lead the orchestra. And Helen -” Madeline looks, really looks at her properly for the first time since the meeting started, and Helen’s heart rate picks up “- as our resident Shakespeare expert, we’ll need all the help we can get with pronunciation and understanding the meaning of the script. Are you in?”

The whole room holds its breath, like the entire project rests on her answer alone. She sighs deeply. “What’s in it for me?”

The tension dissipates, but only mildly. Is that panic in Viola’s eyes? Maybe she expected Helen to just cave immediately, like she’d done so many times in the past when extra work had been thrust upon her. But Helen’s been working on herself lately, trying to stand her ground more in the face of adversity so that people no longer treat her like the pushover she’s been all her life. It’s actually working, somewhat.

“There’s something you’ve been wanting for some time now, Helen. We both know what it is. Agree to this, and I’ll consider your application much more strongly than I currently am.”

Is Viola even allowed to do that? Bribe her into it by dangling the head of department position in front of her nose, the position she’s had her heart set on since even before she found out the current head, Mrs Lipschitz, is retiring at the end of the academic year? Is that even legal? And who else could even possibly be in the running for it?

Helen sighs again, hard enough to turn the air blue. She’s not getting out of this one easily, moral dilemma included or not. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Madeline claps her hands and squeals with glee. It makes Helen want to slap her, or even just go back on her offer entirely. That would wipe the perfect smile off her face in an instant. Instead, she just bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying something unprofessional.

They’re all getting up to leave when Madeline suddenly gasps. “Oh! I almost forgot - I’d like to put a little twist on it.” She takes a deep breath like she’s steadying herself. “I’d like to cast two girls as the leads. To make a statement.”

The silence in the office is so loud that Helen can hear her own pulse in her ears. Viola is the first to break it. “Do you know how many parents will be up my ass if we do that?”

“So? Haven’t you already taken enough away from the queer kids by banning all those books? It’s the least we can do.” 

Helen somehow feels responsible for this, too, the guilt swelling inside her. This is the first time she’s seen Viola flounder, too, struggling to find a response. “Look, I’ll… I’ll think about it, okay? I just don’t want to make things any harder for those kids.” Maybe there really is a big softie hiding under all those glossy layers, Helen thinks.

“I say do it.” The new, deeper voice has all heads in the room swivelling around to see Chagall, the assistant principal, magnificent as ever in the doorway. “Any backlash we get comes directly to us. High school theatre departments cast same-sex actors as couples all the time anyway.”

Stefan nods, sucking his teeth. “Plus, a lot of those little boys are too redpilled to even consider auditioning. We’ll struggle to find someone who actually wants to do it.”

Viola’s silent for an eternal moment, giving Helen time to wonder what Stefan means by ‘redpilled.’ Then Viola holds up her hands as if surrendering. “Okay. Okay. I’ll allow it.”

Madeline and Stefan cheer in unison, and Helen feels something come alive, swirling and warm in her chest. This could shape up to be very, very interesting indeed.

Chapter Text

Fortunately for Helen’s steadily fraying nerves, her sophomores really seem to buck up a week before midterms are due to start, actually listening to her as she patiently explains the significance of the use of iambic pentameter and rhyming couplets within the play and how to identify examples. It finally feels like she’s made a breakthrough in the last lesson before their tests start when sweet, simple Ava makes the brilliant observation that nearly all characters speak in iambic pentameter, except for the witches, so that they’re distinct from the human characters. These are the moments that make teaching worthwhile, she thinks, pride settling warmly in her chest as she watches pens fly over exam papers that show the students know what they’re talking about, or at the very least have something to say on the text. And maybe she really should stop underestimating kids like Ava.

Her freshmen are no better, however, and she’s the closest she’s ever been to walking out of a lesson by the time the bell goes for lunch. So aggravated is she as she storms into the teacher’s lounge that she doesn’t notice a particular blonde nuisance crossing over into her path… and now there’s cranberry juice all over the right thigh of her nice grey slacks that she’s only just washed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she exclaims, far louder than intended, and a charged silence washes over the room, the kind where it’s obvious everyone wants to turn and stare but they refrain out of forced politeness. “What the hell, Madeline?”

“How is this my fault?! You’re the one who wasn’t looking more than a foot beyond the end of your nose!” But Madeline’s already fetching some tissue from the dispenser by the sink to clear up the mess, or at least attempting to. She dabs carefully at the stain, trying to press a good amount of the liquid out as Helen stares blankly at her like she can’t quite believe what’s happening. She can’t tell if she’s too angry or too stunned to move, but she’s paralysed with something as Madeline invades her space.

Then she comes to her senses, snatching the tissue out of Madeline’s hands and stepping backwards and away from her assailant-turned-assistant. “Don’t touch me,” she spits, “well, this is just my luck. Now it looks like I’ve actually killed someone instead of just thinking about it.”

It’s Madeline’s turn to take a step back, aware that she’s likely top of Helen’s hit list. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll try not to… be run into next time.” She watches Helen scrub furiously at her slacks, the cheap tissue pilling and leaving furry white flecks on the damp patch of fabric. “Hey, that clearly isn’t working. But I think I have some wipes in my locker if you’d like one?”

Helen gives her a pointed look. “Well, considering this is your fault, I suppose you’d better.”

“What’s the magic word?” Madeline singsongs, but she’s already halfway to the door.

A long-suffering sigh, then “please,” as she follows Madeline out, hand resting awkwardly on her thigh as she walks in a poor effort to hide the large, ugly stain.

“You didn’t have to follow me, you know,” Madeline calls out without looking back.

“I’m just making sure you don’t dip the wipes in acid or some other corrosive substance before giving them to me.” 

Madeline scoffs. “You’re ridiculous. Where would I even get any?”

“This is a high school,” Helen deadpans. “Try literally any of the science labs or the janitor’s closet.”

“I’m not sure how Dr Menville or Ms Rizzo would feel about me doing that,” Madeline returns. Dr Ernest Menville was the well-meaning but meticulous head of science, who likely counted each and every one of his resources right down to the last little drop of dilute hydrochloric acid and would definitely notice if there was some missing. And Ms Rizzo - Brenda, if she liked you enough, so clearly she wasn’t much of a Madeline fan - was the school janitor, and, well… God help anybody who dares to cross her.

The staff lockers are tucked away on the far left wing of the school, right at the end of the main hall; not the most practical place for them, but at least they’re mostly hidden from the prying eyes of students. Madeline swings open the small metal door, and Helen gapes as she catches a glimpse of the inside. How on Earth can she find anything in there? It’s an absolute tip, papers and books and goodness knows what else stacked precariously on top of one another in a mountain that looks dangerously close to turning into an avalanche. But Madeline clearly has a method, and in no time she’s fishing out a small pack of wipes that look surprisingly pristine and untouched considering where they’ve just been. Helen pulls one out, then another, and she’s reaching for a third when Madeline slaps her hand away. “Ah, ah! Not too many, I’m not made of money!”

“Sorry,” Helen grumbles, not even slightly apologetic, the urge to insult Madeline for her cheapness caught in her throat. The wipes are marginally more successful at drawing the colour out of the stain, but now she’s left with a large, soggy mark on the front of her thigh.

“It’ll dry quickly, you know,” says Madeline as if reading her mind. “Don’t stress.”

The act of kindness, however small it may be, is confusing to Helen. She’s used to acerbic, mean old Madeline, not this new, seemingly mellowed-out version that asks her to be a co-creator on the school play or offers to help her fix her outfit. Old Madeline would’ve laughed in her face and told her that her beige, boring wardrobe could do with a splash of colour, but this version of her seems genuinely apologetic. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Madeline actually looks sheepish. “I’m not. I just... felt bad about ruining your outfit.”

“I’m just shocked you’re not laughing at my expense, since that’s what you usually do. I didn’t think feeling bad for someone was in your wheelhouse.”

“Well. Maybe I’ve been working on myself lately. Plus, it’s going to be difficult to get anything done with the play if we’re just at each other’s throats the whole time.”

Helen’s face twists. Logically, she knows Madeline is right, but the idea of being all amicable with her again, like nothing ever went wrong between them, makes her feel nauseous. She searches hard for something withering to say back, but it doesn’t come. “Working on yourself, huh?” As a clear afterthought, she adds: “Have you finally realised the world doesn’t revolve around Madeline Ashton?” It doesn’t quite land with the impact that she wants to have.

Madeline inhales, slow and deliberate. “Actually, I’ve started going to therapy.”

This isn’t the answer Helen was expecting by a long shot; she’d never had Madeline down as the type to be self-reflective enough to realise when she needs help. The rifts that had gradually formed over the course of their somewhat short yet intense friendship had been marked by Madeline’s tendency to project that did not mesh well with Helen’s own insecurities, which had in turn led to their friendship ‘breakup,’ so to speak. But this Madeline appears ready to acknowledge her own shortcomings, at least. That’s a start. “Well, that’s not what I had in mind. Good to see you’ve realised you’re not Little Miss Perfect.”

“Oh, I am. It’s the people around me that are the problem. I just needed some tips on how to tolerate idiots.” She twirls a lock of her hair around her index finger nonchalantly, but Helen sees through the act. Madeline always does this, baits her with something that sounds like an invitation to know her better, then snaps her guard right back up like she’d never let it down and makes Helen feel like one of the idiots she speaks of for even trying to dig deeper. It makes her feel small and stupid, and serves as a heavy reminder of why their friendship never did run smoothly.

“Great… Well, thank you. For the wipes, I mean. Try not to assault anyone else with a beverage in future.” She turns to go, the leftover fried rice from the night before beckoning her from the refrigerator.

“Helen, wait, I -” Madeline falters; a past version of Helen might’ve found this endearing, but now it both irritates and satisfies her to see her momentarily lost for words. Her stomach picks the perfect moment to growl loudly, as if protesting. “I should thank you properly for agreeing to the project.”

“Obviously. I can’t let you desecrate poor Shakespeare’s name with whatever crap you initially had in mind.” Helen knows she’s being needlessly snippy now, but her hunger and general exasperation over everything that’s happened in the past hour or so push her beyond the ability to care about offending Madeline. Anticipatory silence hangs between them, thick and terse.

“Now, now, Hel. Language!” Madeline chastises, then breezes past her back towards the lounge, cutting their conversation short before Helen can say anything worse. “Don’t forget about next Friday!”

Next Friday? Helen’s mind goes blank for a moment as she sifts back through their conversation the previous week; it doesn’t help that her brain is overcrowded and also hardwired to forget anything and everything Madeline says - a defence mechanism she’d learned the hard way. Oh. Right. Auditions. She cringes internally. The cynic in her wonders if this project really will be a success like Madeline appears to believe it will be, or if it’ll just be the sour cherry on top of the rotten cake of their professional relationship.

Midterms are over at last, and the feeling of relief among the student body is palpable. The low, persistent thrum of stress that ran through the heart of each class has given way to an effervescent optimism about everything that’s coming up in the next couple of months: Thanksgiving break, Christmas break, and, for a small demographic of students and staff, putting together their school play.

The list of names on the audition signup sheet runs almost to the bottom of the page, many of which Helen recognises as, unsurprisingly, there appears to be a significant overlap of those in her AP classes and those who feel passionate enough about English to want to perform Shakespeare. There are a few names dotted here and there that she’s unfamiliar with, but she supposes they’ll make themselves known soon enough. It makes her smile - Shakespeare will never be forgotten, not in her lifetime if she can help it.

On Friday, as expected, she arrives at the auditorium earlier than everyone else on the directorial team. There’s already a small gaggle of overly eager freshmen sitting in the row of seats closest to the stage, looking mildly terrified as she enters. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” she calls across the expanse of the stage. They titter nervously, eyes darting toward each other as if checking whether they’re allowed to laugh. “Could I ask one of you to please help me set up a table?”

A slender boy with tufty, dark hair and barely-there stubble shoots to his feet. “I’ll help!” He strides over with all the confidence of a baby giraffe, like someone who isn’t quite used to their own changing stature and gait just yet. Helen finds it sweet, in a way.

“Thank you so much - I don’t believe we’ve met before. What’s your name?”

“Chance,” he says proudly, grinning. Helen isn’t pleased with the little niggling voice in the back of her mind that complains about how that’s an abstract noun, not a name, but she quickly pushes the thought aside. He presumably didn’t choose his own name, after all, so it’s hardly his fault.

“Well, Chance, lovely to meet you. I can’t wait to see what you’ve prepared for us today!” Chance beams.

They enter the storage closet and together they awkwardly manoeuvre a foldout table out of the narrow doorway, but not without knocking into various other items inside and nearly dropping the damn thing on Helen’s foot twice. Eventually, they manage to get it out, and they set it up in front of the middle four seats on the front row so the directorial team are able to comfortably take notes on each auditionee. By the time they’re set up, the rest of the team has arrived alongside a small horde of prospective players in their company. A group of senior girls Helen recognises from her AP Literature class actually cheer when they spot her, perhaps not expecting to see her there as she’d foregone telling them in respect to their academic challenges of recent weeks. It makes her heart clench momentarily with joy; she’s starting to feel properly excited about this project now that she knows the text will be in good hands. There is no doubt in her mind that the majority, if not all, of these girls will be cast.

She’s so caught up in her prediction that she almost walks directly into Madeline again - mercifully, she’s not holding anything that could cause a potential spillage this time, which is good news for Helen’s decidedly bold choice of light beige slacks and cream sweater today. She surprises herself by offering for Madeline to sit down first, in the right middle chair, while she slides into the one to the right of that. Professionally speaking, as co-directors, it’s arguably best for them to sit next to each other so they can compare notes, personal grievances aside.

Madeline suddenly claps three times, the sharp sound just barely startling Helen. “Okay, guys, listen up!” She gets to her feet, the rest of the team following suit. “I’ll just let these last few stragglers get settled,” she says, quieter, as a few more students trickle in at the last minute. “Great! First of all, thank you all so much for coming. I’m Ms Ashton, Head of Drama and Theatre Studies here at Newark High, as most of you will know, and this is my directorial team.” Her hand gestures blindly in the vague direction of everyone else at the table. “I’m sure the majority of you are familiar with all of us, but we’ll do some introductions for anyone who doesn’t. Ms Sharp, care to start us off?”

Helen gulps - she’s not used to doing things off the cuff. “Okay, sure. Hi everyone, I’m Ms Sharp and I teach English. I studied Shakespearean Literature at college, which is probably why I’ve been invited to be part of this project. I can’t wait to work with you all and see your take on this timeless piece.” Pretty good, she thinks, for being woefully underprepared to speak.

Stefan goes next. “Hi, kids!” he starts, drawing out the ‘i’ sound in hi. “I’m Mr Moustakas and I’ll be conducting the orchestra which will be accompanying this beautiful play. It’s great to be here!” He blows a couple of kisses into the air, making the students giggle. “And, last but not least…” he sweeps his hands dramatically in Stacey’s direction, who joins the students with her own girlish laughter.

“Hi, guys! I’m Miss Devlin, and I’m pretty new here, so it’s great to be involved in something like this so quick!” So quickly, Helen corrects her mentally. She hopes Miss Devlin’s general disregard for the basic rules of the English language won’t grate on her too much. “I’ll be choreographing the dance scenes in the show - I hope you guys like vintage dance moves!”

