Time After Time - Degrassi, PG-13

Spoilers for season 8 up to 804 and the "Curse of Degrassi" special (sort of). Written for aphrodite_mine.

Jane didn't flinch at Holly J.'s offensive comment. She wasn't one to succumb to stereotypes, and besides, she was happy with Spinner—he was a great guy who really cared about her. He protected her. He came to her defense when things got rough. She wasn't here to start any sort of social movement, really—she just wanted to play football, and she knew all along that she was as good as the guys. She could play as hard and dirty as the rest of them. Harder, even. Dirtier.

During games, Jane scanned the crowd for Spinner's eyes, his encouraging smile. She just needed a glimpse of him, and then she could regain focus, running even faster than before, holding the ball tighter, throwing it harder. When she was really in the zone, nothing could disrupt her concentration. The Power Squad might be jumping and screaming only a few feet away, reciting whatever ridiculous rhymes they had written out the night before, but Jane hardly noticed.

It wasn't Spinner's fault when he was out of town and missed that one game, which just happened to the one where Jane scored the winning touchdown. She had no eyes or smile to find in the crowd, so she sought Mia's instead. It would have been impossible to miss how brightly her former best friend was beaming. And hey, "former best" didn't even really apply anymore. They were friendly again. Sort of. Which is why Jane thought nothing of it—really—when Mia enveloped her in a hug and shouted in her ear, over the chaos of the crowd, "We should do something tonight to celebrate." Because Mia was right; they should.

So they had a celebratory dinner and dessert and Jane figured it was only polite to invite Mia back to her house to watch a movie, "Like old times." Mia enthusiastically agreed and, fifteen minutes later, Jane was browsing her DVD collection for the perfect flick and Mia was sitting cross-legged on her bed, examining the dozens of photos on her wall and reminiscing. Jane sat beside her when she decided on the movie and pressed play, but somehow the night turned out to be more like old times than they had originally planned—or at least, more like that one time in grade eight when they got drunk and made out on a dare.

It was, however, a welcome diversion from old times for Mia. She was used to partaking in sinful acts in Jane's bed, but previously could only imagine that she was kissing Jane instead of Jane's brother. And now she actually was. Jane, who was so used to playing rough—tighter, faster, harder—found that Mia's embrace calmed her down. She wanted to go slowly. Gently. She wanted to appreciate every minute.

But, like old times, Mia wasn't the type to wait around, and Jane was too stubborn to admit when something was right. Or in this case, someone—and about her. (A budding lesbian indeed.) She pulled away and told Mia to leave, and that she was sorry, but this meant nothing. Because she was in love with Spinner, she said, and although she knew how stupid those words sounded, and although Jane could tell that Mia knew she was lying, the truth would have been impossible to admit.

"You're not so different from the guys after all," Mia told her, and Jane didn't dare to look up as she walked out the door. And in the tradition of reliving the past, Mia didn't feel too bad about participating in some potentially destructive behavior, which apparently involved a wild party with alcohol and loud music and grinding up on an equally intoxicated Holly J., and it certainly was not like old times at all.

"This," Holly J. said right afterwards, "never happened."

"What? You don't want people to know you finally swiped your V-card? But Holly J., I thought that's what you wanted." Mia was surprised by how cruel she could still be to this girl she hated so much, even when they most certainly had just had sex.

"Be glad there's no chance you'll get pregnant this time, Mama Mia," Holly J. sneered, pulling her shirt over her head and gathering her things. "And if anyone finds out about this, I'll make your life hell." Her clothes were back on and she was on her way downstairs to join the party again before Mia could form a response.

Within minutes, though, Holly J. realized that the party was absolutely the last place on earth that she wanted to be right now, so she went home to her own bedroom and sat on her own virginal bed, reaching under her pillow for that infamous list, the one with every guy's name crossed out because none of them were good enough. Was that it?, she wondered. Was it because they were guys?

