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superbdragoncollection-stuff · 3 years

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Thoughts on Separate Tides and Allergen Representation; an Essay

“No appleblood. I spent the money on gryphon eggs for Luz. There’s not a lot she can digest here, so I make sure I have her favorites around.”

“Because you stuck with me, you lost your magic! You almost got turned to stone, and now you can’t even afford your appleblood because you’re worried about what I need to eat!”

This episode had a very surprising, and very sweet display of allergen representation. I really appreciate Luz’s issues and anxieties in this episode. While it’s presented in a fantasy way, when she explains how upset she is about her food restrictions, it speaks to a real issue affecting people with allergies and digestive problems. As someone with a food allergy growing up, the moments really spoke to me. I have Celiac Disease, which means that my body can’t digest gluten, a protein in wheat. I can eat the stuff physically, and the symptoms aren’t obvious like a peanut allergy. This makes it difficult to detect. The way it manifests is that my stomach can’t digest the protein. It will go through my small intestine, and tear up the lining of the organ that absorbs food, and what remains of the lining has a hard time absorbing other nutrients, causing me to essentially starve. These symptoms don’t appear immediately, taking days, weeks, or even months to register, making it even more difficult to detect. While gluten is something health nuts are obsessed with lately, it is a very real threat to people with my condition. My food can’t share the same plate, can’t share the same space; if they even so much as come into contact I have to scrap the whole meal just for safety’s sake. When I was younger, before I was diagnosed, I didn’t grow an inch for two years because my body had gone into maintaining the bare minimum needed for survival. My bones think they’re younger than they actually are. When I was diagnosed and I recovered, I grew a lot. What spoke to me in this episode was Luz’s discomfort and distress at Eda’s money troubles when it comes to food. It wasn’t a joke, it wasn’t mean, it was really meaningful, it’s a fact of life. It’s much like how Eda’s condition was treated in the first episode she appeared, just a part of life. Gluten free food is expensive, finding places that won’t actively poison me is exhausting, and I’m constantly worried about cross contamination. Even a few crumbs can be a problem. Frequently I will feel like a burden, like I’m being pedantic even though this is vital to my health. I cannot live off food with gluten, I will die. Yet it still feels as if I’m a burden. I’m right there with Luz; hearing people having to talk about our food sensitivities, and having to accommodate us, even if it's in a loving way like Eda said, is upsetting. I’m also going to guess that like me, Luz is also a picky eater even amongst stuff she can eat. On school trips, I always needed special treatment; it tended to be something that I don’t care for even if it was gluten free, or dry sandwiches I brought from home while my peers chowed down on pizza. I remember the looks everyone gave me. I have to explain to every single restaurant I find my condition. Even if they’re understanding, it’s a pain. Luz has been confirmed to be neurodivergent, and I am right there with her as well. It takes an immense amount of mental energy to find restaurants, to find the right menus, find the ones with the right accommodations. Food can’t even be cooked in the same fryer if I want to avoid cross-contamination. It’s terrifying and upsetting to constantly have to go to the front of the line and ask for what feels like conspicuous special treatment. As a neurodivergent person, social anxiety makes this so much worse. I constantly fear the cooks are cursing me under their breath for inconveniencing them, I fear that people behind me are whispering and that any moment a hand will land on my shoulder and demand I get to the back of the line with everyone else. Sometimes I will get food that I simply don’t like, or hasn’t been cooked right. Asking to have it fixed is terrifying, and I fear the people around me even more. Luz may not be super poor on Earth, but she voiced a lot of anxieties and frustration that people like me have. I'm from a well off family that could afford the additional expense of gluten free food, but I can’t imagine what a nightmare it is for real families who can’t afford gluten free food, or who can’t even

afford a diagnosis. To add insult to injury, many people will mock or dismiss us as being liars, pedantic, or just picky. It is a common thing to mock people with gluten free preferences; the Angry Birds movie made fun of it. I hear people complain about how expensive the food is even if they don’t have to eat it. People will offer me bread even after I explain to them what it will do to me. Dennys seems to have adopted a chain-wide proclamation to refuse to accommodate gluten free people. I have not eaten there in three years, because we experienced serious food problems in restaurants in Virginia and Vermont. Virtually every time I entered a Dennys three years ago, I would ask for a plate of plain and simple chicken that normally comes with toast, and I ask them to remove that; somehow, they would always screw up the order by putting glutinous bread right on top and ruining the whole meal. Yes, we are that sensitive to contamination. If it even touches the food the meal is ruined. Once, it was understandable because the waiter had been awake for eighteen hours. The other times were not. I saw the waiters argue with the other staff, I had a manager once come out to explain my own disease to me, even as two pieces of toast just sat there stewing on my chicken. That feeling of being a burden, of hearing people argue about trying to help you, stings very much. Some people will assume that we just don’t like wheat; I’ve heard horror stories of people trying to “prove” someone didn’t have Celiac Disease by secretly putting it in their food. The fact that we don’t go into anaphylactic shock when we consume it makes this a common problem as it leads them to assume it’s not an issue. It being a fad diet has also made my life worse; I have to constantly specify that I am not just gluten free, that I have an actual medical condition. I have to carry cards in my wallet to explain the situation. It feels like the world around me conspires to keep me from being healthy. And it feels like the world hates people like me for it. The best representation I’ve ever gotten for Celiac Disease was a CollegeHumor sketch. Most of the time, allergen representation is a joke, even if it’s informative and not meant to be mean. The Owl House breaks that trend with these two little exchanges. “No appleblood. I spent the money on gryphon eggs for Luz. There’s not a lot she can digest here, so I make sure I have her favorites around.” “Because you stuck with me, you lost your magic! You almost got turned to stone, and now you can’t even afford your appleblood because you’re worried about what I need to eat!” Luz’s snap at Eda about her food sensitivities is something I feel. I don’t often get allergen representation like this, especially any as loving and kind as this. Even to family, who love and support me, I can feel like a burden, as if there’s something wrong with me that is somehow my fault, and not the fault of a genetic disease dating back thousands of years. It’s deeply upsetting and frustrating to experience this. No matter who it comes from, it hurts a lot. I’m glad The Owl House captured this feeling perfectly. It’s good to know I’m not alone here. I’m glad to see representation where facts of my life aren’t seen as a joke.