Madeline claps her hands again, quieter this time, but still enough to raise Helen’s heart rate just a tad. She makes a mental note to ask Madeline to find better ways of getting the students’ attention that don’t involve bursting her eardrums. “Wonderful! So, let’s get started. I’ve generated a random running order, so please don’t panic if I call your name and you’re not expecting it, and if you need a little more time, just let us know and we can arrange that.” She peers down at her randomised list. “Okay, first up: Ava Thomson!”

Helen resists the urge to gasp out loud. That Ava?! She hadn’t spotted her to start with, perhaps mistakenly mixing her in with the crowd of freshmen that had just kept growing and growing. The sophomore looks impossibly younger and smaller on the vast stage, twisting the drawstring of her hoodie around her finger as she nervously shifts her weight from foot to foot. The panel collectively decides to ignore how the sheet of paper with the script typed up on it in her other hand trembles with such force that it looks as though it could float away if she were to let go. Madeline smiles at her encouragingly. “Hi, Ava! Good to meet you. Can you tell us who you’ll be auditioning for today?”

Ava clears her throat, tension in her shoulders easing slightly as if the kindness in Madeline's voice reminds her that there’s nothing to worry about. “Hi, I’ll be auditioning for the role of Nurse, please.”

“Amazing! We’re ready when you are. I’ll read for Juliet.”

Then Ava takes a breath, and it’s as if she transforms into another person, posture widening and stooping over just the tiniest amount to mimic that of a person much older than herself. Helen quickly scribbles great physicality on her notepad and glances at Madeline’s to see that she’s written the exact same. Ava recites, no, acts the lines on the page with practised ease, bouncing off of Madeline’s Juliet like they’d been rehearsing it for months. It’s comical, Helen thinks briefly, the young girl playing the middle-aged woman and vice versa, but she’s so deeply impressed by Ava’s performance that it leaves little room for any other thoughts. 

When she’s done, the auditorium erupts with applause. “Wow!” Madeline begins. “I think it’s safe to say we were all quite blown away by that, Ava. Thank you!”

The girl switches back to her usual shy self immediately, like the character ended with the script. “Thanks,” she half-mumbles, shuffling off the stage like she didn’t just give the best and most surprising performance Helen’s seen in a while. She doesn’t envy whoever has to follow that in the slightest.

They manage to muddle through most of the auditions within the first hour after school. They’ve ranged from rather brilliant to downright painful, but each auditionee is met with high praise for the guts it takes to even get up on the stage, so that’s something. By 4:30, they’ve seen everyone, and with firm instructions from Madeline to keep a constant eye on the drama notice board next to her office for a cast list within the week, they’re dismissed.

As soon as the students have all departed, Madeline takes off her heels and kicks her stockinged feet up on the table as she mutters something about how they’ve been killing her all day. Helen wrinkles her nose at the gesture. It’s not like Madeline’s dirty, it just feels a little uncouth and informal for the setting. She supposes she’ll have to get used to these little Madelineisms again if they’re going to be working closely with one another for a while. “So… thoughts?”

Helen looks down at her full page, notes even crossing over into the margins because she just had so much to say. “I’d say we have a clear winner for the Nurse - there’s no doubt in my mind that Ava would be perfect for that role.”

Madeline nods, and the other two mutter in agreement. Helen sees that Stacey hasn’t taken many notes - it isn’t technically her main job, but it would’ve been helpful - and she tears out her page from her notebook to pass down to her. On the new, clear page in front of her, she prints the words ‘CAST LIST’ in block capitals at the top, then underneath she writes out each role in the margin with a blank line in between each one. Madeline watches her do all this, catching her eye when she’s finished with a look Helen can’t quite name.

They discuss each role in depth, gradually assigning a young actor to each part, which eventually leaves them with the two leads at the top of the page, empty spaces next to the two names looming at them. Stefan writes a shortlist of four students per role, which then gets narrowed down to three, then two for each. “Whoever doesn’t get picked as a main should be the understudy,” Stacey suggests. “That would’ve solved a lot of issues if my high school had done that.”

Helen’s momentarily curious about what had happened at Stacey’s high school for her to say this, then feels an odd pang of jealousy at the idea of everyone except her being allowed to participate in high school theatre. Her parents were the pushy, strictly academic sort, not believing the arts to have any kind of developmental benefit for Helen, forbidding her from taking part in any school plays lest it distract her from her studies. Oh well. No use lamenting on the past now when this current high school play needs her full engagement, she muses. “That’s a great idea. We just have to make a decision, though. Stefan, what do you think?”

Stefan presses his fingertips together, brows furrowing as he thinks long and hard about it. “I really liked Skylar’s Romeo, but there was something about Aiden’s performance that felt more genuine.”

“I agree,” offers Madeline, unusually pensive. Helen wonders what’s going on inside her head - she’s been thinking very loudly for the past twenty minutes. It’s odd to see her care about something other than herself this much, she thinks, perhaps a little too harshly. Dare she say that she's even misjudged Madeline, though would she ever be able to admit that out loud?

“Okay, unless anyone objects, we’ll cast Aiden as the main and Skylar as the understudy.” The group is silent in agreement, and Helen writes Aiden’s name next to Romeo on her list.

“And Juliet… oh, boy. These two girls were so amazing, it’s going to be hard to pick between them. Lacey really played on the youthful side of Juliet, but Tasha gave it so much heart. Both equally important aspects of Juliet’s character,” Madeline rambles, clearly voicing her own train of thought. And Helen finds herself agreeing with everything she says, which is odd, because that’s quite possibly never happened before in all the time they’ve known each other.

“I agree. They are both very important aspects. But Mad -” the old nickname comes out through force of habit, and Helen tries very hard not to blush at her own slip-up “- we can always give performance notes to whoever we cast. Personally, I marginally preferred Tasha’s audition, but only by a fraction. I think we could direct her to be more childish at the start of the play, but we need to be able to see the obvious maturity in Juliet’s character by the end.”

Madeline regards her carefully. “You really do know your shit, don’t you, Hel?”

The blush does rise this time, Helen cursing at it internally. “It’s almost like it was my degree.”

They hold each other’s gaze for just a millisecond too long, Stefan and Stacey staring at them both uneasily like they’re wondering whether they’re about to start having a screaming match or if it’s just friendly fire. Helen snaps out of it first. “So, Tasha as Juliet?”

Madeline thinks for a moment while the other two offer their affirmation. “Yes.” Helen signs the final name onto their cast list, and it all suddenly feels very official and real. “Wow, we’re really doing this,” Madeline says quietly, like it’s hitting her for the first time too. And Helen finally starts to realise it; maybe they’re not that different after all.

Chapter Text

It’s Saturday evening, and, because a teacher’s work is never done, Helen’s typing up the cast list that will be pinned to the drama notice board come Monday morning. Meagre light spills across the darkened bedroom from the candle on her dresser - spiced apple, her favourite autumnal scent, though if anyone asked, she’d give them a much classier answer - and she knows it’s going to kill her already failing eyesight, plugging away on her laptop in the semi-dark like this, but she doesn’t particularly care. She’s onto the final few ensemble names when her phone buzzes with an incoming text, the vibration muffled by her duvet. Strange - who would be texting her at this hour?

(201) 753-7397

hey

we really need to organize rehearsal schedge

how does every weds and fri sound?

9:27pm

Helen frowns hard at her phone like it’s going to detonate in her hand. She’s not presumptuous enough to immediately assume who it is, but not delusional enough to think it’s anyone else other than Madeline, though how on Earth she got her number, especially after they’d blocked each other years ago, Helen doesn’t know. Still, feigning ignorance might be her best option, she thinks, as she taps out her reply.

Who is this?

9:29pm

who do u think dummy

9:29pm

Only someone with a death wish or far too 

much audacity for their own good would call 

me that, Madeline.

I see why you’ve started going to therapy.

9:30pm

it’s mean to joke about things like that hel

but yes it’s me madeline

9:31pm

You added “Public School Enemy No. 1” to your contacts.

But calling me names isn’t mean, right? No 

matter how embarrassingly juvenile they 

might be.

9:32pm

How did you even get my number?

9:33pm

viola

9:34pm

The unusually concise reply plus the revelation itself set Helen’s teeth on edge. She supposes it’s a shame what a colossal fallout murdering Viola would create. Then she wonders how she’d even go about explaining that one to the school board - she envisions herself standing in front of a panel as she casts her eyes to the floor and twists her hands together, the picture of remorse - ‘sorry, Miss Van Horn gave my phone number to my mortal enemy without my permission and it drove me to desperate measures.’ She almost laughs out loud.

I hope she knows she’ll have me to answer to 

about that on Monday.

9:36pm

don’t b ridiculous we all know ur scared of her

9:36pm

Must you insist on texting like the teenagers 

you teach?

9:38pm

mUsT yOu InSiSt on texting like a dead 

victorian heiress

9:38pm

Speaking proper English isn’t a crime, you 

know.

I suppose you wouldn’t, since you’re basically 

illiterate.

9:39pm

illiterate my ass

9:39pm

I’ll let you figure out where the comma is 

supposed to go in that sentence on your own.

9:40pm

Helen drops her phone back onto the bed and returns to the task at hand. Her phone buzzes again, but she ignores it. A few more minutes go by, enough for Helen to finish adding all the names to the cast list, when her phone buzzes a second, third, and fourth time. Someone’s insistent, she thinks, huffing and grumbling as she unlocks her phone and reads the barrage of short texts from Madeline.

UGH

9:40pm

illiterate, my ass

there

happy now?

9:44pm

I’m not sure ‘happy’ is the word I’d use, but I 

suppose it’ll do.

9:45pm

wyd rn

9:46pm

…Excuse me?

9:47pm

what you doing right now

9:47pm

Surely it should be WAYD?

...Never mind.

Anyway, I’ve just finished typing up the cast 

list.

9:48pm

aww u really care about this show don’t u

9:48pm

I care about Shakespeare being done 

properly. Not whatever modernized,

pop-song-infused nightmare you

surely cooked up in your imagination.

9:49pm

thats not true!!! mostly

anyway

typing up the cast list ain’t got nuthin to do 

with shakesy p baby

9:50pm

Helen’s puzzled and slightly mortified by the way her heart jumps at the nickname. It’s been a long time, she supposes, since she heard anything like that. The last person to call her that had been Sandra, her ex-girlfriend. The term feels childish for what had been a relationship between two women in their thirties, but ‘partner’ feels stale and impersonal to her, and they'd never even got as far as engagement, so she figures it’ll have to do. They’d had to go their separate ways after Helen discovered who Sandra voted for in 2016, and it certainly wasn’t Clinton. If she thinks hard enough about it, even all these years later, she can still hear Sandra’s pitiful “baby, please, you don’t understand, it's how I was raised” after trying (and failing) to explain her thought process. She shudders as she dwells on it, almost not registering the faint buzz of another text from Madeline. Almost. 

sorry was that too much

9:52pm

A little, yes.

9:53pm

I don’t know what you think we are, Madeline, 

but we’re not friends. We are just colleagues 

working on a project together for the benefit of 

our students. I will be civil with you as the 

project requires it, but do not expect any more 

than that.

9:56pm

There’s a much longer break in between Madeline’s last message and her next ones, at least longer by Madeline’s standards. Maybe she’s finally learned how to choose her words carefully, Helen thinks bitterly. If only she’d realised it ten, fifteen years ago

im sorry helen

i crossed a line

i won’t do it again

10:01pm

well 

i’ll try not to

10:03pm

It’s odd, she thinks, Madeline taking responsibility and apologising all in one go. Is it that she finds sincerity easier to fabricate over text than face-to-face? So much for that theatre degree, then.

I suppose I’ll have to forgive you for the sake 

of the production, but you’re on thin ice.

10:05pm

Don’t make me regret agreeing to this, 

Madeline.

10:11pm

Maybe she is being needlessly brutal to Madeline. Maybe this really is her way of offering an olive branch. Maybe Helen should ease off and just give her the benefit of the doubt, try and believe she has been on some miraculous healing journey that has transported her to a new universe, the real one, where everything isn’t orbiting around her.

i won’t i promise

10:13pm

Helen decides to take her word for it, for now. For the sake of the production. And she’ll definitely be having some choice words with Viola on Monday.

The directorial team had made the collective tactical decision to pin the cast list to the notice board during second period, when the vast majority of their cast will be in class, save for a couple of seniors who have a timetable break. Helen is sure the last thing she wants on a Monday morning is a swarm of overexcited fourteen-year-olds barrelling towards her in their haste to see who’s been cast as who. It reads as follows:

NHS PRESENTS: ROMEO AND JULIET

CAST

Romeo: Aiden Romanowski

(Understudy: Skylar Mattison)

Juliet: Tasha Jones

(Understudy: Lacey Smith)

Tybalt: Giuliana Rossi

Mercutio: Emily Wilmington

Benvolio: Chance Samuels

Nurse: Ava Thomson

Friar Lawrence: Josh Sims

Capulet: Thalia Carey

Lady Capulet: Adela Silva

Montague: Melanie Torres

Lady Montague: Kayla Scott

Paris: Finn Cohen

Ensemble: Sebastian Brown, Tallulah Edwards, Luna Lee, 

Skylar Mattison, Lacey Smith, Jamie Weir

Rehearsals on Wednesdays and Fridays at 3pm.

All cast members are required to attend unless specified by the directorial team.

Helen scans the list, rather pleased with herself for working out how to add little clipart images of a quill and drama masks in the top corners for decoration. Excitement simmers tentatively in her chest as a clearer image of the play comes together in her mind; it’s much easier to visualise now that their cast is set in stone. She thinks back to the auditions on Friday and how engaged the kids had all been with the script, how they’d said every line with such reverence as if it were sacred text. It’s strange - she had half expected no one to show up, truly believing that passion for Shakespeare had died long ago, but she’s been proven pleasantly wrong.

It doesn’t register immediately that there’s a presence beside her, hovering in her periphery. She almost jumps, briefly turning her head just enough to realise that it’s Madeline, who’d managed to sidle up to her noiselessly. “Must you insist on moving about the school like a dead Victorian heiress?” she quips without looking at her twice, harking back to their exchange on Saturday night.

“I literally just walked over here like any normal person, but okay,” Madeline retorts, perhaps more fiery than she intended. Then she seems to soften as she takes a deep breath to reset herself, shoulders relaxing and temperament more even. “Thanks for doing all this, Hel. I actually do appreciate it more than you think.” Another deep breath. “And I truly am sorry for what I said the other night. I don’t want to make your life miserable like I used to, and I hope I can prove that.”

This takes Helen aback. She flounders for a moment as she scrambles to form a response in her mind that doesn’t make her seem jaded or distrustful, because she really, really wants to believe this could work. Even if for no other reason, it is important that they remain professional and cohesive for the creative process to be able to run smoothly. “I do want to trust you, Mad, believe me. But you’ve really hurt me in the past, so it’ll take a while for me to get past that. Can you please just give me the time and space to do that? It’s the least you can do.” She chews on her lip, a nervous habit she thought she’d broken years ago. The return of Madeline to her immediate circle seems to have awoken all of her dormant nervous habits.

Madeline digests this, facing away from Helen as she mulls over her words. Then she nods, the gentle undulation of her head barely noticeable, but it’s there. “Sure. Of course.” She squeezes Helen’s arm, then walks away before the sudden contact can be protested. 