Back at school on Monday, she surprised herself by being nicer to everyone, especially Mia. Maybe it was the fear that her secret would come out. But Mia actually kept her end of the bargain. And life returned to normal—kind of. Except this reformed, nicer Holly J. actually felt sympathetic when she walked into the girl's locker room during lunch to take a shower and found Jane sitting alone on the bench, sobbing.

Holly J. hadn't meant to ask what was wrong, but she did, and found out that Jane had been dumped by Spinner because he found out that she cheated on him. Holly J. certainly never intended to sit beside her and rub her back and say, "It's going to be okay," but she did. And she definitely never expected that Jane would respond by pressing her lips to hers, but she did, and Holly J. kissed her back, surprised by how rough and urgent the other girl felt against her. They were already breathing hard when they pulled away a few moments later.

"I think I just hit a new low," Jane said, making a face.

Suddenly insulted, Holly J. warned, "You better not tell anyone about this."

Jane rolled her eyes. "Trust me, I don't want anyone to know either."

Her words stung briefly, but later, Holly J. couldn't help smiling as she walked through the halls—locking eyes with Jane and Mia, all three newly aware of the connection they shared. She wondered if it would really be so bad if people found out, and if it made any difference. She wondered if she might be budding too. Maybe they all were.

Floating - RPFS (Demi/Meaghan), R

Written for aphrodite_mine for her birthday. :)

Demi spotted her almost immediately—which would have been meaningful, she thought, if she hadn't been actively scanning the set for that hair, those eyes, that smile from the moment she arrived. And she had to stop herself from sucking in her breath, from blushing, from doing anything that might get her into trouble like it had over the summer.

"So... what... exactly... are you trying to tell me?" Selena asked, and with every pause Demi could feel her heart being suffocated.

"Forget it," she said, and laughed. "I don't even know, really."

"Okay," Selena said, and they never mentioned it after that.

But looking at Meaghan made her feel it all over again. Free. As if she were floating. Demi remembered spotting her across the room when she went to the audition. (It was impossible not to see her, after all. Her beauty seemed to radiate.) And she had to command herself to stop looking, to stop wondering how soft her hair was, or how soft her lips were, or how sweet her mouth might taste... and then the casting director had called her name and she disappeared. Meaghan. Meaghan. It was all Demi knew about her, and truthfully, she never made any attempts to find out anything else. She had other things on her mind, which was what she tried to tell Selena that rainy night in July—

"I don't know if I could ever have a real boyfriend, you know?" Selena shook her head. "It's just, um... I think I like girls more," and the words slurred together when she said it and Demi cringed because it wasn't even true; it was such an understatement. And Selena obviously didn't want any part of it, so they spent the rest of the summer avoiding the topic.

But summer was over now, Demi reasoned, and she lifted her eyes just in time to catch Meaghan's, whose whole face brightened in a way that seemed to Demi to say more than just hey-I-recognize-you. Maybe hey-I-remember-you, or hey-I've-been-thinking-about-you, or hey-I-think-you're-pretty-and-I'd-like-to-know-you-better, or...

"Hey!" Meaghan said, and nothing followed it.

Demi grinned. "Hey. I remember you." (Understatement, again.)

"Yeah, you too." She laughed. I'm Meaghan," she added, and surprised Demi with a hug, and it was one of those good hugs, the kind that stays with you all day, and Demi could feel the softness of Meaghan's hair against her cheek and smell whatever fruity body splash she was wearing and feel every curve of the other girl's body pressed against her own, for just a moment. "So who are you?" Meaghan asked when they separated.

"What?" Demi laughed nervously. "Um, Demi. Demi Lovato."

Meaghan giggled and rolled her eyes. "I know who you are." Demi's stomach lurched for a moment—had Meaghan been asking about her?—and then she added, "I've seen your show. I meant, which part did you get?"

"Oh! Right. Mitchie. I'm playing Mitchie."