#the owl house #the owl house spoilers #toh luz #toh season 2 #toh season 2 spoilers #luz noceda #allergens #allergen representation #celiac disease

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theepitomeofamess · 6 years

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pt 3

Another lengthy and slow-moving (I think) installment with some heavy Roman backstory

Word count: 3826

warnings: more mentions of addiction/alcoholism, mentions of being disowned, me not knowing what I’m doing

ships: hinted Sleepxiety, hinted Patton/Picani, probably gonna be Logince

Roman proved true to his word. Logan wasn't sure at first whether or not he was going to stay true, but the very next morning and every day for a full week, there he was with Virgil trailing behind. The first few days, he’d just sit next to Logan’s bed and talk to him, trying to keep his voice as stable as possible so it didn’t get on Logan’s nerves as badly. He failed a lot of the time, slipping in and out of excited squealing, but he was trying. Virgil mainly kept to himself, sitting by the window with headphones on and a gorgeous leatherbound journal in his lap, sketching away. He might not have been quite as clearly present as Roman, but it was nice to have a quiet presence there nonetheless.

Once Logan’s withdrawal symptoms started subsiding, Roman started bringing stuff in for entertainment. Coloring books, Mad Gab, and Boggle for when they felt up for something a bit more interactive, and novels from his collection for Logan and his lines for memorization and practice when they wanted a bit more quiet. Roman would mouth his lines for practice, leaning over every now and again to show Logan a word that he wasn't sure he was pronouncing correctly and ask for confirmation or correction. It was kind of like watching a silent movie without subtitles when Logan glanced over at him from his book, watching him staring at nothing and mouthing almost too precisely and gesturing grandly despite his silence.

Logan would never admit that he found it endearing.

“Okay, boys,” Roman stood from his chair. They'd just finished their fifth round of Mad Gab. Virgil was still giggling at the nonsense Logan had kept repeating when he couldn’t hear what he was supposed to be saying. Roman ruffled Virgil’s hair as he passed. “I’ll be right back. Virgil, make sure Logan doesn’t go anywhere.”

“He can do what he wants,” Virgil retorted, fixing his hair. “I’m not your guard dog, Princey.” Roman stuck his tongue out at Virgil’s comment as he left. Logan attempted a chuckle at the gesture, but it must have come out wrong. “Sorry about him,” Virgil offered, “he has some, um, abandonment issues. Once his heart is set on having someone in his life, that person is essentially absorbed.”

“No need to apologize,” Logan tried to seem nonchalant about it. “If I could ask, though, why do you think that is?” Virgil eyed the door, obviously worried as the shadows around his face seemed to grow darker.

“It’s not my story to tell, and don’t ever bring it up to him,” Virgil whispered, leaning in closer, “but his parents disowned him when he came out to them. That’s when he got on the bottle. Patton kind of adopted him when he showed up at the hospital completely wasted sobbing about wanting a family and not wanting to go to hell. When he came to, I don’t even know how, but he just kind of integrated himself into our life. He lives with us, pays his share of rent and food, essentially became our fourth brother. I think he’s trying to do the same for you.” Logan nodded along with what Virgil was saying, staring at the floor behind him so he didn’t have to meet his eyes. There was something unbelievable about what Virgil was saying. Logan had only known Roman for around a week, and he already couldn’t imagine anybody not wanting him. He somehow couldn’t see him drunk, or crying, or anything other than the happy-go-lucky “everybody’s my friend” guy he’d come to know and tolerate.

“I can’t imagine…” Logan trailed off. What couldn’t he imagine, exactly? The pain? He could understand the pain of losing family, but he had to think that having them abandon and disown you was far different than… “So he’s like your brother? I was wondering what that whole thing was between you two. Does he know it’s platonic?”

“Oh, yeah. I was in a relationship way before he showed up. It probably wouldn’t have worked, anyway, but we’ll never know.”

“Look who I found,” Roman burst through the door extravagantly with Patton on his arm. Patton giggled at Roman’s announcement. “We come bearing good news!” Logan looked to Virgil, the two raising an eyebrow at each other before looking back at Roman and Patton with a shared smirk.

“And what might that be, Sir Sing-a-Lot,” Virgil asked when Roman didn’t continue. Roman gestured to Patton, who smiled and looked to Logan.

“Emile - that is - Dr. Picani says that you’re ready for discharge. Says he still wants to see you in group therapy once a week, and hopefully once a month for individual work, but you’re good to go. Here’s your stuff,” Logan hadn’t noticed the grocery bag in Patton’s hand until he held it out to him. Logan almost couldn’t believe it when he took the bag, looking in it to find the clothes he’d been in before he woke up in the hospital, his phone and keys protruding from pockets in his jeans.

“Gotta be honest,” Logan chuckled, “didn’t expect it to be this soon. Are they gonna send a bill to my apartment, or-”

“I took care of it,” Patton replied. “Don’t thank me, don’t try to offer to repay me, it’s my pleasure.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking that without paying you back somehow.”

“Pay me back by coming and living with us.” Logan’s brow furrowed at the request. “We talked about it, and we wouldn’t feel comfortable with you going and being alone wherever it is that you live. As far as we know, we’re your only support system. We’re not gonna let you fall out again.” Logan raised an eyebrow to Patton, looking from him to Roman, who was nodding in agreement, to Virgil, who gave him a stern look that said “he’s right.” Finally, Logan nodded.

“Okay. I guess I’m moving down here, then.” Roman and Patton started bouncing in excitement, and Virgil smiled.

Logan couldn't help but wonder how the hell these practical strangers cared so much about him that they’d pay his hospital bill and invite him to live with them. He’d read about people like that, people that made up for all of the awful things that humanity has a tendency to do, but he couldn’t remember any time in his life that he experienced true altruism.

“Okay, let’s let Logan get changed, and when he’s ready to go, Roman, could you drive him down to his apartment and help him bring his stuff down.” Roman nodded in agreement. Virgil got up off the bed to follow the others out.

“I’ll be waiting outside for when you're ready.” Roman winked at Logan, smirking when Logan rolled his eyes.