When she’s gone, Helen absently traces the outline of where Madeline’s fingertips had been, suddenly off-kilter. It’s unexpected, unsettling, and deeply perplexing how completely changed Madeline seems to be. Is it truly a shift in her character, or is she just biding time to get her way of things before she lets the real Madeline out, kicking and biting and scratching at Helen until she bleeds once more?

The breaktime bell derails her rapidly accelerating train of thought, and she promptly legs it away from the notice board in anticipation of the oncoming stampede. She very nearly makes it to the teacher's lounge when she’s abruptly cornered by Giuliana, the tall, rather intimidating senior they’d cast as Tybalt, who’d clearly had a free period to be able to make it there so quickly. “Ms Sharp!” Her hazel eyes flash interrogatively. “Is the cast list up?”

“It is indeed. I believe you’ll be happy with the role you’ve been assigned.”

Giuliana is the type of girl who seems to maintain an air of aloofness about her - Helen wonders whether she does it out of anxiety and self-preservation or genuine disdain for others, knowing that if it’s the former it’s something she might’ve related to in her own teenagehood - but the girl can’t disguise the giant grin that spreads across her face at the news, reminding Helen for a moment just how young she and everyone in the cast really is. “Thank you, Ms Sharp!” Then she’s dashing away, leaving a smiling Helen in her wake.

The halls are soon filled with the hustle and bustle of high school life; freshmen boys shouting and jostling each other, girls chattering about the latest K-pop music video and who was “serving looks” the most (Helen really needs to catch up on Gen-Z lingo), and harangued teachers making a beeline for the coffee machine in the lounge. Helen watches as more and more of their budding actors gather around the notice board at the end of the hallway she’s facing, some whooping for joy while others turn away sour-faced. Tallulah, one of their Romeo hopefuls, scans the list all the way to the bottom, and Helen believes she reads the question of “ensemble?” on her lips as she turns incredulously to Tasha, who looks helplessly torn between being thrilled for herself and sympathetic to her friend’s plight. Oh no, Helen thinks. Hopefully, this won’t force a wedge of jealousy between the pair, who had been so close since their very first week of high school three years ago, when she’d put them next to each other on her seating chart. And if there’s jealousy, tears, or arguments, well… they’ll cross that bridge if and when they get to it. Preferably if. Better for them to learn about the cutthroat nature of the industry within the safe, low-stakes confines of high school theatre, anyway.

The coffee machine’s calling her name, and she’s just broaching the doorway of the lounge when Ava comes bounding up to her excitedly. For a moment, Helen thinks the girl is going to throw her arms around her, so she steps back on instinct, and, sensing the unspoken boundary, Ava skids to a halt. “Ms Sharp! You cast me! I can’t believe it, thank you so much!”

“Your audition blew us all away, so you’d better believe it! You should have more confidence in your abilities, Ava. You’re incredibly talented.”

Ava nods, suddenly coy. “Thank you, Ms Sharp. When do rehearsals start?”

If it had been any other student, Helen would’ve rolled her eyes at their inability to read carefully through all the information on the sheet, but Ava is so bright-eyed and endearing that it’s impossible to be annoyed at her. She must’ve been so over the moon to see her own name on the list that she’d stopped reading at that point. “We start this Wednesday. You can make it, I hope?”

The girl grins, nodding so hard her braids bounce, the beads woven into them clacking together noisily. “Of course!” Then she sticks out a hand for Helen to shake. “I look forward to working with you,” she says formally.

Helen chuckles and takes Ava’s hand, shaking it as requested. “Welcome to the process.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Aiden, their Romeo, who catches her gaze as they walk past, smiling from ear to ear as they no doubt go to break the news to their friendship group. Once a painfully shy, geeky kid with no more than one or two people they could call a friend, it’s good to see Aiden become more comfortable in their own skin, Helen thinks. They’d finally found their crowd in the school Pride Society Helen had once co-chaired with Stefan and Madeline, finally able to come out of their shell with those who had shared experiences and interests. As a side note, Helen should really return to that, she thinks. Another project of hers that she’d flaked out on because of Madeline. Oh well. Not this time. She’s determined to stick with this one, Madeline be damned.

And, when Ava’s gone to join her own friends, Helen turns to see the woman on her mind in the corner of the lounge by the fridge, hand paused halfway to the door handle. She’s smiling softly across at her with a look in her eye Helen can’t pick one single word from her admittedly vast vocabulary to describe. It’s part wistful, part endeared, and part… jealousy? Why would Madeline, of all people, be jealous of her? Apprehension fizzes low in her gut. Madeline had better not make this process any more difficult than it needs to be, despite her promise earlier. And, Helen begrudgingly admits, some considerable effort is needed on her part. Otherwise, the whole thing is in danger of being caught between a rock and a hard place.

Chapter Text

As instructed by Madeline, the twenty or so young actors stand in a large circle in the gymnasium, a metre and a half or so of space between each of them. Wednesday had finally arrived, and an air of expectancy hangs buoyantly in the room as they whisper and giggle with the people closest to them, eyes dancing as they snatch glances at the pile of pristine scripts resting in Madeline’s arms that Helen had spent her only free period that day printing and stapling together. It’s just the two of them today; Stacey had prior commitments, and Stefan is in the music department hosting a first rehearsal of his own for the band kids.

Madeline is dressed down in a way that’s casual enough to feel friendly and approachable, but not so much that the kids start to forget she’s one of the adults in the room. Black yoga pants, a cornflower blue hoodie with MMC emblazoned on the front in stark white letters, and her hair is thrown back into a glossy claw clip that’s several shades of blue woven together, shining blonde strands messy yet irritatingly glamourous for a Wednesday afternoon after a long day of teaching. It almost makes Helen seethe; she hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothes and feels horribly dowdy and overdressed in her usual work attire of slacks and dress shirt. Hopefully, Madeline won’t make her do anything too strenuous, or else she’s in grave danger of tearing the unforgivingly stiff fabric. She combs a hand self-consciously through her own hair, wishing she’d at least brought a hair tie to keep it off her face.

The object of her ire suddenly claps three times, commanding the full attention of the room as the chatter fizzles out abruptly. “Welcome, students, and congratulations! I hope you’re all as excited to get started as myself and Ms Sharp here.” She wafts a hand in Helen’s direction, and Helen offers a closed-lipped smile that probably isn’t convincingly ecstatic enough for Madeline’s claim. “We’ll get stuck into our first readthrough soon, but first, I thought we’d play some icebreaker games!”

Oh god. Helen hates icebreakers, and she’s never been a fan of playing Madeline’s games either, in more ways than one. But, thankfully, judging by the mixed reactions from the students, she’s not alone in her distaste. She catches Giuliana’s unimpressed eye across the circle and mouths a quick help me, and the girl bites back a smile. Helen wishes briefly that the more extroverted theatre crowd would understand that not everyone is interested in becoming best friends with everyone who so much as breathes in their direction. 

Then she catches herself, remembering that she’s trying to break away from the old Helen that shrinks into the corners away from the limelight, to fill the space that Madeline of all people has created for her. It’s funny, she thinks - the old Madeline would have kicked off at the idea of even being asked to work on a project with Helen, let alone be the one to initiate the partnership. It’s almost poetic in its own right. Part of her worries she’s not being genuine enough, that her motivations are obvious and that she’s only doing this because Viola’s dangling the head of department position over her head in exchange, but she hopes Madeline knows that her proclivity for Shakespeare - and teaching it - isn’t something that can be forged easily. And she feels a pressing need to get to the bottom of whatever’s caused Madeline’s recent personality revamp - a head injury? A lobotomy? Maybe she’ll find out someday.

But not today. Today she’s apparently going to be playing a rather egregious-sounding game called ‘zip, zap, zop.’ The onomatopoeic words sound alien to her. Madeline goes over the rules, and she pretends to listen, but she’s distracted. Was Madeline’s hair always such an icy blonde? Did she always carry herself with such gentle poise? And does she know the lightest shade of blue in her claw clip is a perfect match to the hue of her hoodie? Of course she does - there’s no way someone so carefully curated did any of this by accident. Everything about her image is intentional; to her students, she’s one of the fun, lenient teachers everyone loves, handing out praise and rewards like they’re on sale. To her colleagues, she’s dirty, flirty Mad, fast and loose with her words in a way that has Helen shocked that she’s not been fired yet. And to her best-friends-turned-mortal-enemies - a spot Helen can only assume is reserved for herself alone - she’s the devil incarnate. But now they’re caught in this strange limbo between animosity and… not friendship, but perhaps a fragile acquaintance. She’s unsure how to quantify whatever’s forming between them as a result of this project.

Then all eyes are suddenly on her as variations of “Ms Sharp, you’re out,” chorus around the circle. Oh dear - her own musings had taken her far out of the moment, and she's been zapped. She goes to move out of the shrinking ring of people, but Madeline's quick to pipe up. “Nuh-uh! Where do you think you're going?”

Helen blanches, skin crawling from the scrutiny. “I'm out, aren't I?” Then she sees the other unlucky losers all sitting cross-legged on the floor, and her stomach turns. There's no way she's getting down there without embarrassing herself in some way. “I’m not sitting on the floor. I’ll just wait outside the circle.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a stick in the mud, just do what everyone else is doing.” Madeline’s eyes flash dangerously at the challenge, voice a pointed blade. Helen suddenly feels ten times smaller, the beginnings of a blush creeping up her neck as she eases herself to the floor and prays that her slacks won’t split. Mercifully, they hold firm, but her knees protest with a harsh crack as she folds them in front of her. She hopes the hot shame coursing through her veins and boiling her blood in her ears isn’t as distressingly obvious as it feels - how could she have crumbled so fast? Now Madeline - and maybe even their students - will just think she’s weak, bowing to the whims of the other teacher with very little pushback. Maybe she really is weak. She certainly feels it right now.

She sulks on the floor for the rest of the game, her mouth set in a grim line despite the joy that surrounds her. When it’s time to get back up, she only partially resists the urge to make a big show of it, rising deliberately slowly and huffing as her back creaks with effort. Madeline catches onto her antics immediately and arches a brow, tilting her head just enough that only she notices. Helen blushes inconceivably harder, feeling no more than two feet tall. Perhaps the forgotten hair tie was a blessing, she thinks as she dips her head to hide behind her hair like she used to as a child under the harsh eyes of her parents.

It seems she’s not the only one in a funk, though - she’s spotted a stormy-faced Tallulah to the left of Chance, stance closed off in a way that suggests she wants minimal participation in this whole affair. Is this still about the casting choices? Helen sighs through her nose. She recalls overhearing the senior girl voicing her desire to attend a performing arts college once, listing all the applications she'd started so far - if she can't handle rejection within the cotton-wool confines of this space, how will she cope once it actually matters? As if on cue, Tallulah rolls her eyes and taps the toe of her boot against the ground impatiently. “Can we just start the readthrough already? This sucks.”

Tasha nudges her lightly in the ribs. “Hey, I thought you loved this game?”

Tallulah scoffs. “Yeah, well, I’m sick of it now.”

The minor altercation draws the attention of those in the vicinity, as well as Madeline’s, who claps her hands again to try and diffuse the situation by redirecting the focus of the group. “Okay, I now declare the ice officially broken!” She retrieves the pile of scripts from where she’d placed them on the floor in the centre of the circle and passes them out to each student. Then she pauses as if deep in thought, making a show of counting the remaining people in the circle, then glancing back down at the depleting pile. “Uh oh. I think we’re short a couple of scripts. Hel- sorry, Ms Sharp? Be a dear, would you?”

Helen feels something stir low in her abdomen. Is it revulsion? Spite? Irritation? Something else? Without a word, she turns to leave the gym, swiping her lanyard up from the table to the left of the door. She really wants to chastise Madeline for her unprofessionalism, for slipping up and using her first name and a term of endearment in front of students - and while they’re still not even friends, for that matter - but knows that drawing attention to it will just make things worse on all sides. She’s not Madeline’s number one fan, sure, but humiliating her in front of the kids won’t do anything to ease the frostiness between them.

When she returns with the two extra scripts, Madeline has organised the actors into ‘Montagues,’ ‘Capulets,’ and ensemble, and they sit on folding chairs in their respective groups. Luna, a shy freshman in the ensemble with straight, black hair and dark eyes, thanks Helen profusely for her copy, clasping it delicately to her like she can’t quite believe it’s hers. It’s a far cry from Tallulah’s response, who practically tears the script out of her hand without looking up, muttering a barely audible thanks. 

Helen narrows her eyes at the girl. “Is there an issue, Tallulah?”

Tallulah shrugs. “No. Why would there be?” Tasha, who’s sitting in the Capulet camp with one ear open to the conversation beside her, casts a sidelong glance towards her friend.

“Would you mind stepping outside with me for a second?”

The girl sighs deeply as though carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders - well, no one ever accused high school theatre kids of having proportionate reactions to hardships - and follows Helen out of the double doors. She stands with her back to the wall, their similar height putting them eye-to-eye; or rather, it would, if only Tallulah would look at her. “What’s going on with you?” she tries, gentler now. What she doesn’t expect, however, is for Tallulah’s face to instantly crumple with dammed emotion. She’s quiet for a long, awkward moment while the girl dissolves into tears, never quite knowing what to do or say when people cry in front of her.

Eventually, Tallulah’s sobs become more subdued, and Helen starts to feel the tension she wasn’t aware she was accumulating in her shoulders dissipate. “Tallulah? Tell me what’s happened.” She already has a feeling she knows what’s coming, though.

“It’s stupid…” the girl starts, trailing off.

“You can tell me, I won’t judge.” Helen musters up what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

“I just… I really wanted a main part. I’ve never had one before, and this was my last chance before college. What am I supposed to put on my applications now?” She catches a lone tear with her index finger. “And you said in the briefing you were going to cast a girl as Romeo!”

Helen knows she needs to choose her next words very carefully. “The ensemble and understudies are an integral part of every show, you know this. They’re the reason Broadway shows are able to run when the main cast is out for whatever reason.” The next part is harder. “As for the Romeo casting, I understand we asked boys not to audition. But Aiden isn’t a boy either, and our main goal was for our casting to reflect our diverse student body as much as possible, so we selected the people we felt were most right for the parts.” 

Tears well in Tallulah’s eyes again. “So you’re saying I’m not right for any of the parts? I’m not even an understudy!”

Shit. “No! Not at all. We actually think you’re more versatile than others in the cast, which is why we want you to be ensemble. That way, you’ll get to showcase a wider variety of skills. But please don’t take it out on or be resentful towards Aiden - I know you wanted their part, but in theatre there will be times where you lose out to someone unexpected. Just… be confident in your own abilities and understand that we’ve cast you all in specific parts for a reason.”

“Oh… okay.” This seems to have somewhat placated her, at least. “Thanks, Ms Sharp. Can I go to the bathroom and clean myself up?”

Helen resists the urge to correct her can to may, something she’s known to do - it’s not the time for it. “Yes, you may. Hurry up, though, I imagine they’ll want to start as soon as possible in there.”

Tallulah nods and rushes off, feet clattering loudly on the linoleum in her haste. Helen watches her go, feeling her pulse in her neck as she thinks about all the ways that conversation could’ve gone worse. It had admittedly taken her some time to get her head around all the new terms and definitions that had entered common vernacular in recent times, but she likes to think of herself as a pretty solid ally to the gender non-conforming community. She’s still learning all the time, but a childhood of hearing “children should be seen and not heard” from her own parents had made her want to do the exact opposite - listening to young people and keeping an open mind is how she’s able to do her job well, to be a safe person for some of those students that are starting to question their own identities. All she wants, truly, is to be the person she needed growing up. She finds herself fighting back some tears of her own - when did she start becoming so sentimental?