"Oh my god, that's awesome! I'm playing Tess. We're going to have a lot of scenes together. And"—she pointed to a trailer not far from where they stood—"we're sharing a dressing room too."

Demi stared dumbly at the trailer. "That's... that's awesome," was all she could think to say.

"Let's hope we don't end up hating each other like our characters," Meaghan teased.

"You know, I have a good feeling that that won't happen," Demi said, smiling, and she realized at that moment that she was probably flirting.

But Meaghan smiled back. Whatever they were doing, she didn't seem to mind.

They grew much closer in the weeks to follow, and it seemed the more Demi hoped her ridiculous crush would just go away already, it only got worse. It probably didn't help that she saw her costar in just a bra and panties on a daily basis. Meaghan wasn't very modest—Demi liked that about her. She liked everything about her, really.

"What's this?" Meaghan asked one day, snatching a necklace from the top of Demi's bureau. She looked a little more closely and laughed. "Oh, you have one of these too? Is this a requirement for working for Disney now?" She waved the promise ring in the air.

Demi blushed. "Um... Selena gave it to me, actually, after she got hers. I don't usually wear it," she added, wondering how defensive she sounded.

Meaghan put the necklace down and asked abruptly, "So, do you really think you're going to 'wait till marriage'?" She put air quotes on the final three words.

"I... don't know," Demi said honestly. "I don't know if I even want to get married."

"But don't you want to be pure and perfect for your husband on your wedding day?" Meaghan grinned.

"I'm not a pure and perfect type of girl," Demi responded, watching Meaghan carefully, trying to see if she could find a sign of something, anything, in her reaction.

Meaghan held her gaze, unflinching, and then her cell phone rang, signalling the end of whatever this might have been.

Most days were pretty mundane.

But one day, Meaghan burst into their shared trailer practically glowing, grinning so widely that her face seemed to be frozen in a state of eternal elation. "Party tonight!" she nearly shrieked. "Finally."

"What? Here?"

"Yeah. I just talked to Kevin. He bought all the beer and got us a hotel room. A suite, actually." Meaghan fussed with her hair in the mirror. "Oh my god, you don't know how happy this makes me. I need a release."

"But how did he..." Demi began.

"Stop asking questions!" Meaghan said. "Seriously, for someone who swore to me that she's not pure and perfect..." she turned to Demi and grinned. "It's going to be fine. Don't worry, no one at Disney is going to find out."

Demi wasn't about to say that Disney was the least of her concerns.

They helped each other pick out their outfits, as if they were going to some fancy gala instead of an impromptu party with a couple dozen underage cast members. It didn't make too much difference to Demi, really—it's not like she ever wore dresses. But Meaghan did, and this one seemed impossibly small and tight and clung to her in all the right spots and holy crap she could not stop staring.

Meaghan noticed. "I look pretty hot, don't I?" She giggled and Demi almost resented her because this was torture, seriously, and she would now have to spend the whole evening pretending it wasn't.

Once they got to the party, Meaghan's outfit seemed pretty silly. Mostly everyone else was dressed casually and weather-appropriately, and a number of jaws dropped when the girls entered the room. Meaghan owned it, though, greeting everyone with a curtsey and promptly asking for a beer. Demi watched in awe. Seconds later, Meaghan shoved a can in Demi's hand too. "This," she said seriously, "will make all your worries disappear."

A few beers later, Demi felt somewhat drunk and Meaghan, apparently, was already wasted. "Lessee what the guys're doing," she slurred, grabbing Demi's hand and pulling her over to the dining table, where they were apparently playing some kind of drinking game involving cards that was clearly too complicated for the girls in their inebriated states of mind. Meaghan sat down and patted the seat of the chair next to her.

"Meaghan, I don't think we can play," Demi said, laughing, but she sat down anyway.