Once the others were gone and the door was closed, Logan started changing into his own clothes. Somebody - probably Patton - had washed them. They didn't have the smell of rain and dirt and sweat and multiple weeks of wear without wash anymore. Slipping on his dark blue hoodie, he couldn’t remember the last time it had been so soft. It was still a bit too big for him, not like it had been when he first got it as a gift. His jeans had shrunk in the wash, tightening back to their original state, but they were still a bit too big on him. He avoided looking in the mirror because of how much he’d shrunk down, not enjoying the way his face had turned gaunt, cheekbones sticking out sharply and eyes sunken into their sockets.

Checking his phone - one of them must have kept it on their charger when they weren't using it - he found it full of unread messages and missed calls from his mother. How had he not thought about that before?

So sorry, he answered her. Charger died, took a while to get a new one. I’m okay, I promise. He knew that his mother wouldn't be too worried. She knew what his schedule used to be like, she thought it was still like that, and she didn't tend to worry when he didn't pick up his phone because of that. As long as he gave a halfway plausible answer when he finally answered her, she was fine with it.

Sometimes he wished his parents weren't so nonchalant.

Looking into the bag to make sure he hadn't missed anything, he found what looked like a blue snake in the bottom of the bag. His tie.

It had been washed, too. He could feel it in the fabric. The stains weren't gone and the colors were still faded, but it wasn't stiff with crusted blood and mud anymore. Holding the striped strip in his hands, he couldn't help but smile sadly at it.

“You're a serious person, Lo,” she’d told him when he opened the box containing his going away present. “Serious people wear neckties.” He’d chuckled at the comment when she’d said it. He chuckled quietly now, feeling the burn of restrained tears in his throat. How did less than two years ago feel like an eternity?

“You ready, Lo?” Roman cracked the door open, peeking his head through with a chipper grin. Logan looked up, rolling up the tie to shove it in his pocket. He hadn't realized until then how much Roman reminded him of her. Chipper, loud, dramatic, even down to calling him Lo.

“Yeah,” Logan stood up, starting for the door. “Let’s go.”

“You okay?” Roman’s sudden concern worried Logan. He’d have to relearn how to paint over his emotions better.

“Fine,” he answered too quickly, too quietly. “C’mon, we should go.” Roman’s concern still hovered over them, but he didn't dig into it. He was too in tune with people’s emotions to dig into something that was obviously upsetting Logan. If he wanted to forget about it, then by all means.

Logan followed Roman down to the parking garage, sliding into the passenger seat of a sleek silver Toyota. Not surprisingly, the stereo came to life, blasting show tunes without hesitation or warning as soon as Roman turned the key.

“Sorry, sorry!” Roman scrambled to turn down the volume on the stereo.

“You're fine, it's okay,” Logan assured. “It’s your car, do what you want.” Roman didn't listen, keeping the radio at the low volume he’d brought it to so he could hear Logan’s phone give him directions.

They didn't talk much after the stereo interaction. Roman sang along with the show tunes, Logan asked at one point if he could roll the window down, and that was about all they heard of each other until they reached Logan’s apartment building.

Roman did keep looking over at Logan, though, glancing between the boy to his right and the road. Logan’s arm rested on the window, feeling the wind as they sped down the highway. His posture was slouched, a position that for some reason didn’t look right on him. Watching the world fly at and around him through the windshield, Roman noticed that his eyes were far off, watching something other than what was right in front of him. Thinking again. Always thinking. At some point, Roman told himself, he’d have to ask what he was always thinking about.

For now, though, he didn’t want to pry.

“So this is your place,” Roman commented gently when Logan unlocked the door to enter the apartment. It was a small place, one room with a sofa, a coffee table, and a few pillows and blankets. The ceiling hung low, and the window was much smaller than average, only allowing for a small square of light at the right time of day. There was a bathroom that was only big enough for the toilet, essentially a glorified cubicle, and a kitchen counter with a sink and microwave. The entire place was falling apart, held together by duct tape in come places where it needed spackle. The only sign of life was the mountain of books between the ratty couch and chipped wood coffee table.

“Yeah, it's not much, but it was cheap.” Logan went to the coffee table, picking up what looked to be a wallet and sighing in relief. He slipped the leather square into his pocket as the turned to the sofa, reaching behind it to pull out a collapsed cardboard box. Folding it open and connecting the parts where they fit, Logan set the box on the coffee table. “There are more back there if you wanna fold them open.” Roman nodded, moving slowly across the floor. The carpet was filthy, unidentifiable stains making Roman a bit sick to his stomach. He tried to ignore the unknown smell coming from the carpeting as he pulled more collapsed boxes out from behind the couch.

As he started putting one together, he looked over to find Logan shoving what looked to be all of his clothes from a drawer under to bookshelf into the box. Shoving the clothes down, he started stacking books on top of them. Flipping through the pages of each one, his eyes searched the pages for something. That something finally appeared when he shook a book by the spine and a twenty fell out. Roman almost laughed at the method of keeping cash close and hidden. Shoving the twenty in his pocket, Logan kept moving.

“You got anything here that's yours other than the books?”

“I’ve got some ramen in one of the cabinets, but I don't know if we want to take that.”

“We could probably give that to Virgil and Remy. They like that kind of thing, it's easy.”

“Okay. I think it's right above the microwave. You can get it if you want.” Logan didn't even try to look up as he explained. Her just kept shaking books, finding money. Roman couldn't quite understand why he was doing that.

Just as he was thinking of asking, he got his answer.

This time, a little baggie of crushed white powder fell out from the pages of one of the books. Logan held it up, staring at it intently. Roman recognized the way Logan’s chest started heaving. He could almost hear the argument in Logan’s head, the same one he’d heard in his own head when he was presented with a bottle of beer.

Just one more.

No, you're doing so well.

Just one more time, just one more rush.

Don’t go back to that place.

Just one more instant without pain.

Roman couldn't find it in him to wait for Logan to make a decision. Before he knew it, he was speeding across the room, grabbing the baggie from Logan, opening the window, and chucking the baggie out.

Logan didn't even have time to process what had just happened.

“I was trying to think of how to safely dispose of it, but okay that works, too.” Roman watched Logan’s face as he spoke, trying to decipher whether or not he was lying. Either Logan was a good liar, or he was telling the truth.

He didn't see the relieved release of tension and bated breath when he turned away, choosing to accept Logan’s explanation.

