This time, you’re the one who shivers. She’s right. That is kind of a turn-on.
There is one thing you have to check first, though.
“Does this mean I can’t ask for a foursome?” you ask plaintively. She looks curiously at you, so you expound on your request a little. “I just— I’ve had this fantasy where I have a foursome with you, Emma and Sophia. If you don’t-“
Abruptly, depression flares up in her again, and she leans in to press a firm kiss against your lips. You don’t scowl at her, but after a moment, you do reprovingly bite her lip. She’s getting a little too aggressive with these kisses. She winces, but doesn’t retreat back to your shoulder. “That’s fine,” she says after a moment, looking seriously at you. “I can’t—I don’t want to have regular threesomes or anything. I like that you’re the only one who is allowed to touch me, no matter who else wants to. But if you have a serious fantasy, then I’ll do it. I want you to be happy more than anything.”
You lean forward and gently kiss her nose. “Okay,” you reply simply. “Then that’s that.”
Madison doesn’t end up getting much studying done that afternoon. You briefly consider asking her to put her shirt back on, but—she did just reaffirm her commitment to you, and she gave you several new fantasies aside from that. And she even told you that she’d be willing to help you seduce other girls. Doesn’t that deserve a reward? Admittedly, you’re deriving just as much pleasure from fondling her as she is, but that’s beside the point.
You also make sure to give her a very thorough goodnight kiss before she puts her shirt back on and goes out to meet Rick, too. Not because she deserves it, this time. Just because you want to.
Shirtless studying is the best kind of studying. Now you really want to ask Dad about that basement, so that you can do this kind of thing all the time.
Surprisingly, for once, the glow of your time spent with Madison doesn’t entirely fade by the time you get home. It’s not as strong now as it was immediately after Madison whispered her words into your ear, yes, but you still feel as though you’re suffused with a soft, warm glow as you pad inside the house.
Surprisingly, Dad is home when you get home, sitting in his armchair and watching something on the television—a game of football, you think. You stop by the doorway, poking your head in, and call out, “Hello, Dad.”
He twists in his chair to look at you and gives you a serious nod. “Hello, Daughter.” The corner of your lips curl up, but Dad somehow maintains a straight face as he continues, “Nice weather we’ve been having.”
“It’s been raining for three days,” you note. He glances out the window, where the rain is still softly pattering down on the ground, then turns back to you and shrugs. You sigh. “Do you have any plans for dinner?”
He just shakes his head. “I was thinking I might cook us some chicken,” he muses. “Does that sound alright to you?”
You think about it for a moment. “Do we have enough for three?” you ask. “I want to invite Emma over.” You’ve been—you haven’t exactly been thinking about it all day, but now, in the moment, it feels right to invite her over. That flood of dark depression and anger you’d felt from her on Saturday had scared you. It still does.
On the television, a host of people scream loudly, you assume as somebody kicks the ball into the net. Or however football works. Do they have nets in football? Regardless, it makes a strong contrast to Dad’s momentary silence as he looks at you with a serious expression before he responds.
“We have enough for three, yes,” he says, watching you carefully. You watch him as he watches you, giving him a slightly confused look. He seems to grow a little puzzled himself, but eventually just nods, still looking a little dissatisfied. “I’ll go call Alan and ask him if Emma can come over, then.”
“Okay.” You give him a smile, then wave a little at him before you dash up to your room.
Your room is mostly still clean, but you give it a quick once-over anyway, straightening your sheets and tidying your homework notes on your desk. From experience, you know that it won’t take Emma long to get here; maybe half an hour, depending. If Alan says it’s okay, of course, but why wouldn’t he?
While you wait for her to get here, you pull out Victoria’s copy of the next Harry Potter book and settle onto your bed to read it. You’ve finished four of them by now. They’re still not your favourite books, but the last one was actually kind of okay, even if it spent entirely too much time dwelling on the stupid romances. Harry should have just gone to the Yule Ball with Ron, you think. Or maybe with Draco; if there’s anything Sophia has taught you, it’s that it’s much more fun to play around with people who used to hate you.