"Whatcha guys doing?" Meaghan asked loudly, and no one bothered to answer. She leaned close to Demi and whispered, "I dun think they like me very much." Her lips just barely grazed Demi's earlobe and she shivered at the contact.

They sat for a bit in silence, the alcohol having mellowed them out. Demi wasn't sure how long they had been sitting before Meaghan grabbed her hand and placed it on the skirt of her dress. "I was stupid to wear such thin material," she said, sounding a bit more coherent now. "See how thin that is?"

"Um," Demi said, trying to ignore how hard her heart was beating. "Yeah. But... it's, um, a really nice dress." She didn't dare move her hand from Meaghan's thigh. She wondered how long she'd be allowed to keep it there.

"I was stupid," Meaghan repeated, and they fell silent again. Demi wondered if maybe she was cold, but then again, she didn't feel cold—she felt, actually, warm. And nice, really nice. Demi could feel her face flush as she realized that a similar heat was forming between her own legs, and she still didn't dare to move her hand.

As if she were reading her mind, Meaghan leaned close and whispered, "I'm really horny right now. If I don't make out with someone I might die." At that, Demi was positive her face turned bright red, but before she could think of anything to say, Meaghan added, "Your hand is on my thigh."

"I know," Demi whispered back. Something—the alcohol in her system, or plain old stupidity—convinced her that it would be a good idea to clarify, "I like it there." Immediately, she cringed. Of course, she had to go and say something completely idiotic. She braced herself, but then Meaghan surprised her.

"I prefer it here," she whispered, and pulled away the fabric of the dress so Demi was touching only skin. Fearfully, she looked up at the guys, but they were too immersed in their game to notice what was happening.

What was happening? Demi tightened her grip on Meaghan's leg. "What, um, do you want me to do?" she asked softly.

Meaghan brought her mouth so close to Demi's ear that at first she felt only her breath. "Touch me," she whispered.

Demi couldn't move for a moment, wanting to preserve this moment exactly as it was so she would never forget, and then thinking—the hell with it. She slid her hand slowly across Meaghan's smooth skin, trying to keep her touch as light as possible until she reached the fabric of her panties. Which were damp. She pressed and rubbed small circles and could feel her fingers getting sticky, and Meaghan whimpered, and then—Demi pulled away.

"I can't," she said, standing up.

"No, no, no..." Meaghan cried, reaching for her in desperation. Demi had already left the room and was pacing down the hallway when Meaghan caught up with her. "Demi! I'm sorry. I just, I had this feeling that you wanted to, and I wanted you to, and—I mean, why do you think I pretended to be so drunk? Why do you think I wore this dress?"

"I would have liked to kiss you first!" Demi nearly shouted. "I've never even kissed a girl."

"So... kiss me," Meaghan said. "That is, if you still want to..."

Suddenly it registered. "You wore that dress for me?" Demi whispered. Meaghan started to nod, but was interrupted by Demi's lips on hers, and hands on hips and fingers in hair and tongues tasting the insides of mouths.

"I think, maybe, we need to get a room," Meaghan said finally, giggling, but since they were too young to get one in the hotel, they held hands and walked back to the dressing room they shared, mutually undressing and discovering each other in the dark, not stopping until they felt they were floating. Free.

Caged, free (you and me) - Degrassi High, PG-13

Response to prompt “Heather/Erica, mirror” for the ficathon at Degrassi Femslash. Title is from an Imogen Heap lyric. Implied incest.

It wasn’t like she had planned it. But if that was supposed to make it better somehow, it didn’t. It made it more worthy of obsession. The kind of fixation that kept her up all night, every night. Thinking without trying to wonder too much. Without being jealous.

Jealous: that was her immediate reaction. It didn’t make any sense to Heather that, despite being identical, all the boys fawned after only Erica. It was like they knew something that she didn’t.