The rest of the packing took less than an hour. The time was backed with Roman humming Disney songs to himself while he worked. Logan found himself gritting his teeth, a tension headache blossoming like a rubber band squeezing around his head. He made the mistake of squeezing the bridge of his nose under his glasses and groaning at the pain, a gesture that led Roman to think that he was actually sick. Because of this, Roman insisted on carrying both of the two heavier boxes while Logan carried the one with the ramen and a few other things, the one that felt like it had nothing in it but air. Keeping the box against his body with one arm, Logan watched Roman carefully, ready to either catch him break his fall if he lost his balance. Despite his habitual worrying, Roman didn't seem to be struggling.

“You actually use your gym membership, or something,” Logan asked as Roman set the boxes easily in the back of his car.

“No,” Roman chuckled. “I’m just naturally that wonderful!” Striking a pose meant to accent his biceps, Logan only blinked at Roman’s ever widening grin. Releasing his pose, Roman laughed again. “No, but seriously, I help the techies at the theater with moving heavy stuff and building set pieces. Not that they couldn’t do it on their own, I just like helping when I can. Oh, speaking of…” Roman trailed off, digging into his pocket to produce a slip of paper for Logan.

“What’s this,” Logan asked, hesitantly taking the offering.

“Ticket for opening night. I usually get ‘em for Pat, Virge, and Remy. Figured I’d at least give you the option of going without paying.” Logan could only look at the ticket, reading the words The Tempest over and over again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been invited to a live performance. To his knowledge, the last one he’d seen was one she’d been in. How long ago was that? “You don’t have to if-”

“No, I’m definitely going to be there,” Logan interjected, meeting Roman’s eyes for an instant before looking back down at the ticket. “I just… You keep bringing up Remy. Is that Virgil’s boyfriend?” Roman felt like he’d gotten whiplash from how quickly Logan changed the subject. Shutting the back of his car, they made their way back to their respective seats as Roman talked.

“Yeah. Those two have been together for a while. Been friends since childhood, if I’m remembering right.” Logan nodded, listening carefully to take in as much information as he could. “Not the kind of guy I’d pin as Virgil’s type at first, but hey, they make each other happy, so I’m happy for them. I mean, as long as we’re being honest, I kinda had a thing for Virgil when I first met him, so that might’ve contributed to that thought process of Remy not being his type, but again, they’re happy and Remy’s a great guy, so.”

“I’ll admit, I thought you and Virgil were something before I heard about Remy.” Roman chuckled at the comment. “So, he has someone. What about you?”

“Nah, not right now. For the past few years, I’ve been on a solo mission to save myself. It’s actually been really good, especially with Pat and Virge. What about you? What’s your love life been like?”

“Nonexistent,” Logan laughed. He couldn’t quite tell why he found that fact funny. Sighing, he noticed that the sky was turning orange. “Are you okay with driving at night? We can stop at a motel for the night if you’re not.”

“No, I’m fine. Just so long as there are no drunk morons on the road. And don’t change the subject. I wanna know more about you. Pretty much all I know so far is you’re a bookworm that almost died chasing an impossible high. I’d like if I could have a little context to help fill in the blanks.”

“I won’t tell Picani, a licensed psychiatrist, about my past. What makes you think I’d tell you?” Logan turned his head against the headrest, looking to see Roman’s amber eyes glowing gold in the saturated orange light. A slight smirk curled on Roman’s lips.

“Because we’re friends.” Roman’s voice lowered back to that quiet place that came with his sincerity. “Therapists are all well and good, but they can only help so much when you only see them so often. Also, disclaimer, Emile and Patton are kind of a thing - entirely romantic, they’re both ace, but yeah you’ll be seeing him around the house every now and then. Same with Remy.”

“So the house is just a hot spot for visitors? Well, that's great.”

“No, it's a hot spot for family. Everybody I’ve mentioned so far is a member of the family. You're a new addition. And quit changing the subject.”

“I’m not, though, you are.” Roman sighed, his grin fading.

“I know Virgil told you about my parents. What they did when I came out. I don't tend to tell people about that, it doesn't come up in normal conversation, but you know. I’d like it if maybe you'd return the favor and give me a little insight into your backstory.” Logan thought on the request. It seemed reasonable. They were, in many ways, kindred spirits. It seemed fair that he would want to know about Logan’s past, how they ended up there together.

“I’m not as much of an open book as you.”

“Granted,” Roman agreed, “but I’d like to know a little more. It'll make it easier for me to help you through recovery. You don't need to give too many details, just a general summary.” Logan looked back at Roman, who was now dead serious. It was an odd combination of weird and comforting to see him so concerned.

“I, um,” Logan tried to force the words past teeth, knowing they wouldn't let themselves be heard willingly. “I was at Princeton for around a year in their cosmology program. I was on the track to being an astronomer, had a scholarship and everything. I was gonna go to NASA and take humanity to the stars in a way nobody has before. And then…” The words threatened to strangle Logan. He hadn't allowed himself to think of then for so long. He’d spent a full year - maybe more - forcing the memories and feelings so far down, forcing himself to forget. “And then I dropped out and spent a year or so getting high. Then you found me and here we are.”

“What made you drop out? If you don't mind my asking. It's just, it sounds like you were living your dream, the way you were talking there for a minute.”

“I was.” Logan sighed, watching the windshield. The specks of dust and dirt against the darkening sky almost looked like the stars he’d once adored. “Circumstances change. We change with them, and sometimes it's not for the better.” There was a moment of silence where Roman wasn't sure what to say. He’d never heard a more true statement.

“You're a lot more of a dreamer than I thought.” Logan scoffed at the thought. “Oh, so you're one of those.”

“One of what?”

“A dreamer too firmly stuck in reality. It’s like being a tree with the heart of a bird. Your heart wants to fly away and experience everything, but you’re too firmly rooted down.” Logan’s brow furrowed, confused at the metaphor. It made perfect sense, he just couldn’t understand how it related to him. “Don't worry. Once you find your wings it'll make sense.” This only made Logan’s face scrunch up more. When Roman glanced over to see it, he couldn't help but chuckle.

So smart, and yet so clueless.