It feels chillier when she steps back into the gym, any remaining heat from the radiators on the back wall dying away as they switch off automatically after regular school hours - is there seriously not enough room in the budget to keep them on an extra hour or two while they rehearse? She folds her arms across her chest and rubs them together, only half-paying attention to where she’s walking - and steps directly into the path of Madeline, who looks her up and down inquisitively. “Are you cold? Wait, let me get my cardigan for you.” 

Helen opens her mouth to argue, but Madeline’s already retrieving the item of clothing for her. She offers it out, and Helen wonders if it’s a trick. Is there a catch? Does Madeline expect something in return? How can she, when she has so little left to give? She reaches out hesitantly, pinching the soft lilac garment between her thumb and forefinger like it’ll pinch her back if she’s not careful enough. A thought begins to form about how it’s not really her colour when Madeline’s own fingers encircle her wrist, and she’s being pulled closer. “Make sure you dress appropriately next time, yeah?” she whispers, breath warm on Helen’s cheek.

It’s embarrassing, really, the ferocity of the shiver that rolls through her, and Helen’s not entirely sure it’s just the temperature to blame. Who does Madeline think she is, getting up in her space like that and bossing her around? “Don’t tell me what to do,” she hisses through her teeth, shrugging on the cardigan with poorly concealed spite.

Madeline actually has the nerve to wink at her. “Now, now, Hel. Don’t let the students see you get all hot and bothered,” she utters lowly.

The door squeaks to announce Tallulah’s return before Helen can muster up something witty and withering in return. She looks marginally better, but anyone who looked too closely would realise she’d been crying. Helen shoves down the venom that curls through her veins whenever she looks at Madeline for too long and smiles brightly at the forlorn girl. “Tallulah! We were just waiting for you to start us off.”

Madeline seems caught off guard by this, ready to question Helen’s quick lie, when the reason for Tallulah’s absence seems to dawn on her. “Yes! Ms Sharp is right, we actually wanted you to read the first few lines of the prologue - can you do that for us?” 

Tallulah beams, previous woes forgotten now that she’s been given the honour of opening the show. “Sure! When do you want me to start?”

“Take a seat, and we’ll begin.” Helen points over to her vacant seat, and Madeline nods approvingly at her. Goosebumps crawl up her neck despite the warmth Madeline's cardigan provides. What the hell?

The girl returns to the ensemble group and perches on her chair, flipping the script open to the correct page and clearing her throat, unwittingly distracting her. “Two households, both alike in dignity…”

Chapter Text

Friday’s two-hour rehearsal comes and goes in a flurry of rustling script pages, copiously highlighted lines and stage directions, and - to Helen’s dismay - bickering over ensemble line assignments. Despite their previous conversation, Tallulah remains irritatingly obstinate over her given role, and seemingly goes out of her way to complicate the process by talking over everyone and offering a constant barrage of unwarranted criticism for her castmates, against the better judgment and gentle chastising of her teachers. Helen knows she has to put her foot down when timid little Luna dissolves into floods of tears over a particularly scathing comment on her enunciation. “Tallulah! Go and stand outside, I’ve had enough!” she barks, face flushing, irate. The girl flounces out, muttering something undoubtedly rude under her breath. 

And of course, Chagall picks this moment to poke his head round the door, eyes going wide as he surveys the situation, then promptly retracts his head back and out of sight. In any other context, Helen might have laughed, but her anger still simmers quietly away like a red haze in her chest, obscuring any other feeling. Madeline, as always, is a master of deflection. “Why don’t we start blocking Act 1, Scene 1? Seb, Jamie, over here, please. Stage right. Montagues, wait in the ‘wings’ - ” she punctuates this with air quotes “ - by stage left.”

She points to their makeshift stage (six benches laid out in a slightly lopsided rectangle) and, after a minor scuffle over what ‘right’ and ‘left’ mean on stage, the actors take their respective positions. Helen’s eyes unconsciously follow the soft but definite swell of Madeline’s bicep through her shirt as she points - has she been working out lately? She wonders if this is all part of some overarching self-improvement scheme that Madeline’s forcing herself to adhere to, though she can’t think of any particular reason why she would feel the need to do this. One thing about Madeline is that she’s always needed a reason to do something, an external motivator; at one point in time, it had been her pathological need to one-up Helen in every way imaginable. But this feels more inward-facing - had Madeline finally seen herself for who she really was in the mirror, and disliked what she saw?

Once Tallulah has been dealt a firm, final reprimand that she will be out of the production if she keeps this up, and after they’ve all taken a short break, the rehearsal resumes without a hitch. When it’s over, Helen’s walking back to her car with another box of never-ending midterm papers to grade nestled into the dip of her waist, when she hears the unmistakable voice of Madeline call out behind her. “Helen! Wait!”

She spins around slowly to face the other woman. “What do you want?”

Madeline’s cheeks are tinted pink, and she’s breathless; it appears she’d been running to catch Helen up. “You still have my cardigan. Are you going to give it back at any point?”

To be fair to Madeline, it’s a valid question. For once. “Oh, sorry. Yes, I’ll bring it back on Monday. I’ve been a little preoccupied.” She jostles the box on her hip, which creaks a little under the weight of the papers moving about inside.

“Thanks!” There’s a stifling pause, like they’re each waiting for the other to make further conversation, but neither knows what to say. Madeline twirls a strand of hair around her forefinger absently; she’d opted to leave it down for their rehearsal today. Looking up a little higher above her eyeline, Helen’s surprised to see some root regrowth - the old Madeline would be right back in the salon chair the moment even a hint of her real colour began to peek through. She almost feels proud. “So… I’ll see you Monday, then?”

“Yes, see you Monday. Have a nice weekend.”

“I would say the same, but…” Madeline trails off and gestures to the box of papers. Helen chuckles ruefully, waving her off with her free hand as she turns back towards her car. 

She ducks awkwardly into the driver’s side and slides the heavy box over onto the passenger seat, buckling it in just for good measure. Clicking her seatbelt into place, she twists her key in the ignition. The car revs once, twice… then chokes and sputters alarmingly, the sound of the engine dying away just as quickly as it started up. Helen tries again, and again, panic rising in her gut as it becomes increasingly apparent that her car won’t start. “For fuck’s sake,” she hisses, raising both hands as if about to smack the steering wheel in front of her but opting for a more dignified squeeze of the wheel instead. “Shit. Just my fucking luck.” 

For a minute, Helen considers calling a towing company, but after a quick Google search tells her she could be waiting upwards of an hour for one to arrive, she quickly scraps that idea. She scans the sparsely populated parking lot desperately, searching for anyone who might be able to help her - or at least give her a ride home. Even Chagall, who's famous for pulling increasingly late-nighters at the school, appears to have left, his sleek black Jaguar nowhere in sight. That’s when she sees her; Madeline is still there in her own car, scrolling on her phone, blissfully unaware of the situation unfolding just fifteen yards away from her. It’s utterly humiliating, Helen thinks, to be left with no other option but to ask Madeline for help, but it’s either that or wait in her own defunct car that’s rapidly dropping in temperature for an indeterminate amount of time for the tow truck to arrive. Sighing, she resigns herself to her fate, climbing back out of her car with her belongings and shuffling over to where Madeline is parked. She knocks on the driver’s side window, the beginnings of rain slashing translucent patterns across the flat surface. Madeline screams, dropping her phone into her lap, then hastily switches on her engine so she can open the window once she sees who it is. “Helen, what the fuck? You scared the crap out of me.” She takes in the sight of Helen, shivering yet heated all at once, the box of papers trembling slightly in her grip, and quirks a brow. “What’s wrong?”

“My car won’t start. Would you mind driving me home? Don’t worry if you can’t, I’ll figure something out.” It’s an obvious lie - she has nothing in the way of a backup plan and knows her face and voice betray her. But Madeline appears to be feeling generous today, and motions for Helen to get in. She does, twisting back over her seat to deposit the box and her bag onto the increasingly crowded rear seats. How much stuff can one person possibly need to store in their car? She can just make out an outfit change, a royal blue raincoat, and a brightly coloured stack of craft paper wedged flatly underneath everything else. Then she remembers Madeline’s messy locker and quickly puts the pieces together - this must be the only place where she has space to store anything. “You know, you really shouldn’t hang around in quiet parking lots with your doors unlocked, Mad. It’s not safe.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I did, right? Otherwise, where would you be? Sitting out in the rain, all bedraggled like a little abandoned kitten?” Madeline mocks, lips turning upwards daringly. “Anyway, maybe I like to live dangerously.”

Helen feels heat rush back into her face, and doesn’t know whether the blame rests on the sudden blast of hot air from the heaters, or from the fact that Madeline just compared her to a kitten, of all things. “Your similes could really use some work,” she eventually grits out, just barely retaining her composure.

Madeline just laughs and turns up the radio. It’s some Top 40 drivel that Helen’s not heard before, and frankly doesn’t plan on hearing ever again, but Madeline seems to know every word as she belts out the chorus. Helen rolls her eyes and rests her elbow on the window frame, one finger of her other hand pressing her ear closed to muffle Madeline as she stares out into the pervading November darkness. She’s not the safest driver, Helen notices, taking both hands off the wheel multiple times and only looking both ways as she pulls out onto each intersection, and she’s on the verge of chastising her for it, tongue poised for speech. But then she remembers the multiple speeding tickets she’s accrued over her nearly twenty-five years of driving (and knows Madeline is aware of each and every one - Helen wouldn’t be surprised if she kept count), and snaps her mouth shut.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that Madeline sounds great - Helen knows she did a musical theatre elective at Marymount and starred in various shows during her time there - but she’s thrown by the rich fullness of Madeline’s voice, even when she’s not trying particularly hard to sound good. She’s gradually coming round to understanding why her ego’s so large - grace, raw talent, passion for her craft, and a blossoming humility streak that make it almost seem justified. Not to mention the glow she’s had about her lately. The therapy must be doing her wonders, Helen thinks, and wonders if it’s time to finally confront the skeletons in her own closet.

It’s only another five minutes of Helen pretending to hate the sound of Madeline’s voice before they’re pulling up at the entrance of her apartment block. She steps out of the car a little gracelessly and tugs open the back door to retrieve her belongings. Then Madeline also steps out - huh? “Are you worried I’m going to lose my way?”

Madeline snorts indelicately. “No, I’m getting my cardigan back. I know you won’t remember on Monday, you have a million other things to think about.”

“Oh, so you’re coming in? Right, okay, well -” She trails off as Madeline strides ahead, only stopping once she reaches the door to the foyer because she physically cannot get past it without Helen’s key card. Helen beeps them in, and they ride the elevator in silence, Madeline wearing a smirk that’s infuriating yet oddly endearing all at once. Helen remembers that look - she’d always wear it when she felt like she’d won a game Helen hadn’t known they were playing.

The air in the apartment is stale and vaguely musty with inactivity when they enter. Helen knows she shouldn’t feel embarrassed about it - she’s been out of there since seven this morning, and wasn’t expecting company - but she can’t stave off the mild mortification that creeps in. What if Madeline thinks she’s dirty? That she doesn’t keep on top of the simple things like dishes and vacuuming and dusting the bookshelves? More importantly, why does Helen even care so much about what the other woman thinks?

Madeline kicks off her shoes and swans down the hallway like she owns the place, dropping her bag in a corner as her eyes lock on what she’s looking for through the door to the kitchen. The knitted garment is draped, unfolded but still neat, over one of the high stools that bracket each side of the breakfast bar. She scoops it up, then pauses, surveying the cosy space as she exhales slowly. “Wow. This place is nice. Much better than your parents’ place.”

Madeline had visited Helen’s childhood home a handful of times when they’d first become friends. Helen had been scrimping and saving every dime she earned to be able to finally break free from that hollow, loveless house when Madeline had first entered her life. She resented the assumptions people - including Madeline, at first - often made that she’d grown up in the lazy paradise of white-picket suburbia, that nothing could’ve ever gone awry in her life because her parents could afford to live comfortably. The cushion of wealth had never once protected her from the bruising reality that money indeed cannot buy happiness. Expecting her parents to show her affection was like the feeling of descending a staircase and missing a step, heart in her throat as her foot found no purchase. She’d spent hours, days, years wondering why it was so hard for her parents to even offer her a simple “well done, darling” when she’d received a high grade on a project, or a hug when the bullies had unleashed a particularly foul torrent of abuse on her that day. It’s not like they ever treated her badly - they never hit her, or said unkind things, or threatened to relinquish her basic human rights, nothing like some of the horror stories she’d heard - they were just… there. Parent-shaped silhouettes, more than anything, who viewed their children as mere accessories rather than people.

She’s so busy wallowing in her own self-pity that she doesn’t even realise Madeline - the absolute menace - is raiding her kitchen cupboards. A spiteful little dig about her not having enough money for groceries forms at the back of her throat, but she bites her tongue to stop it from making the journey out of her mouth. Money has always been a sore spot for Madeline; having grown up living paycheck to paycheck, her single mother absent like Helen’s own parents but in other ways, bringing it up was always sure to elicit a negative reaction from her.

But it’s not food Madeline’s looking for. Her searching hands finally close around her prize, and she gives a quiet whoop of satisfaction as she pulls out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “Where are your glasses?”

“Did you forget you drove here?!”

Madeline sighs and feigns a deep yawn, ever the dramatist. “Oh, please. You’re so boring. One glass won’t hurt.”

“Well, don’t blame me if you end up as roadkill by morning.” Helen has no idea what she’s doing, empowering Madeline’s blatant disregard for traffic laws, but her hands move to get two wine glasses out of another cupboard like they’re on strings. She wants to protest, to throw Madeline out on the street for daring to be so disgustingly audacious in her home, but she begins to worry that she might actually be enjoying this. To be honest, she’s been dying for some company lately. And, even though it’s Madeline seating herself at the breakfast bar like the stool was built for her, and they’re supposed to hate each other, it feels oddly inevitable. It’s forbidden in a way that’s on the enticing side of dangerous, like the time when she got caught with cigarettes in her pocket by her ninth-grade teacher, making her popular among her peers for all of one week as they all begged and clamoured to know where she’d got them from. So she doesn’t protest it, only positions herself on the opposite side of the bar and pours out two level glasses.

But, as it often goes, one glass of wine each becomes two, then quickly three, idle chatter and alcohol blurring the passage of time. When the faded old clock that once belonged to her grandfather strikes eleven, they’re through the whole bottle, and Helen’s sliding clumsily off her stool to retrieve another bottle from the pantry. Madeline giggles as Helen’s foot becomes snagged on one of the legs and she almost stumbles, and Helen finds herself laughing too, instead of taking offence like she would sober. She finds it strange that some people become aggressive when drinking; alcohol makes her feel as light as a cloud, as though the mundane worries of her day-to-day life are non-existent, absorbed into the ether as the substance dulls the sharpness of her stresses. 