So Erica was gone. (Again.) Out, again. With what’s-his-face. (Jason.) Right. Jason. And Heather was alone again, always alone, trying to focus on anything except Erica being out with a boy doing god-knows-what. Letting him do god-knows-what to her. Heather didn’t want to speculate and theorize—not like she had to. Deep down, she knew exactly what was going on, and it wasn’t because of the twin intuition thing. This, unfortunately, was just common sense.

Jealous. Jealous. Jealous.

She was practically saturated in jealousy. No, she didn’t want to hear the details of couple life, of her sister’s sex life... not that they were having sex. There was no way Erica could be having sex. It was incomprehensible. But even without sex, plenty remained for Heather to agonize over, to recreate in frantic unwanted detail. Jason kissing Erica... Jason slipping his tongue inside Erica’s mouth... Jason moving his hand slowly up the inside of Erica’s thigh...

Focus. Read a book or something. Anything. But it was summer. And there was nothing to do. She would have to learn how to be an individual for once. She would have to find friends who weren’t Erica to go out with. She would have to be independent. And she didn’t want to. Heather never cared, like Erica apparently did now, that she and her sister were so codependent. She liked it. No, she loved it. She never gave much thought to how unhealthy that might be. Even if they didn’t always get along—hell, even if more often than not, Erica drove her crazy, especially lately—it didn’t matter too much.

“I liked things the way they were,” she said aloud, but no one was around to hear. The words didn’t come out when Erica came home in the evening (and later, in the night, and later, in the early morning, and eventually, just as the sun was rising). Heather couldn’t bring herself to say it. Didn’t want to upset her sister. Didn’t want to sound jealous. Didn’t want to answer the question that would inevitably follow.

Jealous of whom?

It was already there, though. Already suffocating her in nightmares laced with visions of touching that skin, kissing those lips, fingers twisting through hair and gliding over skin, slipping into orifices unexplored. When she awoke, she was breathing hard and dripping beads of sweat. Jealous of whom? What did that even mean? She was jealous of Erica, of course. Erica, the outgoing one, the flirty one, the one who got all the attention. The one who got all the boys. Heather knew she was jealous.

Only she didn’t want attention. And she didn’t want boys. She just wanted her sister back. No, more than that—she wanted her sister for herself. She considered, momentarily, how fucked up the implications of that might be, but then she couldn’t be too sure. She and Erica were each one-half of the same, after all. Everyone knew that twins had a special connection. Maybe this kind of attachment was natural.

Maybe not.

Summer ended—finally—but then, so did everything else. Erica revealed that she might be pregnant. Heather realized, then, that it was all over. Everything. So Erica and Jason had, in fact, had sex—her worst fears confirmed. But that seemed insignificant now. Jealousy (of whomever) seemed insignificant now compared to the enormity of her sister having a human being forming inside of her. An unborn someone who was already becoming a new piece of both of them... and then, suddenly, wasn’t.

Heather found herself plagued once more by sleepless nights, for different reasons altogether.

But she got her wish: Erica was hers again. Maybe that explained her guilt. It took an abortion to get her sister back, but maybe she was responsible. Heather found herself feeling guiltier still when blood-stained cruelties were etched across lockers and washroom mirrors. Maybe, Heather thought, if she hadn’t been so passive... maybe Erica wouldn’t have spent her entire summer misbehaving with Jason. Maybe she would have stayed home, with her, where she belonged.

“I’m sorry,” she said one night, months later. She hadn’t meant to. They were supposed to be past this, and Heather knew it, but she couldn’t be with so many feelings unshared. “This summer, I should have said something... I should have stopped you.”

Erica didn’t get it, of course. How could she? “You couldn’t have stopped me,” she said. “I’m my own person. I make my own choices, and I chose to sleep with Jason.” She said it all so matter-of-factly. As if it were obvious. As if she wanted her sister to shut up before she said something stupid. (As if she could prevent it.)

Heather shook her head. “No, I mean...” And she stopped herself, suddenly unsure.

“You were jealous,” Erica said simply. Only it was not that simple. And Heather knew her sister still didn’t get it.