@syndianites @lollingtothemax

if you’re behind and wanna read the first two parts:

Part One Part Two

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Teal Post-its, sale Greenies and artsy portraits can build something resembling the Sun (Sashea) - Nox

A/N: Hi! I’m Nox, a loooong while ago I used to post here, and I’m back from the dead. I’m obsessed with anything Sashea right now and I stumbled with this prompt: “i hired a dog walking company and i’ve never met the person who comes to my apartment but they leave me really cute notes and they give my dog presents and i kind of love them because my dog does and ALSO one of the artists at this gallery opening is hella cute and i want them to paint me like one of their french girls, plot twist is the same person all along AU” and all the sudden I had a 6k+ words written down, so yeah. This is dedicated to all the WONDERFUL Sashea writers here, you are all awesome and this doesn’t make you any justice but is my small contribution to the fandom.

I apologize if this doesn’t make any sense, and for any grammar mistakes. Hope you enjoy n.n

A post-it note should not put her world upside down.

Humble letters shouldn’t go through her like the flight of butterflies spreading from the tip of her pointer finger to her chest, words shouldn’t make her stomach do uncomfortable flipflops, small phrases shouldn’t mirror the effects of a long walk on the beach which burnt slightly her cheeks and tinted them red. A small, teal piece of paper probably shouldn’t be important, nothing more than a simple reminder tool, an office supply anyone could buy at any supermarket. Words laid out in simple handwriting were probably not meant to go beyond a simple greeting, a good vibes wish, a polite gesture.

Yeah, a teal post-it stuck on her fridge probably wasn’t meant to be a big deal.

But it was.

Vanya, the Italian greyhound, napped in Sasha’s lap after being satisfied with the welcome home he had provided his owner with. The day had surely being a very active one for him, as he had fallen asleep with barely 5 minutes of fussing around her feet. She had gathered him off the floor and brought him to her bed, the teal note tightly clutched on her left hand. A new smile formed in her ruby lips as she scratched his back. Who knew this little dog would get her in such a roller coaster of emotions?

Her grey-blue eyes returned to the note, scanning it for the eleventh time. She had already memorized the message, words carved into her being, every syllable for some reason enticing to her.

–Hey darlin’. Vanya was super excited about his walk, such a good boy! Hope your day was as good as ours, you’ve been working like crazy this couple of days. Vanya told me ;) Give yourself a treat today. Love, -Shea

Shivers went and came in erratic patterns, travelling up and down her spine as every word made white noise in her mind. She shaked her head a little bit, trying to fade the haze she was submerging into. Sasha sometimes wondered if she was a bit crazy. Sure, moving across the Pacific to an unknown country just by the desire of becoming an artist and live openly as a queer woman was bold. Moving from Urbana to Brooklyn out of a hunch and the need to have brighter lights and stranger people in the city she called home was somewhat risky. Leaving her shitty paid job as a receptionist for a shittier paid job as a assistant curator was kind of nuts is you considered her rent, but hey, she was slowly accomplishing the life she set her mind into many years ago as she boarded that Aeroflot flight, on the heavy russian winter.

However, it was moments like this, when she arrived home and kicked her shoes out of the way to make a beeline to her fridge in the raw hope of finding a new note on it, that she really questioned her judgement on sanity.

Because Sasha was obsessed with a stranger.

She placed the note inside her sketch pad on her night stand, with all the others she had received in the lapse of three months, safely storing them to re-read later. She rubbed her hands together, fingers twitching, aching to do anything right now as she was high on emotion and sensations. This obsession, or however she could call it, wasn’t something that she could quite explain, couldn’t quite pinpoint where it came from and where it was going, but oh it was all so very strange and uncommon that it became addictive to her.

Three months back, when she first adopted the mischievous dog from an animal shelter, the last thing she imagined was she might find someone to fantasize about thanks to dog walks.

She knew she would adopt Vanya the second she laid eyes on him. His long face and skinny legs make him look like a cartoon, dark orbs wide open when they met. She had taken him home without much hassle, just to start freaking out the second she remembered the insane amount of time she spent outside her apartment in between meetings, exhibits, late curatorial processes and overall mayhem a gallery generated. After an all nighter making schedules, budgets and a few calls, it was obvious she would need to hire someone to entertain the poor little pup as she was away. She had called a walking dog company first thing next morning as a solution. They assigned her a walker, one that usually worked with little troubles like Vanya was promising to be. Her name was Shea.

They had never met in person, and they haven’t really talked since the day Shea sent her her number over a text and asked for her to leave a spare key somewhere she could fetch it every time she went to walk Vanya. Her avatar didn’t tell Sasha much about her physical appearance, as the picture was something between a photograph and an illustration, outlandish colors flying in quirky organic figures and toon body parts (breasts, Sasha thought) covered some of the features of a woman’s face- supposedly, Shea’s.

(She did try to analyse this better, but the tiny resolution for it made it quite impossible. Maybe this should have been hint number one, as she quickly became obsessed with the picture.)

She left that morning on a rush and returned home eight hours later, feet sore and swollen in her shimmery red pumps, completely depleted and a bit discouraged as the gallery owner, a southern belle called Trinity, changed last minute the queer exhibition she and the chief curator had been collecting for months for some kitschy landscape showing. The change brought not only tons of extra work but a low blow to Sasha’s ego as she had designed herself the museography. It felt very disrespectful to throw away a subject so dear to the russian.

She closed the door behind her with a sigh as she stepped into her small studio in Brooklyn, Vanya’s paws scraping over the floor in his dash to get to her. She leaned down and petted him, making then her way to the kitchen to get him some food and water, and stirring something up for herself to calm her growling stomach.

As she was about to open her fridge to get some fresh water for Vanya’s bowl, she noticed something- a note, a post-it note adhered to the door of the fridge, next to some polaroids of her and a few friends from Illinois she kept there.

–Hey girl! Vanya loved me. We had tons of fun today. Love,

-Shea

Ps. Hope you smiled a lot today. You look cute smiling in your polaroids ;)

The immediate heat that spread across her fair features was inevitable as she read the note. Vanya ran around her ankles, occasionally propping himself on his back legs, paws against her chins trying to get her attention back on him, as Sasha seemed to have spammed out of this universe completely, eyes wide and a blushed dusting her face and neck. The russian blinked in quick succession, mechanically opening the fridge and pouring water to the dog, who drank happily. Walking towards the small island that served as the dining table, Sasha felt the warmness of her face taking over her entire body.