She uncorks the new bottle with surprising agility and brings it over to the bar, unintentionally crowding Madeline as she reaches across to place it on the raised surface. They’re almost unnervingly close - Helen can see the span of freckles across Madeline’s forehead, the way her eyes, blue as midnight in the low light, crinkle just so at the sides from years of laughter. She feels her hot breath ghost across her cheek, soured with the long day and the wine she’s consumed, but it’s not unpleasant. Helen feels her own breath quicken as she registers Madeline scanning her own face, and silently prays that there’s nothing in her teeth. Why is Madeline looking at her like that? Her eyes are full of an emotion Helen can’t put words to, the wine hindering her ability to access her broad vocabulary. Maybe it doesn’t need words. Maybe -

Then Helen steps back, the trance breaking as quickly as it formed. She climbs back up onto the stool, the task harder now that she’s not sober, but Madeline doesn’t laugh this time at her obvious struggle. More than anything, she just looks puzzled, her expression mirroring how Helen feels. Did Madeline feel it too? Did she feel the invisible force between them, winding tighter and tighter like a coil of live wire, close to snapping? Or is Helen as delusional as she believes herself to be right now? 

Neither of them dares to shatter the brittle silence, both staring into their wine glasses across from each other like two halves of the same whole. There’s a question swimming around in Helen’s mental periphery, one that’s been plaguing her for some weeks now ever since their first proper conversation at the lockers that day, but she’s not yet had the gumption to ask it of Madeline. But the wine has lowered her inhibitions somewhat. “Why did you really start going to therapy?”

Madeline pales, her instant discomfort at the invasive question clear as day. “What makes you ask that?” Her voice is husky with sudden shyness.

Helen wrings her hands together. It’s out in the open now, whether she regrets it or not. “You clearly weren’t being serious with me when we first spoke about it. I know you like to put on this façade of bravado, but don’t forget I know you better than most people.” She takes another sip of wine, liquid courage sliding over her tongue. “Also, I do care to know about how you're doing. I know I seem prickly sometimes, but you must understand why.” The memories of why they fell out are fuzzy now - and the wine isn’t helping - but her brain has a knack for holding onto the feelings over the facts, its plasticity permanently moulded around whatever major grievance Madeline had committed against her. Helen’s not even sure that she understands why anymore.

“You want the truth?” Madeline seems oddly touched by Helen’s confession. “Well… something quite major happened to me over the summer, and it made me re-evaluate a few things.”

“What happened?” Helen presses gently, hoping her tone conveys that an answer isn’t a necessity.

“My mom died.”

The words are heavy, both of them all too familiar with the baggage they carry. Madeline’s relationship with her mother was rocky at best - to Helen’s knowledge, they had been thick as thieves until Madeline reached adolescence, the age where she began to really develop a personality of her own - at which point Louise, her mother, seemed to change her tune overnight. She had become angry and bitter, seemingly resentful and yet confusingly determined to shower her only child with material goods they could barely afford, then turning around and throwing it back in Madeline’s face if she didn’t show enough gratitude for the endless hours Louise worked to be able to pay for a lifestyle Madeline didn’t even ask for. Helen had only met the woman twice, both meetings fraught with unspoken grief between mother and daughter as neither managed to find the words needed to mend their fractured relationship.

Of its own accord, her cold hand reaches across the table to cradle Madeline’s warm one. “I’m sorry.” It’s probably not the right thing to say, given what she knows about their tenuous bond, but what else is there left to say when someone dies?

“Don’t be. She’d been sick for a long time - brain cancer.” She laughs then, the hollow, unexpected sound startling Helen. “It’s almost karmic, really. She spent most of my life making my brain a horrible place to be, and that’s what killed her, of all things. This is terrible, but I almost felt relieved when I got the call to say she’d gone.”

Helen can only nod slowly, unsure of how to respond. She runs her thumb back and forth over Madeline’s knuckles - whether it’s to soothe Madeline or herself, she doesn’t know. “Forgive me if I’m being dense, but why was that the kicker for you?”

Madeline’s tongue briefly pokes out from between her lips, dampening them nervously. “I think… I just want to be a better person than she ever was. I recognised in myself that ugly reproachfulness she always held towards people who she thought had it better than her, and I didn’t like it. She died unloved by everyone around her because of her own actions - I don’t want that to happen to me because of how I’ve behaved. It terrifies me.”

While she speaks, Madeline’s other hand seeks out Helen’s free one over the table, weaving their digits together like the other woman is her anchor. Helen is at a loss for words, completely unused to this level of vulnerability from Madeline. “And you - well, you were on the receiving end of it for a long time. It’s been my mission for a while now to make it up to you in some way.”

This is something they can agree on. “You were needlessly mean at times, yes. But I wasn’t perfect either.”

Madeline flashes a small grin. “What’s your excuse, then?” she queries playfully, not expecting an answer because she already knows what it'll be. And it’s as if the prior tension has melted away, and they’re girls again, fresh and green as the day they met. Madeline’s question does indeed go unanswered, because Helen finds herself becoming terribly distracted by her lips. Have they always looked so pink and appealing? They’re leaning in closer, neither caring that the breakfast bar juts painfully into their ribs as they move towards each other, faces just inches apart, when -

Ding, ding, ding. The clock begins to strike midnight, the twelve chimes pealing out impossibly louder in the frisson they’ve created. Helen pulls back so vigorously that it sets her stool teetering dangerously towards collapse. And Madeline suddenly seems very interested in her cuticles. “I should go,” she mutters eventually, still unable to look at Helen properly.

“You can’t drive like this. Take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, I’ll take the couch, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to steal your bed.” In another lifetime, Madeline wouldn’t have thought twice about claiming Helen’s room for herself. Helen silently applauds her growth.

“Thank you.” Why is the air so frosty all of a sudden? “Did you need any towels or PJs or anything?”

Madeline steps down from the stool and rakes her hands backwards through her hair. “Just a hand towel, please. I’ll just sleep in what I’m wearing.” She wanders out into the hallway, leaving Helen mildly stunned. What the hell just happened? Were they about to kiss? A confusing mixture of emotions warps its way through her gut. Had she been missing this the whole time? Unconscious feet carry her to her bedroom, where she sifts distractedly through a drawer until she finds a small blue towel that’s perfect for Madeline. The idea of her borrowing her things, sleeping on her couch, sharing her space - it should scandalise her, but she only feels jittering excitement for what it might mean. 

They meet again outside the bathroom door, where Helen hands her the towel with a coy smile. She thanks her gently, promising not to take as long as she usually does in the bathroom, and Helen’s left alone as the door clicks shut and the room swallows Madeline.

And then, while she listens to Madeline hum a light tune through the door, the one from the radio earlier, it all clicks into place. It was never jealousy, or ill-will, or hatred that opened up a burning fire pit in Helen’s stomach whenever Madeline came near.

It’s lust.

Chapter Text

Helen tosses and turns well into the early hours of Saturday morning, craving respite from the realisation that has unspooled a million and one questions in her mind. Now sober, her body screams for rest, exhausted far beyond all rational thought from the toil of the school day and the events of the evening, but her thoughts won’t let up, tussling with each other in a bid for attention. In all the years they’d known - and hated - each other, it had never once occurred to Helen that the spectrum of love and hate was not two ends of a sliding scale, but rather, a circle.

She’d be lying if she said she’d never thought about Madeline in this light before. In those endless, lonely evenings post-breakup that seemed to stretch out impossibly further with no one to share them with, her thoughts would often turn to the vivacious blonde she’d been cursed (or blessed, if she was feeling sentimental) to share an employer with. They’d been colleagues for five or six years by that point; Helen had joined the school in the autumn of 2011, and Madeline had started there not long after in the following January. And as Madeline had strode past Helen’s classroom that very first day as she stood in the doorway waiting for her class, a decorative scarf billowing out behind her in her rush and her perfume floating on the breeze, Helen had felt her heart stutter erratically in her chest.

They had then become fast friends, bonding over their shared love for the dramatic arts and a penchant for well-composed choral pieces. Madeline had discovered this when she had, rather invasively (though Helen hadn’t complained), leaned over Helen’s shoulder to see what she was listening to on her iPod Nano one lunchtime, squealing when she’d spotted the album cover for Eric Whitacre’s Light and Gold. “Oh my god, you know Whitacre?! He’s one of my favourite modern composers!”

Helen remembers being torn between surprise that Madeline even knew who Whitacre was - she’d heard some of those rather abysmal pop ballads she enjoyed drifting from the tinny speakers of the theatre studio - and relief that there was finally someone else besides Stefan in this cesspit of philistines who could appreciate a good cluster chord. Perhaps she was one of those people who listened to a little bit of everything, unlike Helen’s own much more selective music library. “Mine, too. Do you have a favourite piece on this album?”

Madeline had dragged out the chair beside Helen’s and perched in it lightly, bouncing her heel up and down. “I love them all, but Leonardo is my favourite. What’s yours?”

“I think I’d have to go with The Seal Lullaby. It’s so beautiful.” She had offered Madeline her left earbud, then. “Want to listen?” Madeline took the proffered earbud without a word, and they’d spent the rest of lunch dissecting each track and pointing out their favourite parts. And as she drove home that day, thinking about what had happened that lunchtime, Helen had felt that familiar clenching feeling in her gut that she always got when she found someone attractive. Madeline was, unfortunately, exactly her type: a bubbly, effusive blonde who seemed a little dim-witted to the average passer-by but had a secret academic weapon locked inside. Only the most worthy people were to be indulged with this knowledge, the mask of airheadedness falling away for those who mattered. Did Madeline think Helen was worthy of being privy to that side of her?

There were no rules, as far as she knew, about dating within the workplace - there had been one or two relationships between teachers, and she knew two of the science teachers were married (the head of department and his subordinate, no less), so it wasn’t completely off the table. But then she’d watch Madeline flirt with every male member of the faculty (single or not), taunting and teasing them until they broke, never truly allowing them to get at what they wanted most, and received the message loud and clear. Madeline wasn’t just off-limits to her; she was off-limits to everyone.

So she’d never even tried her luck with Madeline, even when it became apparent that the whole femme fatale act was just a ruse to throw people off her scent and she was, in fact, entirely uninterested in the male species, so to speak. The school Pride Society had begun meeting on Tuesday lunchtimes shortly after, an idea that had been sitting in the newly-appointed Viola’s drafts since she’d started, but only coming to fruition by the insistence of Madeline and Stefan that it was very much needed after a spate of homophobic bullying had run its course through the school halls. Helen had never officially come out at work, but had casually mentioned past female partners here and there, and, because word travels fast in the workplace, it had made its way back to Viola, who offered her the position of co-chair. With Madeline. And Stefan, too, but butterflies didn’t erupt in her stomach whenever she thought about him.

But running the society together wasn’t the key to deeper intimacy with Madeline that she’d imagined it would be - if anything, it was a catalyst for the eventual downfall of their relationship, albeit indirectly. Establishing the society had emboldened Madeline to be more outwardly accepting of her own identity, and, in turn, more openly flirtatious with her female colleagues. This was different to how she was with male colleagues, though - it was almost like she was trying to subtly suss them out via dogwhistling, like asking them if they’d caught Carol at the cinema lately, or heard Melissa Etheridge’s newest single. But she never tried it with Helen once. Never her. Helen would wonder from time to time if Madeline knew how she felt and was trying to get to her in some way.

Then she’d met Sandra one night at a bar after Stefan had begged her to join him and a few others on their weekly Friday hijinks. Stefan lamented Madeline’s absence - she was mysteriously busy that week, vaguely claiming plans but not explaining what they were, even to him, which was odd. Sandra had approached their table, feigning curiosity about where Helen got her dress from, pushing her breasts together as she leaned over to take a closer look, blonde curls tumbling lazily over one shoulder. This had, to Helen’s embarrassment, worked on her, and they’d ended the night in bed together, then they were dating by the next month. Helen wasn’t sure whether it was borne out of loneliness, genuine attraction, or that the way Sandra’s eyes turned up at the corners when she smiled reminded her of Madeline, but she did grow to love Sandra in her own way, even if she had started off as a mere distraction.

Her feelings for Madeline had slowly entered dormancy as her and Sandra’s relationship progressed, even more so when Madeline seemed to take Helen’s new romantic status as a personal challenge to up her own game. She would flirt blatantly with others in Helen’s presence now, even staring at her pointedly as she leaned in to hug a controversially young new hire one day at break time, her eyes never leaving Helen’s as she whispered something undoubtedly filthy into the young woman’s ear, and she had to leave the room for fear of turning as scarlet as the new teacher. This could’ve once been attributed to Helen’s silly schoolgirl crush she’d once harboured for Madeline, but now it was just pure rage and second-hand humiliation. Did Madeline really think she’d cave that easily to her charms? Helen was many things, but unfaithful wasn’t one of them. So she took it upon herself to avoid Madeline wherever possible, hiding between the shelves in the library if she entered and eating her lunch in her car.

But this did little to quell the simmering frustration inside her towards Madeline’s shenanigans, frustration that manifested itself in petty little arguments on the rare occasions where they were forced to speak to each other. It all came to a boil one day at Pride Society; they’d started off bickering about an update in terminology that Helen hadn’t heard about yet. Madeline had pulled her up on it rather viciously, insulting her supposed geriatric status despite only being a few months older than her. It had quickly escalated into a full-blown argument about acting one’s age and respecting boundaries, one that to the untrained eye could be mistaken for a genuine debate on consent and respect, but was clearly a thinly-veiled personal attack on both sides that was eating into the valuable allotted time of the society’s session. It had ended with Stefan having to drag a shrieking Madeline out of the room while Helen sat stunned in her seat, in quiet disbelief over what had just unfolded. She had quietly apologised to and dismissed the dumfounded students, hoping in vain that none of them would spread around what had just transpired. 

Predictably, however, word quickly spread, and by the end of the day, there was an email from Viola in both their inboxes summoning them to a ‘resolution meeting’ that was actually just a solid half hour of her berating the pair for their utter disregard for professionalism and responsibility. She’d given them an ultimatum: at least one of them must hand in their resignation from their position as co-chair, or she would disband the entire society. So, it hadn’t really been a choice but for Helen to take one from the team, knowing Madeline would never, and now her Tuesday lunchtimes were as free as any other.

Then her relationship with Sandra had crumbled, and Helen found herself with more free time than ever. The introvert in her should’ve rejoiced; barely any obligations to spend time with people usually enabled her to rest and recharge her social battery, but for the first time in years, she felt… lonely. There had been so many nights when she’d sobbed for hours into her pillow, yearning for the company of another person but having no one she could appropriately reach out to in the late hours. Her fingers itched to call Madeline, of all people - she was prickly and grating and difficult, but there was never a dull moment with her. But then she’d be hit with the recollection of blocking and deleting Madeline’s number in a moment of blind rage after their final bust-up, and this would only make her cry harder, knowing there was no way for her to get it back. So it became easier, in a way, to maintain her rivalry with Madeline - easier than confronting the alternative, anyway. Easier to play pranks and send biting remarks her way than acknowledge the underlying frisson that had always existed between them.

Helen jolts back into the present when she hears the faint yet unmistakable sound of snoring from her living room. She bites back a laugh that threatens to bark out of her into the night - does Madeline know that she snores like a congested lion? It’s almost grounding, a reminder that Madeline is in fact human and not a physical manifestation of every one of Helen’s dreams and nightmares. 