“Yes,” she confessed. She would have to be more direct, not just if she wanted her sister to understand... but because she needed to make sense of it herself. And she needed Erica to help. “But not of you.” And even though at this point she didn’t have to, she clarified. “I was jealous of him.”

Erica said nothing. Her attention drifted. She turned to look in the vanity mirror they shared, so Heather looked too, for the first time really noticing their shared reflection. There were four of them. Four of the same person, the same DNA. And all those complicated feelings—love, hate, jealousy, sadness, desire, protection, devotion, possession—multiplied. And then Heather turned away, facing Erica again, and all those other pieces disappeared. Perhaps this was her true reflection. Perhaps this—perhaps she—was the only other piece she needed.

Finally her sister met her gaze, and the mirror and the rest of the room and the rest of the universe, even, faded into the background. Four became only two. Heather reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Erica’s ear. They seemed to melt into one another. Lips pursed. Eyes steady. Heather held her breath before leaning in—and then they were one.

(Maybe it was a bit fucked up after all. But it wasn’t like she had planned it.)

Calamine - RPFS (Demi/Selena), PG-13

Warning: Real-person femslash.

Selena wondered if things would be easier if she were a normal teenage girl. If she hadn't jumped headfirst into show business at the age of seven, if she wasn't faced with this insanely grown-up task of holding a career, if she didn't have to balance the responsibilities of actress and singer and dancer and Disney star and ROLE MODEL in big capital letters. If she could just... be.

Because sixteen-year-olds shouldn't have to complete five rounds of the talk show circuit in a span of a week. A sixteen-year-old girl should be able to sleep in during the summer and not wake up at the crack of dawn and make herself look presentable for an interview that's airing only on the radio, for god's sake. She shouldn't have to work fourteen-hour days shooting episodes, and she especially shouldn't have to field embarrassing questions asked by important strangers more than twice her age about who she is or isn't dating, because most sixteen-year-old girls wouldn't dare to talk about that even with their own parents.

She loved her job, of course, but sometimes she just missed... the little things, the normal-girl-things, the past nine years of her life that she didn't get to have because she was running from audition to audition to audition. She felt tired. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to be one of the sixteen-year-old girls watching the Disney stars on TV and wishing she could be one of them, rather than, well, being one of them. Because to be Selena Gomez was stressful, exhausting, even terrifying. And she wasn't stupid. She saw what the media was doing to Miley; she recognized that she could be next. All she could do was wait helplessly for the impending backlash, sure to start the second she broke the facade of her flawless good-girl image.

And Selena knew it was about to break. She had known for months—at some unconscious level, maybe for years. Maybe for what seemed like forever.

If she were to go back and change the decisions she had made as a little kid, it would have started with Barney, and it would have started with never asking her mom if she could go to that audition. But just thinking about that audition made Selena smile, because had it not been for standing for hours in line with thousands of other bright-eyed oblivious seven-year-olds—too young to know any better—she never would have met Demi. And without Demi, there just... would be no point. Selena couldn't imagine life without her.

So despite her own selfish wishes for that irretrievable normal teenage life, Selena smiled for the thousand flashing lights at award ceremonies and drank the never-quite-sweet-enough coffee served to her on the morning talk shows and waved to the paparazzi when they deemed her interesting enough to take her picture. Because, at least, she knew that in a month she'd have one day to herself, when she wouldn't have to work, when she and Demi could goof off in her bedroom and make five new ridiculous YouTube videos and sing along with Paramore on the radio and play Twister in their pajamas and collapse into heaps of sprawled arms and legs and breathless giggles before falling asleep under the covers, side by side. Maybe that one day of teenage normalcy could be enough.