Sasha was usually lonesome, sometimes too outside-the-box to fit in with the crowd. Brooklyn had proven to be a tad more open-minded to receive her, but still, there were few people that saw in a petite woman with blond wild hair, thick brows, a mind full of thoughts and opinions and a love for clothes with striking patterns and odd accessories as someone they wish to have close to them. She was opinionated, clumsy and most of the times what she said was perceived as overly academic and pretentious, which was exactly the opposite of her intentions. But Sasha didn’t know any better as to how to express herself. She wanted to be heard and she was going to be, no matter what.

Sasha wasn’t good with people, so she mostly kept to herself.

And maybe that’s why coming home from another day without real human contact, having lunch alone on a room cramped with stored paintings and sculptures, a lot of disastrous meetings and having ideas and opinions crushed under someone else’s feet, that she found this little piece of paper as something that had her at the verge of tears. This unknown woman, who walked her dog once, wished she smiled a lot during the day, just because she thought her smile was cute.

Sasha thought of writing Shea a text, thanking her for the note, but thought better of it. The last thing she needed was to scare off her dog walker just because she came on too strong, thinking too much about a simple gesture of courtesy.

The notes didn’t stop though. That was the first of many, many notes, and very, very much awareness over this person she couldn’t even put a face on. This random woman, who she might’ve never meet on the outside world, made her feel treasured and special with simple silly messages written down on a post-its that kept appearing on her fridge. Was she like this with other owners? Sasha liked to think that she wasn’t, that this was their special little thing. Sometimes, when she felt bold enough (probably after a couple glasses of wine late at night too), she would leave a magenta post-it on the fridge, with a silly cartoon or doodle, some message maybe answering whatever Shea had written, sometimes a lame joke, sometimes a simple “Thank you”.

The magenta post-its were always gone and replaced with teal ones, with new messages and new cute non-sense. It wasn’t exactly conversations, as more of signals out in the world that acknowledged both their existences.

Was this borderline insane? Yes, probably. But long ago had Sasha lost the sight of what might be real and what might be her mind playing her over her loneliness. And goodness knew this was the kind of love infatuation someone like her would find irresistible: dramatic, impossible and psycho-ish. It was art at it’s best.

It would make a great book.

A friday night Sasha came home soaked to the bone, a mild storm catching her off guard. After closing her door, she stripped to her mismatched underwear, trying not to get water everywhere as she definitely didn’t feel like cleaning. She could hear Vanya barking, probably on the kitchen. She skipped her way down there, her clothes and shoes in one hand, looking for the reason her little one was so distressed. Usually, Vanya was well behaved, and for him to bark inside the apartment was quite odd.

She found him propped on his rear legs, eyes set on a paper bag over the counter of the island in her kitchen. He barked stubbornly to it. Her sculptural eyebrows shut up almost to her hairline, that wasn’t there on the morning. More surprising (and what made her heart do a painful summersault) was to find a teal post-it stuck to it. Her stomach did something resembling to a cartwheel, her knees felt quite wobbly. What was this? She threw her clothes to the floor, be damned the puddle of water that she’ll have to clean later, and with shaky hands, she took the note.

–So, I thought giving Vanya a treat today was a good idea. Turns out, he really like them and won’t stop crying if I don’t give him one very couple of hours. My bad :( I’ll work on it with him, I promise! For now, these should last him a couple of weeks. Didn’t meant to spoil him, Xx, -Shea. Ps. Who am I kidding? I love to spoil his pretty face.

Sasha read over and over again the note, feeling way dizzier each time she did. The white fuzzing in her brain seemed to stop time as her eyes scanned the piece of paper as if she was a robot. Vanya’s barking eventually brought her back, for her to realize she was steadying herself gripping the counter. With her eyes open as wide as she could, she opened he bag and emptied it, two bags of Hickory Smoke flavour Greenies were inside. The dog began jumping at the sight of the bag, whimpering, running in circles in excitement. Sasha opened one bag and grabbed a treat, tossing it to the impatient dog. Vanya beamed and catched the treat, later to nudge his face against his owner chins in appreciation.

She crouched to the floor, taking the note with her as she let Vanya lick her face. The dog looked at the paper in her hand and touch it with a paw, barking once.

Yeah, you know who wrote this, don’t you?

Vanya barked again and she giggled. It seems like he really liked his walker. And Sasha couldn’t blame him. She really liked her as well.

Another whole bunch of thoughts invaded her mind, never a moment of utter happiness lasting long. Was this a normal thing walkers did with their assigned clients? Why did that woman bought the treats? Were the double X meant to be kisses? Why did she love spoiling Vanya? Why did Sasha love the fact Shea cared so much about her dog?

It was less than likely that walkers went around buying treats for the dogs they took care off, and them just giving the bags to the owner because the dog liked them a little bit too much. Also, anywhere on the contract Sasha signed obligated the woman to do so, she could just have let her know Vanya would cry all night if he didn’t get a treat before sleep and let her deal with it. It would be the normal thing to do, as Vanya wasn’t Shea’s dog. Shea seemed to be very fond of Vanya as she just thought of spoiling him herself today. That made Sasha’s heart flutter. Sasha had never given a treat to Vanya as she wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, or even which would be a healthy one to give him. But Shea did know about this things, and Shea wanted to spoil little Vanya. Anyone who treated Vanya this good had a special space on her heart, and Shea seemed to be adding points in her favor on the imaginary score Sasha kept.

Nonetheless, the blond felt uncomfortable to leave it like this, after all, she was paying Shea to walk Vanya. If the dog needed anything, it was Sasha who needed to pay for it. She took her phone, and shaky fingers looked out Shea’s contact.

She’s had the woman number all along, but had never gather enough courage to message her ever since Shea asked her to leave a spare key for her to use. Unsure of how to even begin a conversation, she just plainly greeted her with a simple hi and asked her how much she owed her for the treats.

Txt from Shea: Hey girl! Don’t be silly, those are on me ;) Vanya quite liked that flavor.

Sasha giggled again. Indeed, Vanya seemed to be really into the Hickory Smoke flavor (of course her dog would like such kind of fancy named taste). She insisted a couple more times on returning her the money, not wanting to put the other woman in the obligation to pay for the treats. Shea refused.