You wonder what it would be like to live in that kind of world—in a world where everything is at your fingertips, if you only study hard enough and dedicate yourself to the practice. It’d certainly be different.
“Taylor!” Dad calls from out in the hall. Hurriedly, you pull your bookmark out from behind the front cover and put it on the page you’re reading so you don’t bend Victoria’s book as you put it down and rush out to meet them.
Emma and Alan are standing in the hall. The two of them look over as they hear your feet pattering down the hall, and each give you a smile. Alan’s smile is small but genuine, and his spoken “Hi” reflects that, while Emma’s is tired and happy. She’s wearing more makeup today than she did over the weekend, but you can feel the tiredness hanging heavy over her shoulders and weighing her down.
“Hello, Taylor,” she says lowly. She gives you a perfunctory little wave.
“Hi,” you say in return, waving to both Emma and Alan. Then you step forwards and reach for Emma’s hand. After a moment of hesitation, she reaches out and lets you take it and pull her off towards your room. You ignore the bemused looks that Alan and Dad give you as you go.
Emma stumbles along behind you, looking a little taken aback, but you don’t slow down. In a few moments, the two of you are in your bedroom. You make sure to close the bedroom door behind you with a loud click, although you don’t lock it.
She blinks at you for a few moment, then shrugs resignedly and moves over to sit on your bed, plucking at the edges of your blanket.
You’re pretty sure you did actually have a plan for what you were going to do once she was over, but now that she’s here, sitting in your bedroom with that exhausted look on her face, your mind has gone entirely blank. Seeking something to say, you move over and sit beside her on your bed.
It feels different to have her in your room now. Last time she’d been in here, you’d been panicky and anxious, almost refusing to let her talk. You’re still not sure if you’d touched her in an attempt to seduce her, or just to drive her out of your bedroom. Now, it feels almost—almost right.
It helps that this time, you were the one to invite her in.
Briefly, you consider trying again. Would she let you touch her, this time, if you tried to? Probably not. You’re not sure you’re ready for that anyway.
You cast your mind around for a topic to talk about. The first thing that pops into your head is, “How is everyone?”
She side-eyes you, then closes her eyes and lets out a sigh before responding. “They’re doing fine,” she says flatly. “Dad’s still busy with his campaign work, and Mom’s busy working, like always.”
You hum a little. “What about your sister?” you ask, raising your eyebrow. As you do, you quickly stretch your power over to her and rest it over her emotions. Sure enough, she’s not in a good place. Again. There’s that same core of anger, although this time it feels more like a jagged, sour sphere, spikes growing off in all directions but towards you. Dozens of spikes pierce inwards. Surrounding that is a low, grey cloud of depression. And, hovering over it all, is a thick, smothering blanket of tiredness and apathy.
It takes a few moments for you to dig through her emotions, looking for the threads of happiness you’d picked up last time. They’re buried, and buried deep, but they sing to your power, calling back to you, and you manage to get a good grasp on them.
You wait for her to finish talking, watching her expression carefully. After a few moments of pulling gently on her contentment, the lines on her forehead ease a little, and she stops slumping quite so hard. She’s not—she’s not happy, not even close. It’ll take a lot of work to get her there, you think. But this helps.
“Right,” you murmur when she finishes. “And how have you been?”
She shrugs, another half-hearted little gesture. “I’ve been alright,” she mumbles. “Nothing exciting happened. Sophia came over yesterday, we watched a movie together. I did my homework.” The ghost of a smirk spreads over her face. “Mister Gladly told me my essay was the most impressive essay he’d received yet. You’d better be careful, Taylor, or I might take over your position as the best student.” Almost as soon as she says the words, the teasing twist to her mouth suddenly fades in favour of an anxious grimace, as though she’s afraid she offended you.