It should be telling, their inability to leave each other alone, but Helen doesn’t want to be presumptive. What if she’d misread Madeline’s ongoing obsession with making her life a living hell? What if she is just a genuinely bad person who gets her kicks from winding people up? But that doesn’t align with the Madeline she knows, either. Madeline is brilliant at her job, first of all, in both academics and pastoral care - students often line up at her door during free periods just to have a chat with their favourite teacher, to offload or seek advice or just have a good cry to someone who understands. And the passion for the craft Madeline had instilled in them early on had led many of them to pursue theatre and performance well into higher education and beyond. So she’s clearly not entirely devoid of empathy and care for others. It just seems to run away from her when Helen’s around - why?

She debates waking Madeline up to talk. Would it really be such a bad idea? Unburdening herself of the thoughts chasing each other round her mind would certainly help her sleep. But Helen has a strong feeling Madeline might actually rip her head off if she does that, so she decides against it. She chooses instead to employ the breathing techniques she’d googled one evening when the horrors had been particularly persistent in their effort to drag her down into the abyss of despair: in for four counts, hold for seven, then out for eight, then rinse and repeat. Eventually, sleep claims her, and she drifts softly into unconsciousness.

The rainclouds from the night before have broken apart to reveal glorious sunshine, the light refracting off the dewy grass bordering the sidewalk in the chilled November air, lending it an almost dreamlike quality. On any other day, Helen would rejoice at this kind of weather, but the mid-morning brightness that shines through the curtainless windows (she hadn’t bothered to draw them last night) only intensifies her headache from the remnants of the alcohol in her system. She groans, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and rising on unsteady feet as she hooks her glasses over her ears. The upright position only makes her head pound more, and she’s dismayed to find that her water bottle isn’t in its usual place on her nightstand. She must’ve been too caught up in her fervour last night to remember to bring it through to her bedroom.

After relieving herself and splashing some cold water on her face in the bathroom, Helen retrieves the water bottle from the kitchen and gently cracks open the door to the living room, stopping short when she takes in the sight of Madeline sprawled out on the sofa in her slumber. Blonde locks spill out over an arm that’s folded underneath her head - Helen winces as she imagines the pins and needles she’ll no doubt wake up with - and her chest rises and falls shallowly with each steady breath. At some point in the night, she’d removed her hoodie, leaving her in only a low-cut black tank top with spaghetti straps that Helen feels like a pervert for staring at for as long as she does, water bottle almost clattering to the floor in her moment of distraction. She regains a hold on herself and sinks into the soft little armchair perpendicular to the sofa, poised like a sentinel keeping watch over Madeline, taking quiet sips of water now and again to combat her dry mouth.

It’s not too long before Madeline rouses groggily, murmuring something incoherent in her state of half-alertness. She seems to startle for a second as if remembering where she is, then the mask of composure descends as she squints against the sunlight. “God, what time is it? I meant to wake up earlier than this.”

“About 10:45. You okay?”

Madeline nods. “Fine, thanks. But could I please have some water?” Her voice has taken on a raspy quality, no doubt from the alcohol-induced dehydration, but Helen can’t help feeling slightly weak at the knees over it. She stumbles a little as she gets up to go to the kitchen, and she cringes, awaiting a verbal blow from Madeline that never comes. Maybe her empathy is finally beginning to extend towards Helen, after all.

She returns with the full glass to see that Madeline has slid the hoodie back on, and Helen doesn’t know why this disappoints her so. Well, she’s painfully aware of why, just unsure where these feelings have cropped up from to begin with. Madeline takes the glass gratefully and chugs half of it in one go, and Helen pretends not to stare at how the line of her throat pulses gently around each swallow. She’s not as subtle as she had hoped, though, and Madeline catches her eye. “What?”

Helen can feel her cheeks tinting scarlet. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Something’s up with you. For starters, why are you so far away?” She scoots over to make enough room for Helen to sit beside her, and Helen follows along obediently, though she inwardly wonders if it’s a trap. “So? What is it?”

“It’s nothing, really. Just… thinking. My head’s all muddled.”

The curve of Madeline’s smirk deepens. “Well, penny for your thoughts?”

Helen can’t meet Madeline’s eye again for some time. “Last night, after we went to bed, I was thinking about everything that went down between us all those years ago. You know, with Pride Society and everything. Something changed one day, and I don’t know whether it was something I said or did, but I wanted to get to the bottom of it. It’s been eating me alive for years now.”

Now Madeline seems to have taken Helen’s place as the flustered one, the apples of her cheeks quickly reddening. “You really want to know?”

“No judgment here. Spill.” 

Madeline breathes in deeply, steeling herself. “To be honest, I was jealous. You had your shit together, you were happy and in love, and I wanted that,” she mutters.

Helen huffs out a laugh in utter disbelief. “I don’t think I have ever in my entire life ‘had my shit together,’ but okay. And jealous?” She almost laughs again. “You could’ve quite literally had anyone you wanted. You made that quite clear when you had your way with every single one of our colleagues.”

“Well, no, I didn’t. I never went all the way with any of them. I couldn’t, not when they weren’t the one I wanted most.” Her voice is impossibly quieter now, furtive and guarded. “There was one person I’d wanted from the start, but could never have.”

There’s an unquestionable gravity between them now, drawing them closer without conscious thought but with clear intention. “Oh, really? And who was that?” Helen whispers, trepidation gripping her insides.

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? It was you, Helen. I wanted you.”

It’s odd; Helen was half expecting this answer, but this doesn’t stop the tidal wave of shock that washes over her, threatening to make her gasp with the cold thrill of it. But she wills herself to remain collected. “What? I thought you hated me.” She allows herself to be briefly impressed by her own ability to feign surprise at the revelation.

“Want me to prove how much I don’t hate you?” Madeline is so close, Helen can see every pore and wrinkle she’d once been obsessed with hiding.

“I -”

Then, oh god, they’re kissing, actually kissing, and Helen feels higher than heaven. A bolt of desire burns deliciously down her spine as she deepens it, clinging onto Madeline’s shoulders like she’s making sure she’s still real. Madeline groans hungrily as Helen’s tongue seeks entrance, swirling and sucking and biting messily like two women starved. She’s just moving to straddle Madeline’s lap, their lips never breaking contact, when her phone rings, and they jump apart like two teenagers caught in the act. It’s the towing company. Fuck, Helen had totally forgotten she’d requested a call back once they were available. She hurriedly wipes her mouth and prays her voice will sound normal when she picks up. “Hello?” It’s a little strained, but passable. She mouths a quick sorry to Madeline, who looks borderline furious.

While she arranges a pickup time, Madeline seems struck by a sudden urgency, whirling around the room gathering her belongings at record speed. This perplexes Helen - does she have somewhere to be? By the time she’s finished organising the pickup, Madeline’s ready to go, and her face reads like she’s made some horrible mistake, tears brimming as her bottom lip trembles. “Hel? I can’t do this, sorry.” And she’s out the door before Helen can even so much as call her name.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day drags sluggishly by, and Helen tries to move through it, but she’s unsteady, feet displaced by the swirling undertow of mourning. It all made so much and yet so little sense; the fog had lifted only to reveal a gathering rainstorm beneath it. Madeline, jealous? Sure, she could buy that. She’d seen that affliction bleed into other parts of Madeline’s life - her inability to give a compliment that wasn’t backhanded, the way she’d always worm her way into someone else’s limelight eventually no matter the reason, or the cold, hard stare she’d train on those who were brazen enough to lay claim to something she deemed hers. The confusing part is why, after apparently years of yearning, Madeline was ready to give up what they were on the brink of in a matter of thirty seconds. Why did she run? And why the fuck didn’t Helen follow her? Was anything Madeline had told her even true, or was it an elaborate scheme concocted with the singular goal of making Helen look stupid?

She’s in such a perpetual daze she nearly tunes out the doorbell that signals the arrival of the towing company representative around three, and it takes considerable effort to push herself up off the sofa she’s been residing on to answer it. They ride to the school together in silence, Helen shifting restlessly in the passenger seat with her eyes locked on the road in front of her, searching instinctively for Madeline’s little white Prius that she knows she won’t see. At the garage, the mechanic rattles off some figures to Helen that sound like a foreign language, and she leaves wondering what on earth she agreed to pay and for what service and issue. It’ll be a small miracle if she even remembers what date they agreed for her to come and pick her car up, too. As she waits at the dingy little bus stop that looks like it hasn’t seen a sponge and soap in years, she picks at a hangnail until it bleeds and tries not to stare, tries not to hope, as other blonde women pass her by on their routes home, perhaps to their own person who returns their affections, who stays put rather than taking flight. 

The late autumn air runs its icy fingers across her nape, raising goosebumps, and she draws her coat tighter across her body, cursing her forgotten scarf. Great stripes of heavy clouds roll out across the sky, warning of an impending snowstorm, and Helen wishes herself back to a simpler time where snow was the most exciting thing that could happen to her. In childhood, a blanket of snowfall on the ground overnight was liberating for her - it gave her an excuse to be out of the house that bound her, watching her breath turn to smoke in the hushed wonderland. It was especially timely if it happened on a holiday; it meant she didn’t have to stay sitting at the stuffy dining table for as long with the entirety of the Sharp family peering suspiciously down their noses at her, as if she might bark or gnash her teeth at them at any moment. Despite having children of their own, her older relatives never seemed to quite know what to expect from Helen and her brothers - and Helen, being the youngest of them all, bore the brunt of their distrust. Another symptom of a family that reproduces for the assets gained over genuine desire to raise a family, she supposes. So she’d use the snow as an excuse, articulate and wise enough even at seven or eight to explain that she wanted to make the most of it while it lasted, and she’d be out there until dark, long after her extremities turned numb and her little green mittens were soaked through.

Against her will, her mind strays to a daydream of Madeline in the snow, spinning with her arms outstretched and head tilted up to the heavens in childlike glee. It’s not based in reality - nothing she thinks or feels these days is, apparently - but it’s so beautiful it almost brings tears to her eyes. She’s hauntingly radiant in shades of blue, nascent sunlight stretching forth from the sunrise and illuminating the blank page of the world that awaits a story untold. Madeline ceases her spinning to reach out a hand to her, inviting her into what’s unwritten. Helen sees her own hand reach back, grasping the space where Madeline should be, yearning to feel the warmth of her fingers against her own icy digits, poor circulation never quite allowing them to warm themselves up. If she wills it hard enough, screwing her eyes shut tight, she can feel the soft weight of Madeline’s palm, as solid and true as her own, closing around hers…

Then the bus arrives and the dream is gone, disintegrating in the wind. She tries to transport herself back to it, but it’s hard when she’s trapped in what might be the least romantic situation known to humankind, sandwiched between a frazzled woman jostling a screaming toddler on her knee and a preteen boy watching some inane YouTube video on full volume at the back of the humid yet still cold bus. The idea of Madeline making her predicament more bearable would’ve seemed utterly absurd to her prior to this weekend, but right now, nothing sounds more appealing than the thought of the two of them huddled together, gossiping and giggling about the silly hat the old man near the front of the bus is wearing, or agreeing that having children of their own was the best decision they never made as the toddler’s shrieks increase in both volume and pitch.

She begins to wonder what Madeline’s doing with her weekend. How she might be handling the fallout of the atomic bomb they’d unintentionally deployed by daring to bridge the gap they’d spent years excavating between them, said gap now blown into a miles-wide crater where they both stand teetering at the edge. Helen prays to a god she doesn’t believe in anymore that Madeline won’t collapse back into her former bad habits and get stuck bouncing between the trifecta of terrible coping mechanisms: drinking, smoking, and fucking. Especially that last one, god. Hot envy surges beneath her ribcage at the mere idea of Madeline spending the night in anyone else’s bed but hers. It makes her wonder whether this is how Madeline felt when she learned that Helen was no longer single. The thought of it makes her queasy, and by the time the bus reaches her stop she worries she might be in real danger of losing what little lunch she’d managed to stomach earlier. When she steps off, the heavens open to drop a depressing wintry mix onto her uncovered head, a pathetic fallacy often used in excess by her students come to life in fat, miserable droplets.

It’s barely eight by the time Helen’s home, dry, and fed, but she’s completely spent, eyes drooping half-closed as she peers sightlessly at the book she’s been attempting to read for the past half an hour. She urges herself to stand, clear away her ‘dinner’ (cheese on crackers) things, and leave the kitchen in a state she’d be satisfied waking up to. The wine glasses from the night before are exactly where they’d left them, a pair of glowing cat’s eyes in the gloom. The remnant of a lipstick print decorates the rim of Madeline’s glass, and Helen’s fingers itch to trace the fragmented crescent of evidence that proves she didn’t dream the whole thing. But she doesn’t. No, that would make it all too real. She just collects the glasses and deposits them in the sink to be washed tomorrow. It drains the last of her energy to get herself ready for bed, but she manages, just about, and soon drifts into a dreamless sleep.

But, in typical Helen fashion, it’s not morning when she next wakes, because God forbid her mind let her catch a break for more than two hours at a time. The darkness of her room has a finality to it, the late hour not yet cresting the wave of midnight that draws it closer to dawn. Suspended in the twilight between wakefulness and sleep, she gropes blindly for her phone to check the time - 11:11pm. She knows it’s a silly superstition, the whole 11:11 thing, one she’d heard a group of junior girls whispering reverently about once in fourth period before she’d shushed them (and pretended not to have been eavesdropping). But she wishes anyway. Wishes for a bolder heart and a stronger stomach, legs that would carry her towards Madeline, pursuing her without falter, arms that would hold her close and never let go, nestled firmly in the yawning cavern of her heart. And when she sleeps once more, she dreams of Madeline, shackled by her even in unconsciousness. In the dream, she’s adrift on a sliver of floating ice in the centre of a frigid lake, much too far out for Helen to even call out to her, let alone consider diving in. Utterly unreachable.

Helen stares vacantly at her computer screen, seeing but not comprehending. Monday has been… well, a Monday. Only the regular Monday blues have been elevated, sharpened to a fine point that pricks at her sides by the five stages of grief she appears to have entered after her misstep with Madeline. At the weekend it had been denial: scepticism shrouding her memories, picking apart her every interaction with Madeline like one of the many hundreds of texts she’d agonised over, a tale as old as time yet frighteningly present. Her many feeble attempts to distract herself - reading, music, some reality show she wouldn’t normally be caught dead watching, grading a paper or two - all had one singular outcome: Madeline taking centre stage in her mind’s eye, the chorus of her thoughts screaming with her in raucous tandem, drowning everything else out.

Now it’s anger. Her fingers land too heavily on her keyboard, her punishments more stringent. She knows Madeline is avoiding her - the spots she would typically haunt remain suspiciously unoccupied, her usual seat in the teachers’ lounge cold with absence. The coward’s way out, Helen muses, hitting the backspace key with excessive force after riddling an email with typos and needless punctuation that are unbecoming of a self-described aficionado of the English language. She pings off the email then shuffles through some papers she’d managed to grade the night before, pausing when she spots Madeline’s name at the bottom in place of the student’s actual name. How embarrassing. She hurriedly scratches the name out and replaces it with the correct one, flushing with indignance. Even her work isn’t free of the tendrils of Madeline that weave themselves into every frond of her psyche.

Helen still doesn’t see Madeline for all of Tuesday and most of Wednesday. It begs the question whether she’s even in school at all - no one has mentioned her being off sick, but Helen wonders if their colleagues had been given a heads up not to mention one to the other under any circumstances, though she doesn’t know who would even know to do that. What she does know, however, is that Romeo and Juliet will fall through if they don’t push past this and let bygones be bygones, even if the best they can muster is remaining civil with each other. Something aches in her when she thinks about all the kids they’d be letting down if they called the whole thing off now. No, that’s not an option.