Txt from Shea: I mean it, don’t worry about it, Anything to keep the smile on my special boy. But, if it makes you feel any better, those were for sale.

Txt from Shea: I really think he is the only dog that likes that flavor.

The blond grinned to the screen of her phone. Shea calling Vanya her special boy make her feel giddy. Was it creepy she ached now to have walks on the park with her dog and a woman she didn’t even know besides the fact she was a dog walker and had pretty handwriting?

Yes.

Sasha sat laying her back against the island, shivering as she did so as she was still in her underwear. She was giggling at her phone like a highschool girl with a crush. Vanya took his opportunity to wiggle his way into her lap, resting there with his head in between his paws. He seemed to be very happy to see his mom laughing and smiling, and Sasha wondered if he’d like to have two moms to spoil his little bonny ass.

Knowing Vanya, he’d love it.

Bright eyes scanned paintings and sculptures on the O’Hara Gallery opening on a Thursday night. Sasha clicked her black heels against the marble floor, red fringy dress swaying and messy blond hair bouncing on her shoulders at the compass of her strut as she walked among the pieces that were exhibit, examining them and taking notes about the different techniques and authors. The artists featured were all former students of the Arts School of Brooklyn College, and Trinity had sent her to the exhibition to get some new contacts for their own gallery. The southern woman would rather die before placing a high heeled feet on her eternal rival’s gallery, so Sasha had filled in the Yes RSVP in Trinity’s behalf.

Sighing, she wrote down the name of a landscape painter she knew her boss was just going to love -a style somewhere between Aivazovsky and Coubert- , and moved on without paying too much mind to the painted canvas.

Most of the pieces, even though great in the technical display, were lacking uniqueness for her taste. Thinking on the easel with yet another unfinished painting she had back in her apartment, she sighed, somewhat jealous. Most of the former students featured on the exhibit were likely to find more galleries to feature their work- a prestigious college and regurgitated yet popular thematics endorsing them. Sasha, having studied Arts and Art History under a less known art college and using heavy discourses as gender and deconstruction to sustain her heavy analytical references to make portraits that haunted her mind, struggled a bit placing her work in big galleries like this one or Trinity’s.

Strolling past yet another hyperrealist pen-drawing she didn’t even bother to look closely -really, how many Juan Francisco Casas-like drawings can one display?-, something caught her eye. At the end of a hall, on the photography section, a splash of colors and figures make her turn around. She stepped up to there, gawking at a series of photographies- no, a series of digital work, something between photography and illustration. The models were posing on the most colorful streets Brooklyn had to offer, Sasha could recognize, all dressed in fashions belonging to subcultures and overall queerness, heavily influenced all by color blocking. Every picture was intervened with figures and comical illustrations, sometimes interacting with the model, sometimes just hiding parts of them out of sight. Every picture was weirder than the previous one, the illustrations taking over the picture as the series went on. Sasha stared at each picture in admiration, the overall visual effect was an explosion of diversity among all the other artists that mirrored each other.

This was something Trinity would never in her life show on her gallery, but the kind of art that screamed at Sasha. Her ruby tinted mouth was slightly agape, wondering eyes trying to catch every single detail each work had to offer. Little new details were found wherever she took a deep look: the portrait of the tall, asian girl dressed in Harajuku fashion had small lolitas and Hello Kitties dancing around her modelesque pose, splashes of lavender, teal and yellow surrounding her in an echo effect, eyes crossed out and augmented with a heavy black wave over each orb, to the likes of very dramatic eye liner. Next to it, the barbie-doll like blonde woman posed next to a old teal Chevy, dressed in a pin-up swimsuit, jewels and 80’s plastic dolls doodled over her, arrows and smileys pointing at her wide hips and tits, over drawn lips covering her natural features, a cartoony big ring draping one of her fingers. A blond drag queen, with heavy leaded eyes and dressed in a feathery white gown with teal accents had smoky waves of color around her, weed leaves forming a halo around her head, a blunt sketched lit on her hand. Her cleavage was overdrawn with a dark chocolate color that contrasted with the pale skin, her legs were draw out exaggerating them to the point they were twice their length. These last three were Sasha’s favorites, as they seem to have something to do with the author’s life, the small additions maybe too clear in reference and meaning, probably implying whoever was behind this knew very well these those models.

Her trained eyes started looking for a signature, not wanting to wait till the last picture on her right to read the whole information about the artist. A small inscription on the corner of the pictures rewarded her: Couleé.

Vaguely familiar, she thought, maybe I have read the name somewhere on the Internet.

Sasha was mesmerized, moving several times over the first seven pictures, not wanting to get to the last one just yet, as that would mean this series would be over and she’ll have to move on. She didn’t want to, she desperately thought that perhaps, she could fit between those models. She could devise herself, maybe laying on an old couch, perched on the middle of a traffic filled road, posing like one of those french models Ingres and Delacroix painted back in the day. She would probably wear a gown, see through, with lots of sparkles and adorned with patterns and beads typically Russian. Her hair would be down, teased out of it’s curls, frizzy, clad with a head wrap of extravagant-printed fabric and feathers and beads. She would probably had giant eyes with thick lashes drawn over her natural ones, maybe a bushy brow. She could picture crowns and very Mondrian-esque lines around her. She smiles, dreaming what might be.

However, as she saw people approaching she felt the pressure to hurry up not to bottle up the hall. As her eyes landed on the last picture, her knees felt weak and her jaw dropped.

It was the portrait of a black woman, looking directly at the camera lens, her hand delicately touching her right shoulder. Her face featured her pouty lips slightly ajar, eyes a bit overdrawn on the inner corners, making them look bigger. Around her were drawings of tits and asses, melting on some kind of gooey matter, odd cartoony eyes popping up everywhere, completely deviant and strange. Orange, purple, white and teal took over the picture, both the illustrations and the colors contrasting the sensual and provocative look on the woman’s face.

This was the most stunning piece of them all, and Sasha gasped in both shock and annoyance at herself. She had already seen this one. She could not believe she hadn’t associated the style before.

What kind of art curator are you Sasha!?

This was the profile picture she has checked at least twice a day on her texts ever since the Greenies incident. She had analysed a very lower resolution version of this on her phone, over hours of meditation and clutching a teal piece of paper in her left hand like a lifeline while doing so because it was loony stalking.