But when it came to the Teen Choice Awards on that scorching night in August, Selena felt an itch, and it wasn't just her uncomfortable (though breathtaking) cerulean designer dress that no normal teenage girl would ever be fortunate enough to wear even to prom. She felt restless—which was crazy, considering she'd hardly slept in weeks—and anxious and as if she could burst, and the only thing keeping her sane was the fact that Demi was sitting beside her. And the reporters were at it again, asking her about Miley, about Nick, about the supposed feud between the three of them and Selena thought that maybe tonight would be the night that these walls (too poorly constructed, because she'd built them herself) would come crashing down and they'd stomp all over her broken pieces. The anxiety was killing her, her heart was racing, her skin was hot, and then—and then—Demi's hand would slip across her back to Selena's shoulder, and it was like calamine lotion: soothing, cool, relief. All the little nuances instantly melting away.

Selena didn't want it to be temporary, as this relief so often was, because she remembered getting poison ivy as a kid—maybe the one "normal kid" event that she could actually recall—and that feeling that the itch might never go away. Stay, she thought, but she didn't dare say it aloud. Don't leave me. (And what was there to be afraid of, after all?) But she felt herself regressing; she remembered a time when they were little, when their mothers took them shopping and somehow they ended up alone, maybe not even for a full minute, and they would have (should have) been terrified—had they not had each other to cling to, the two little girls alone in a store. Selena felt like that again, so she felt herself reaching, grasping, clinging, shamelessly putting her hands where most sixteen-year-old girls wouldn't dare with their friends, but Selena and Demi were different, after all. And Selena knew it. She always had.

It was easier to smile for the camera with Demi's soft finger tracing slow circles on her shoulderblade as Selena tightened her grip on Demi's knee, and Demi giggled, but neither of them said a word. And soon, like that, their hands were all over each other the entire evening, pulling, groping, longing, neither wanting to let go, not caring that these pictures would be plastered all over the internet by tonight, and the magazines by the end of the week. Would anyone notice, or care? They were just being sixteen-year-old girls, after all. So they didn't have to come up with excuses, or reasons why, and besides, it was obvious already: because they were best friends, or because they needed each other, or because of course they wouldn't leave each other's side, or something else. Or something else.

And so tonight they would climb into a limo, side-by-side, bodies turned towards each other, knees pressed together, smiling-speechless-laughing. They would go back to Selena's house and maybe, if they weren't totally exhausted, make another YouTube video for their fans to enjoy, because that webcam, despite its inability to pick up good lighting, somehow always managed to capture their true "Demi Selena Lovato Gomez" moments.

Or maybe, tonight, they wouldn't turn on the webcam at all. Maybe they wouldn't need to use the Twister mat as an excuse for falling so hard, so fast, hands and legs intertwined. Maybe, tonight, they'd create new moments altogether, tracing circles over skin as smooth as calamine, and finally finally feel that relief they had been searching for since the day they met. Maybe fancy cerulean not-prom dresses could lie in comfortable heaps on the floor with black leather pants and button-down jackets and high-heeled shoes, and fingers could reach to touch the spots where calamine lotion is never applied, to relieve itches in places no one sees.

Flying - Wizards of Waverly Place, PG

Written for Wizards of Waverly Place Weekly Prompts. Implied incest. 178 words.

We could put a blanket over this, they said. We could cover it, fold it up and lock it away. We could find a rug to sweep this under, they whispered, like it never happened. We can hide this behind closed doors, closed mouths, closed eyes and closed hearts in order to keep it from all the closed minds.

But the blanket would come out again when they needed something to keep themselves warm.

And the rug would grace the floor once more when it became too cold and uncomfortable to walk over.

Doors were opened for exploration; mouths were opened for exploration; eyes were opened more widely for better searching, even if they didn't always like what they found. And hearts—definitely hearts—were open, because if they weren't, they might combust.

"This isn't working," Alex sighed. "We need to find something else."

And since the blanket didn't work, and the rug didn't work, and closed doors and mouths and eyes and hearts never worked either, they decided to find a carpet. Not to hide under, but to set themselves—finally—free.