She only finds out Madeline is indeed in school when she enters the gym and finds her already setting up for their rehearsal, stubbornly dragging the heavy benches into stage formation without help. It’s obvious she’s struggling as she grunts with effort, sweat beading on her brow, but she doesn’t ask Helen for assistance even now that she's here. Silence expands between them like a lead balloon, bulbous and turgid, neither wanting to pierce it with unwelcome speech. But eventually guilt wins out, and she approaches Madeline slowly as if attending to a wounded animal. “Let me help.”

Madeline looks her up and down, mouth set in a firm, straight line. Helen can’t help but stare. “If you insist,” she finally mutters, lifting one end of the bench while Helen moves to the other. The students begin to file into the room in twos and threes, and once they’re finished setting up, the whole cast has arrived. Well, almost. A key player is missing - where is Tasha, their Juliet? Helen verbalises this, to which a significantly more mellowed out Tallulah responds that she’s off sick. 

Oh no. That throws a spanner in the works for what Helen had assumed they’d be doing today according to plans they'd drafted last week, and she opens her mouth to voice this, but she’s cut off before she can begin. “Not to worry! We can start blocking some of our Juliet-less scenes today. Juliet-less, ha! New word for the dictionary, right, Ms Sharp?” Madeline chirps, tone laced with sugary optimism, far too sweet. She pauses like she’s holding space for Helen’s reaction, one that doesn’t come. Just a blank stare and slow nod that may come across to the kids as her missing the joke, but only they know it conveys barely-concealed fury. Because how dare she try and jest with her as if nothing has happened? And Helen’s not the only one being outwardly insincere - she knows that pitchy lilt to Madeline’s voice like the back of her own hand. It means she’s floundering.

Stacey finally puts in an appearance (and only ten minutes late, too), and between the three of them they decide to block some of the more choreography-heavy scenes. They prioritise the first and last of the duels in the play, largely in part due to their slightly shorter length than the others. Madeline works with the ‘manservants’ of the respective Montague and Capulet households while Helen takes Aiden and Finn, their Paris, aside. Stacey spends the rehearsal flitting between the two groups intermittently, advising the young actors here and there on how to make the fights look realistic while remaining safe and careful.

Finn is attempting to be off-book already, but he’s quite clearly in dire need of some revision as he stumbles through his first few lines. Helen cracks her first proper smile of the day as she gently advises him to retrieve his script for the time being, at least until he’s learnt his lines properly. His over-eagerness to impress is evident - how endearing, Helen thinks. It reminds her of someone. Someone standing in this very room with her students hanging onto her every word, someone who seems to know every line of a play before the parts have even been assigned yet. Someone who could and should be hers, but isn’t. Can’t be. Won’t be.

Something dark takes hold, then, a sparring duality of clarity and delirium that makes Helen see red. It’s not as though she didn’t understand Paris’ plight before, but it resonates deeper now that the woman she’d set her sights on, however briefly, is pretending she no longer exists. It’s a mammoth effort to remain professional as she guides Finn through the scene with gritted teeth, spurring his simulated rage on with such real, raw emotion that it begins turning the heads of other students in the vicinity. She pretends not to see the glances, the curious whispers, the confusion as to why she’s getting so into it; merely curses the loud, stupid flush that always crawls its way up her decolletage whenever she’s feeling rattled.

Even Madeline’s staring nonplussed at her now, not helping her case in the slightest. She worries she might actually start smouldering if her internal temperature climbs any higher. So she excuses herself for a moment, placing a steadying hand on the wall just outside the gym and trying (in vain) to regulate her breathing. The gravity of it hits her all at once, and before long she’s brought to the ground in sheer despair, figments of cotton wool filling her head and lining her cheeks. She doesn’t cry, can’t cry, can only draw in painfully short, sharp breaths that threaten to bruise her trachea on their way in.

It’s some time before she regains a semblance of control over her own body. She rises to her feet shakily, as ready as she’ll ever be to join back in. But it’s apparently too late - the students are packing up to go home when she re-enters. She raises an eyebrow at Madeline, who only shrugs innocently. How fucking infuriating, Helen thinks. She turns to Stacey for a real explanation, only to have her rush past hastily with some nonsense excuse of getting back to her husband earlier than normal because he's sick and he needs her (way to rub it in her face, she muses bitterly, unjustified anger levelled at the newlyweds).

So, they’re left alone once more. Helen wonders if she’s about to hear the rousing staccato of a snare drum, watch a tumbleweed bounce across the floorboards. What deadly weapon is Madeline, a sharpshooter in every sense of the word, disguising under her veil of nonchalance? And why can’t Helen run from whatever trouble’s brewing?

But two can play at Madeline’s game. “Oh, are we done here?” she queries as casually as she can.

Madeline narrows her eyes. “What’s gotten into you?”

Helen doesn’t know whether she wants to laugh at, scream at, or slap Madeline. The fucking nerve of this woman. “Is that a serious question?”

To her credit, Madeline at least has the decency to look a little ruffled, hopping from foot to foot nervously now that she’s cornered. “Look, about Saturday -”

“I don’t want to hear it, Madeline.” Helen’s tone is icy enough to shatter glass. “You invited yourself into my home, made me feel like I was special to you, then ran away before things got serious, and you have the audacity to ask me what’s gotten into me?!” She is laughing now, ugly, jagged echoes of disbelief. “So, what is it? Is there someone else?”

Madeline stares at the ground beneath her like she wants it to swallow her up. But she doesn’t speak.

“Well?” Helen demands, trembling as her voice pitches upward. Tears do come now, hot and stinging, and she wipes away a lone escapee roughly. “Just tell me so I can move on. Please.” There’s a desperation to it that should be humiliating, but Helen’s well beyond believable pretence now. Both of them know she won’t move on; she’d rather die.

Silence. The creak of an old pipe. Faint footsteps echoing in a distant corridor. Reverberating tension that seems to hum and throb, taking on a life of its own. “There is no one else.” Madeline takes one stride towards her, then seems to change her mind, halting abruptly. “I’m just… overwhelmed. I’ve never felt this way about another person before. This is intense for me.” She combs both hands through her hair, hard enough to hurt.

“Even now, it’s all about you! You don’t seem to get that your inability to conceive of a world where you’re not the centre of it impacts other people, too. Congratulations on your self-gratuitous little recovery journey, I’m really happy for you. But don’t think you can play around with my feelings and I’ll just bow to your every whim!” 

Helen makes a break for it, but Madeline’s faster, launching forward and grabbing her wrist, tears of her own glittering under the fluorescent lights. “My recovery journey was never just about me, Hel.” Her voice is claggy with emotion, softening a touch on the nickname. “I want to be a better person for you, too.”

This stops Helen short. She looks down at where they’re joined together, twisting her wrist awkwardly around so she can take Madeline’s hand in hers, rubbing a thumb over the back of it; even in her anger, she’s unable to resist the smooth, ivory expanse of Madeline’s skin. She’s sure she doesn’t imagine the slight tremor that ripples through Madeline as she does this. “Why me, though?”

Madeline steps closer, Helen mirroring her action but in reverse, stepping away uncertainly. She hadn’t realised how close they were to the edge of the gym, and the cool, rugged stone of the wall sends a shiver up her back as she makes contact. “Because…” Madeline’s so close Helen can taste the peppermint of her breath, but their eyes don’t quite meet.

“Because what?” Helen tries very hard not to visibly thrill at how Madeline’s hands have left hers and planted themselves either side of her shoulders, but it’s difficult when her body’s just inches away from pressing flush against her own. “Use your words, Mad. You’re so very fond of them, after all.” There’s a dangerous glint in her eye and she knows it, knows the effect it must be having. She runs a finger under Madeline’s chin to raise her gaze higher.

“Because, Helen, I’m obsessed with you. I need you like I need air.” 

Helen smirks, satisfied with this answer, and uses her raised hand to bring Madeline’s lips to her own. Madeline sighs into it, and it’s soft at first, an unspoken confession. But as everything does with them, it quickly heightens, and Madeline finds herself apologising for her overzealousness as the force of her kiss pushes Helen’s head into the wall with a light thunk. “Fuck, sorry.” Helen doesn’t use her words, though, only answers with a firmer press of her lips and an urgent tug on the front of her sweatshirt, hooking a leg around the back of Madeline’s thighs to draw them impossibly closer together. Madeline’s hands are everywhere: at her throat, in her hair, sliding down her sides, tugging on the back of her head as the kiss deepens, and it’s all Helen can do to not dissolve into a steaming puddle as her bones seem to liquidise inside her.

It’s only when Madeline’s right hand starts to drift south to her belt buckle that they hear it, because of course it is. Thunderous footsteps, the kind only made by teenage feet, thud closer to the gym, and before they have time to even think about it, the door squeals open and in runs a very breathless Sebastian, chattering nineteen to the dozen about a forgotten sports kit. But his running commentary quickly dies on his tongue as he takes in the scene, observing with increasing astonishment what his two teachers have very clearly been up to in his brief absence.

“Oh my god!” he squeaks, snatching up his bag and running out before either of them can warn him not to breathe a word of it to anyone else. Helen doubles over, horror kicking her square in the gut. They’ve barely even registered the evolving nature of their relationship, but it’ll be all over the school by second period tomorrow when neither of them are ready to quantify what it means to themselves. And Helen knows how it looked - the placement of Madeline’s hand as it inched closer to where she needed it most was far from innocent, and certainly not appropriate conduct for two staff members to engage in on school grounds.

Christ. They’re absolutely screwed.

Chapter Text

“We’re so, so fucked.”

Madeline’s at risk of wearing a hole in Helen’s carpet. There had been an unspoken agreement that they urgently needed a private debrief on what had occurred in the gym, and Madeline had broken nearly every traffic law in the book, flooring it to get back to Helen’s place. It’s not for the reason Helen had initially visualised - when she’d fantasised about the next visit Madeline would be making to hers, she’d hoped it would be for much more thrilling reasons, not… this mess. She couldn’t bring herself to even look at Madeline for the entire ride home, let alone speak, could only glue her eyes to the unfurling ribbon of tarmac that stretched out in front of them, a watercolour of yellows and reds from the lights of other cars on the rain-drenched surface. Well. It may have been exceedingly awkward, but it still beat taking the bus.

The stark concrete uniformity of the inner city had soon morphed into the quieter, softer silhouettes of suburbia, the buildings gradually becoming lower and wider, the lengthening streets a smorgasbord of mid-rise apartment blocks and modest family homes. Helen’s heart had thudded erratically in her chest as they drew closer to her block, verging on tachycardia when Madeline held out her hand to help her out of the low vehicle. Chivalrous, even in her predicament, Helen noted, a quality she pretended not to look for in her partners, but secretly left her feeling boneless. 

Inside, they’d made a beeline straight for the living room, where they are now, Helen perched rigidly on the sofa while Madeline paces and laments. “If it had been any other kid - hell, even Tallulah would’ve been a better bet, considering everything - but Sebastian’s such a loudmouth. Did you know he’s rumoured to have the entire student body added on Snapchat?!” she bewails, chewing her nails halfway down to the beds in her distress. “It’ll have been circulated before we even made it here!”

But Helen is awash with a strange calm, perhaps driven by a need for balance and an awareness that both of them getting in a flap would be nothing if not counterproductive. “Mad, darling, think about this.” The new nickname slips out before she can stop it, and Madeline jerks her head so she’s looking Helen directly in the eye in inquisition. So Helen rises from her seat without breaking eye contact, softly but firmly grasping Madeline’s upper arms to stave her off the bad habit. “Yes, what we did was inappropriate, but we didn’t technically do anything illegal. The worst we’ll get is a slap on the wrist from Viola.” She doesn’t sound entirely convinced by her own words, but their basis in rationality manages to provide a modicum of respite from her building anxiety, the throb of her pulse in her neck slowing back to a gentle thrum.

It doesn’t work quite as well on Madeline, though, who wrenches away from her grip. “You don’t get it, do you?” Her voice is thick with unshed tears. “This job is everything to me, Helen. I don’t know who I am without it. And if it goes on record that I’ve behaved inappropriately on school grounds, I might never teach again!” Then the dam breaks, and she’s sobbing, half-collapsing into Helen’s arms. Helen ushers her over to the sofa gently and lays Madeline’s head in her lap, blonde hair splaying out like waves of spun gold over her thighs as Madeline trembles in overwhelm. She seems to curl inward with shame, pressing her palms over her eyes like she’s trying to contain herself. All Helen can do is watch helplessly, encourage her to time her breathing with her own and run languid fingers through her hair in rhythmic strokes, hoping that it’ll have the desired effect.

Gradually, it does, and Madeline’s breathing begins to meter itself out. With Helen’s help, she manages to sit up, wiping away the last of her emotion with her sleeve in a very un-Madeline-like manoeuvre. “Mad.” Helen addresses her steadily. “We’re not going to lose our jobs over this, okay?”

Madeline sniffs. “How can you be so sure?”

“We haven’t done anything so irredeemable that Viola would have to terminate our contracts. Plus, we’re valued members of staff. Where else are they going to find someone who can recite entire pages of Shakespeare and hit a top C?” She grins, nudging Madeline lightly, who cracks her own watery smile.

“Is that you or me?”

“Well, I’m an alto, so you do the math.” Helen links their pinkie fingers together atop the faux leather. “I promise we’re not going to get fired, Mad.”

A more comfortable silence rests between them as Madeline considers this. It’s not lost on Helen that she’s slowly shifting closer, and when she speaks again, she’s practically in her lap, leaning her head tentatively on her shoulder as if seeking permission. Helen says nothing, only curves her arm around the slope of Madeline’s shoulder to bring her closer still. “I just don’t want all the sacrifices I made to be for nothing.”

Some puerile joke about whether she means human sacrifices rests on Helen’s tongue, but she chooses not to ruin the moment with her off-colour humour. “Tell me about them,” she offers sincerely instead.

Madeline clears her throat and nestles closer into the crook of Helen’s shoulder. “In high school, my mom wasn’t around much, so I was a little directionless. But I had this great performing arts teacher - Mrs Coleman - who pushed me to get into teaching because she saw my potential and knew things weren’t great at home. So I studied really hard, got into Marymount, and then worked two jobs as well as working towards my bachelor’s. I had no friends, Hel. Not a single one.” She laughs ruefully. “So you can see why I’ve not been the best at the whole friendship thing.”

Helen’s other arm reaches out of its own accord to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Madeline’s ear, aching with sympathy for her. “I’m sorry, Mad. I had no idea things were quite so hard for you in that regard.” Vulnerability was always something Madeline had struggled with, even when they were friends. Are they friends now? She’s unsure what label their current situation warrants; it hangs between friendship, more than friendship, and the kind of intimacy usually reserved for bickering old married couples. “I understand how hard it is, though.”

“Do you?” Madeline tilts her head away from Helen, a wordless query. “Do you know they joke about you vacationing in the Hamptons every year behind your back?”

Helen wants to ask who exactly is poking fun at her when her back is turned, but quickly decides it’s not worth knowing right now. Maybe another time. “Maybe they do, but that doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”

“Isn’t it? You know, I’ve often wondered why you chose to be a teacher when your family’s rolling in it. Some kind of pity project?” Madeline sneers in a sudden moment of pettiness; perhaps Helen was naive to think they’d moved past all of that. “You’re telling me you couldn’t have just retired at thirty and lived off daddy’s money forever?”