You scoot a little closer and rub her knee, pulling sharply on her contentment for a moment. She lets out a shuddery sigh and leans sideways, towards you. “Mister Gladly is dumb,” you mumble. “My essay was really good.” You pout at her, but allow the corner of your lips to turn up in a slight smile so she knows not to take you too seriously.
Emma shakes her head, but her expression looks a little more open now. “I’m sure it was,” she murmurs, angling her knees towards you. You reward her with a small pat to the thigh before you resume rubbing her knee. “What did you do your essay on?”
“Japanese culture,” you reply. “And how it was influenced by the sinking of Kyushu.” You mean to elaborate further, but Emma shifts again, bringing herself closer to you, and your mouth goes dry. She’s really warm.
“That sounds interesting.” You can tell she doesn’t believe it, though. You don’t even need to feel her emotions to know that—she’s never found examinations of other cultures exciting. Hesitantly, she raises an arm, sliding it slowly behind your back. You don’t pull away, feeling—knowing—that whatever she’s trying to do, she’s not doing it to hurt you. And, indeed, all she does is hesitantly slip her arm around you and pull herself into a half-hug beside you, resting her cheek on your shoulder.
You return the hug, placing your own arm over her shoulder and allowing her to rest comfortably against you. It feels… nice. She’s soft, like Madison, although she’s a little bonier. Much softer than Sophia’s toned body.
The two of you keep up this quiet conversation about your schoolwork in the comfortable confines of your bedroom. It’s—comfortable is not a word you would use to describe interacting with Emma, and neither is safe, but it rests somewhere in the middle.
The entire time you talk with her, you keep a tight hold of her contentment, not letting it fall back beneath that shroud of apathy and depression. You don’t know what’s causing it, although you do have some very strong ideas, but if there’s something you can do to help Emma fight off her depression, you’re going to do it. And this seems to help.
Eventually, Dad calls the two of you down for dinner.
“It’s nothing exciting,” he says once he’s sitting down at the table, having served all three of you up dinner. “Do you still like lemon and rosemary chicken, Emma?”
Your friend looks up at him with wide eyes, then quickly nods and looks back down at her plate. You follow suit, examining what he’s cooked. He’s right—it’s nothing particularly exciting. He’s roasted some potatoes, and there’s some boiled peas and carrot slices off to the side. He cooks meals like this all the time, really. Potatoes are cheap, since they’re so abundant in supply nowadays, and frozen peas and carrots from the supermarket don’t cost very much.
Admittedly, rice dishes would be even cheaper—there’s a cape in India who has the power to exert some control over the weather, and he’s been helping India’s farmlands for the past few years. Food has been flowing through the country more abundantly than ever before, supported by donations from several charities, including one particularly large one rumoured to be funded by the Protectorate. But you don’t own a slow cooker, and rice cooked in a pot on the stove tends to be bland and unexciting.
Under the table, you find Emma’s hand and give it an encouraging squeeze. You still haven’t lifted your grasp from her contentment—it’s not in as much danger of just falling back down beneath her apathy just yet, but you don’t want to risk it.
Dad picks up the slack for you eventually, filling the air with questions about Emma’s schoolwork and regaling her with stories from his workplace. Emma doesn’t quite laugh at his stories, but at several points, you can feel her squeeze your hand beneath the table, and she does manage to muster a smile at some of his funnier stories. Eventually, even you join in, lobbing some jokes at Dad’s expense that draw faint, affectionate grins from her.
It’s nearly eight by the time the three of you finish eating. Dad stands, collecting the plates from in front of the two of you. “What time do you have to be back home?” he asks.
Emma looks up, her eyes wide, as though she’s startled at being addressed. “Ah—Dad said by nine.” Her grip goes limp in yours for a moment, but you don’t let her hand slide out of yours, and even bring your other hand across to cup her hands. After a moment of your attention, she perks back up a little, drawing in a deep breath. “Thank you for the dinner, Danny.”