Money talk and casual references to her family’s abject wealth always make Helen’s skin crawl. Especially now, after… “No, actually, I couldn’t. I teach because I want to give back what was handed to me growing up. It’s our duty as members of a society to do that.”

“Wow, look at you getting all T.M. Scanlon on us,” Madeline teases, but she seems genuinely touched. Warmth spreads out from the centre of Helen’s chest to the tips of her fingers and toes, Madeline’s quiet seal of approval engulfing her in light.

“Since when do you read?!” Despite everything, she still can’t resist teasing her.

Madeline swats at her playfully. “Since forever!” A beat, then: “Okay, that’s not true. But I had to read What We Owe to Each Other in high school, and it’s stuck with me since.”

“Right… because that always came across.” Sarcasm drips from Helen’s words. But Madeline looks so dejected that she can’t help the chasm of guilt that opens up within her. “Sorry. It’s a great book.”

“It is.”

Helen briefly presses her cheek to the top of Madeline’s head, the only sounds filling the space their quiet breaths and the steady tick, tick, tick of the clock. She hadn’t thought it possible to feel quite this calm in Madeline’s presence, but seeing the side of the woman that’s kept under lock and key for most people has mellowed her out considerably. It reminded her that they had far more similarities than differences, overlapping hopes, dreams, and fears, and that what they had might be worth nourishing.

After a while, the static fuzz of pins and needles starts to creep into Helen’s hand, its position wedged between Madeline and the sofa, restricting blood flow somewhat. She eases it out of the crevice, and Madeline whimpers gently at the loss. The sound shouldn’t do what it does to Helen’s insides - it was under perfectly innocent circumstances - but she can’t deny the furious blush that ripens in her cheeks. She’s suddenly overcome by a violent desire for closeness, and coaxes Madeline’s leg over her own with an intent hand so that her thighs bracket her own. Madeline makes a tiny noise of surprise in her throat at this, which sends fire straight down to Helen’s core. “Oh, Mad. You have no idea what you do to me.” It strikes her that she’s never seen Madeline look more beautiful than in this moment. She’s always pretty, of course, even in her worst moments, but here, glassy-eyed and spiritually naked in the ripples of her woe, she’s fringing on angelic.

Madeline doesn’t answer, only presses a feathery kiss to the corner of Helen’s mouth as her hands come to rest on her shoulders. And it’s the spark that lights the fuse within Helen, kindling in specks of white-blue heat. She crushes her lips firmly against Madeline’s, and when the other woman’s mouth falls open in sheer amazement that they’ve turned it back around to here, Helen sees it as an invitation for her tongue. The kiss is messy, a physical incarnation of all that’s led to this point, but neither cares that it may be hard enough to bruise tomorrow. The whole school must know by now anyway, why even bother trying to hide it?

Helen’s hands subconsciously find the soft indents of Madeline’s waist. She notices that she’s filled out healthily in recent months - likely something to do with her mother’s death, she muses, knowing how Louise would always find a way to chastise Madeline for putting on weight - and it suits her so well it makes Helen ache with simultaneous joy and want. She uses the gentle undulations of her torso as leverage to manoeuvre Madeline onto her back, where she lies in wait, eyes glittering with sin. Helen wants to say something, anything, but fears whatever might come out will make her sound humiliatingly needy, so she punctuates the silence with another heady kiss that quickly evolves into something deeper, Helen resting her weight at the apex of her thighs where her body joins Madeline’s under her as she leans down into the kiss.

There isn’t quite enough space on the small sofa, however, and Helen knows it’s time to move to the bedroom when one of her elbows somehow lands in the soft part between Madeline’s ribs, drawing a sharp hiss that isn’t one of pleasure. With difficulty, she stands, pulling Madeline up with her, and they begin their clumsy route to the other room, losing an article or two of clothing each on the way as they move without losing full contact, including that damn belt Madeline had reached for earlier. Helen’s control momentarily falters when Madeline pins her to the wall beside the doorway to her room, sucking a dark bruise to the right of the notch between her collarbones inside her half-open blouse. A less distracted Helen would’ve been embarrassed by the noise that leaves her, but right now her focus is on the way Madeline’s breasts swell and heave with exertion, free of her own shirt that’s been lost somewhere along the way, shining pale in the lamplight in stunning chiaroscuro with the dark fabric of her bra.

Helen gains the upper hand again once they’re over the threshold of her room, backing Madeline slowly towards the bed until the backs of her knees graze the edge. Madeline sinks down like a worshipper in prayer, lifting her gaze to the shrine of Helen before her. Then she’s prone, laying herself out like an offering at the altar, delectable and waiting to be devoured. Helen is dumbstruck; Madeline is a work of art. Her very own Rokeby Venus. 

Freckles dapple her shoulders and chest even in the absence of summer, a spattering of ochre and bronze that travels down beneath the cups of her bra. Helen wishes to kiss each and every one, but, in spite of this relative impossibility, decides to give it her best shot anyway. She straddles Madeline, latching first onto her sternum to leave constellations in violet and mauve, and Madeline arches away from the mattress so Helen can reach around and unclasp her bra. It falls away, and Helen has to sit back on her heels and collect herself for a moment, for fear that she may actually perish on the spot. Madeline is an absolute vision, better than anything Helen’s imagination could conjure up, even in her most vivid fantasies. 

Then it’s as if animal instinct kicks in, and Helen’s upon her again, sucking and biting with new fervour. Madeline is writhing beneath her, tarnishing the air with a myriad of sounds that are bound to earn a complaint or two from the neighbours. Not that Helen could give a fuck; there’s a beautiful woman under her. Nothing could even come close to bringing her down from these heights. She takes a rosy nipple into her mouth, swirling her tongue in a figure of eight around the bud, and Madeline keens desperately, hips twitching upward in a plea for friction that isn’t quite there yet. But Helen receives the message loud and clear, and peels off Madeline’s yoga pants. Her underwear is endearingly mismatched to her bra; pink with little white flowers that are just so distinctly Madeline, it nearly brings Helen to tears. 

Madeline tugs at Helen’s own blouse weakly. “Too many clothes. Not fair,” she slurs, sex-hazed. “Want to see you.” So Helen guides her fingers to the buttons, letting her undo each one and shrug it off her shoulders, the silky green material slipping away with ease. Her slacks are loose enough sans belt for her to shimmy them down her legs without leaving the bed, and they join Madeline’s clothes in a rumpled pile at the bedside. If Madeline didn’t look ruined before, she certainly does now, inhaling and exhaling erratically as she peers up at Helen’s ample cleavage in abject awe. “I’m going to die,” she utters in disbelief, suddenly coherent. “I knew you had a rocking bod under all those grandma sweaters.”

She goes to stroke the underside of Helen’s breast, still confined within her bra, but Helen holds herself just far away enough that she’s out of reach. “Nuh-uh. Play nice.” That shuts Madeline up, and she’s soon grovelling for a taste of her own, extending her arms fully to try and access the back of Helen’s bra to unhook it. Unable to resist, Helen caves, and soon they’re both naked from the waist up, groaning at the feeling of skin against sensitive skin as Helen folds back down to connect their lips in another searing kiss. Madeline urges her upward to allow her access to the generous curve of her breasts, and Helen knows the wetness pooling in her cunt can be felt where her thighs join over the soft flesh of Madeline’s lower belly. She cries out as Madeline’s teeth graze her nipple, first one, then the other, then she feels sharp canines bite down into the papery-thin skin beside it in a way that’s sure to bruise. “Fuck, Mad. I need to taste you, please.”

Madeline visibly thrills, hot anticipation vibrating off of her. “I thought you’d never ask.” Helen lifts herself away from Madeline’s abdomen, hyper-aware of the stickiness below as the coolness of the room makes contact in lieu of flesh, sliding downwards to where Madeline’s own thighs meet. Her fingers toy with the waistband of her underwear in silent request, but she needs no further prompting when Madeline begins wriggling out of them of her own accord, impatience taking over. “Please, Hel. Fuck me like you mean it.”

Helen doesn’t need to be told twice. She removes her glasses (for safety) then gets to work, licking a long, firm line through Madeline’s centre, which earns her a strangled moan and a fist in her hair. Her tongue flicks methodically, navigating Madeline’s anatomy as if drawing up a map of areas that garner the loudest reactions. She uses her fingers to spread Madeline out and sucks on her clit, her own cunt clenching around nothing as Madeline whines pathetically long and low, and she thinks briefly that it may well be possible she could come without direct contact. Her own thighs rub together on reflex, but she’s too pitifully wet to generate the friction she craves.

Madeline squirms under her, hips bucking into her jaw like she’s searching for something more. “Mm. Need your fingers.”

Helen stills, peering up from between her legs. “What’s the magic word?” Her lips glisten with Madeline; she knows she must look an absolute sight right now.

As if in a tantrum, Madeline throws a fist down beside her, grumbling. “Please put your fingers inside me. Do you need me to spell it out for you, Ms English Teacher? P-L-E-”

A filthy idea quickly plants its seed in the dirt of Helen’s mind. Careful not to overwhelm her with too-firm pressure, she drags one slow, languorous digit through Madeline’s wetness as she deliberately draws out the spelling of the word, then pushes it into the other woman’s mouth to shut her up right before the final ‘E,’ making her taste herself. “Don’t be a bitch. You’d be much better off being polite if you’d like to get what you want.” This is a new side to herself she’s not explored often in the bedroom: a pushy, domineering bitch who likes to demand things of Madeline. She can’t quite believe it’s their first time - falling into this dynamic feels as natural as breathing.

Though she was working solely on the presumption that Madeline enjoyed being treated like a brat in bed, she’d underestimated the strength of the effect it would have on her. Her eyes damn near roll back in her head, and she lets out what might be the most vulgar sound Helen’s ever heard, bordering on animalistic as her hips oscillate wildly. “Don’t make me beg,” she pleads, a thinly veiled challenge to indeed make her do just that.

So Helen rises to it, moving her fingers at an excruciating pace down the plane of Madeline’s body, stopping to tickle and caress every part of her she can reach. There’s murder in Madeline’s eyes by the time she arrives back at the valley where her thighs meet, and she hisses as Helen dips the tip of one finger inside to the first knuckle, then pulls right back out again. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Helen’s hand moves back up and away. “Please, or I’ll die for real.”

Helen tuts. “So dramatic. No wonder that’s what you teach.” Then she’s sheathing two fingers to the hilt inside Madeline, whose hips jump almost comically at the sudden intrusion. Helen moves them back and forth, scissoring them experimentally while Madeline bucks and whimpers, throwing her head back in bliss to expose a slender pillar of throat that Helen yearns to marble with red and purple. Her lips resume their former position around Madeline’s clit, and for a minute, she thinks it might be too much for her as her entire body stills at the dual stimulation. But then she’s back to her thrashing, and Helen can tell from the way her fingers are struggling to move that Madeline’s on the precipice. “Are you going to come for me, Madeline?”

Madeline grinds out something that might be an affirmative, trembling with the effort it takes. “Oh, fuck, yes -” she repeats, clearer this time.

“Magic word?” The look on Helen’s face is downright devilish as she slows momentarily.

“Please,” she wails.

“Good girl,” Helen mutters, speeding back up, and before long, Madeline’s slamming her thighs closed around her head, and Helen can’t see her face, but from the lack of noise knows her mouth is open in a silent scream as she works her through it. 

It takes a minute or two for her to release Helen’s head from between her legs. When she’s finally able to push herself up on her forearms, Madeline’s staring up at the ceiling, dazed and fucked-out, chest rising and falling rapidly. Helen starts to speak, but Madeline holds a hand up weakly. “Give me a second.”

Helen suddenly becomes uncomfortably aware of her own wetness, coating the insides of her thighs with a sticky sheen. Her own hand, still damp with Madeline’s arousal, begins snaking down her body in search of relief, when Madeline grabs hold of her wrist to stop her for the second time that day. Helen whimpers. “What do you think you’re doing? It’s my turn.” And Madeline replaces Helen’s hand with her own, quickly circling the engorged bud of her clit in a way that’s sure to bring her to her own orgasm in mere seconds.

Wordlessly, Madeline encourages Helen to sink down onto the two middle fingers of her right hand while she continues circling with her thumb. Helen drives her hips down and forward, then up and back, repeating the motion until she’s on the brink of seeing stars. Madeline’s eyes linger on her breasts as they bounce with the repetitive motion, her left thumb and forefinger pinching her nipple in a way that sends shockwaves to her core. With any other person, she’d feel objectified, uneasy in her own skin at the idea of being sexualised, but Madeline… Madeline’s different. She gazes upon her in reverence, like her pleasure is as important to her as her own. Like she matters. This is enough to fling her over the edge, and she’s close to sobbing with relief as wave after wave of her release ripples through her, her arousal dripping and pooling on Madeline’s stomach.

Neither of them has the strength to move or even speak for a while after that. They just lie side by side, sated silence enveloping them in a bubble of warmth. Eventually, Madeline begins tracing aimless patterns over Helen’s pale skin, and Helen squirms away from Madeline whenever she lands on a particularly sensitive patch, giggling girlishly. “That tickles.”

Madeline grins. “I know.” She rolls over onto her side. “Was that okay for you?”

“Are you kidding? I think I nearly died, too.” They both laugh, feeling a little silly in their nudity now that it’s all over. Helen moves her head so that it’s resting on Madeline’s stomach, pressing a kiss above her navel before settling. “Of course you have a belly button piercing.”

“My mom hated body modifications of any kind, so naturally I had to,” Madeline explains. The mood sours somewhat at the mention of Louise. Helen almost wants to ask how she felt about… other, less traditional life paths and methods of self-expression. But she doesn’t.

The silence that yawns between them is less jovial now, both worrying internally about where this conversation might lead. It sounds like Madeline’s gearing up to speak when Helen finally opens her mouth once more. “You were wrong earlier, by the way. About my financial situation.”

This seems to throw Madeline, confusion carving out a furrow between her brows as she strokes a line up from Helen’s palm to her chest. “In what way?”

“My parents cut me off after they found out I wasn’t going down the traditional path, so to speak. The straw - or straws, I suppose - that broke the camel’s back was when I decided I didn’t want children and started dating women. They were not happy.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Well, I’m sorry.”

It’s odd. Helen wants this to work so badly, and knows Madeline does too. So why are they straying down such dangerous paths of conversation, especially right after they’ve given themselves to each other in such an intimate way? She supposes she’s always found comfort in self-sabotage, in her own twisted way. But she doesn’t want Madeline to feel like she’s in any way at fault for her family’s estrangement, even if they cut her off long before the nature of her feelings for Madeline became clear.

“If it helps, my mom never even knew I was gay. Or maybe… maybe she did, but was in denial because I’m such a stereotypical girly-girl. Either way, I never explicitly told her.” Madeline shifts Helen over to her side so she can curl into her, craving more substantial contact. “She must be rolling in her grave over what we’ve just done.”

Helen chuckles. “You know, that reminds me - we should probably start digging some graves of our own in preparation for what Viola might do to us tomorrow,” she forebodes darkly. Madeline laughs without humour, brushing a loose strand of hair out of Helen’s face. They both look down at where the lines of their bodies meld together. “It will have all been worth it, though.” She loops her leg around Madeline’s and softly kisses her lips once more. “Whatever happens.”