Couleé. As in Shea Couleé. That’s were she knew the name from.

She saw that name the day she signed the contract with the dog walking company. Of course Shea had to be the artist behind these amazing artworks. Sasha’s evening had been way too normal up until now. How many people on New York could have a last name like Couleé?

Sasha backtracked a bit, stepping clumsily backwards as her heart stammered loudly on her ribcage. So Shea seemed to be a photographer. And she was exhibiting her work. Here. At the very same gallery Sasha was at. And it was opening night. She might be here. That would make sense. Was that last photograph a self-portrait? Maybe, as Shea used it as a profile picture, it might make sense as well. Not that anything else on this very moment made sense to Sasha, as she kept stumbling with her not so anonymous dog walker everywhere. She kept walking, until her body felt a pair of hands stopping her by the arms.

“So, you like’em?”

Sasha yelped, turning around to her right, to find the most stunning woman she had ever laid eyes on. The woman from the last picture was standing in front of her, small skittish smile on her pouty lips, eyes shining under thick dark lashes. Her hair was slick, dark and barely grazing her shoulders, parted in the middle, framing her face giving her a supermodel twist with her high cheek bones. She was wearing a rosé sweater dress with a belt, which hugged all her curbs, from her ample bosom, her tiny waist and thick legs, hitting right below the knee. She played with her hands, left middle and pointer finger clutched nervously on her right fist. However, her stance was secure, planted firmly in both of her feet, wearing gold sandals that sparkled with the light of the gallery.

“Hey Sasha. I’m Shea, your dog walker. How’s Vanya?.” Shea said, her voice a bit timid.

Sasha’s mouth felt like a cotton ball, she could barely swallow as her eyes scanned up and down Shea’s body, shamelessly. Shea towered her a few inches, even with Sasha wearing pumps higher than Shea’s sandals. She seemed to notice Sasha’s wondering eyes, although she didn’t comment anything about it. Sasha knew she should say something, as she might look really stupid at her complete loss of cool. Her mind betrayed her though, as it sped on a turmoil finally putting a face to the name she had all but worshiped for months, a hundred questions maken her overthink.

How was this happening? Was all this really possible? Why was Shea talking to her so casually? Why was Shea so damn gorgeous? Why hadn’t Sasha worn the black and white dress Trinity often told her she good look with? Was her hair even combed? What was Shea thinking of her? Why did it matter so much?

Sasha opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, like a fish out of the water, making Shea smile widely, crooked rows of teeth showing. The taller woman turned her body to face her photographs, feeling Sasha’s anxiety. She crossed her arms under her chest, tilting her head a bit to the left.

“You know, I studied photography because I really thought I was going to be this famous fashion photographer for Vogue and Marie Claire. Adolescent Shea Couleé, filled with fierceness and big dreams, ready to fight anyone on her way. It turns out that you need one of them fuckers with long ass careers with the magazines to either endorse your work or die to leave a slot open for new talent. And before you ask, some of them had call my work a bit to banjee for high fashion so they don’t think they can mentor me.” Shea spoke, to Sasha, to herself. The blond woman looked at her with doe eyes, her mouth finally shut close, body angled towards Shea. The taller woman’s voice was soothing and enticing to her ears. She was trying to talk to Sasha as if they knew each other, confidence exuding from her like water down a waterfall. Sasha could feel herself relaxing into the situation, a strange feeling of familiarity blooming in her chest.

After all, they technically had talked before.

Shea leaned in a bit towards her left, her voice lowering a bit in a conspiratorial tone, “And I haven’t managed to take out anyone yet, but I’m working on it. So, for now, I’m stuck photographing my friends.”

Sasha snorted, the comment so out of place and ironical that she couldn’t help it. Shea smiled again, still looking forward.

“So, you are kind of a dog walker on the day, fashion photographer at night?” Sasha asked, looking at Shea’s side, trying to follow Shea’s coolness.

“Well, I’m sending books everywhere now and then, however one does need to pay bills, and I happen to like dogs a lot, so I get a buck and pet cute dogs while at it. It’s a win-win situation really.”

Sasha nodded, understanding Shea’s point perfectly. That was the reason she worked as a curator for now, until -hopefully- she kickstarted her career as an artist.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“Work keeping you that happy, huh?” Shea asked, taking a small step to the side, getting closer to Sasha.

“I’m here for business actually, “ Sasha said, shaking her notepad a bit, trying to purse her lips not let Shea know she saw her move towards her, “talent hunting.”

“Oh! You work on a gallery right? Taylor’s Gallery?”

Sasha glanced at Shea, raising a brow and looking how the woman flinched. Her face scrunched up a bit and she sank her head between her shoulders, probably acknowledging it might sound a bit creepy that she knew what Sasha did for a living and where she worked.

“Ok, I read that on your file after you signed with the company, I swear.”

Icy eyes twinkled, Sasha biting her inner cheek to avoid grinning like an idiot. She fancied the idea that Shea was just as nervous as she was in this utterly weird situation. The photographer’s hands, though resting in her forearms as they were crossed under her chest, shifted warily, fingers drumming against her sleeves.

The coy smile on Shea’s lips make the whole room seem a hundred times brighter, the golden sparkle from expensive gallery lights dusting her features, making her look like a magical creature who’s glow tinted her surroundings. And maybe she was a magical creature, as Sasha instantly understood she was falling in love with this woman, this mysterious woman she knew a lot of and nothing about at the same time, who seemed to be linked to her life in the most ridiculous ways possible, the universe throwing them together at every chance at hand.

Sasha was not upset about any of that.

The russian woman took a small step towards Shea, the distance between them closing.

“I do work on a gallery” Sasha smiled, looking at the portraits in front of her, “I’m surprised you actually remembered reading that.”

“I have a great memory, girl.”, Shea half chuckled, half said. She dipped her head a bit, aiming to disguise the dark blush spreading across her cheeks. “In all honesty though, your apartment is filled with paintings and canvas. You had to do something related to art. I thought you were a restaurator, with all the fresh stuff you keep around.”

Sasha smiled amused, “Actually, I’m a curator. Assistant curator. That’s why they send me off to the exhibitions neither of my bosses want to attend. The paintings back home are actually mine.”

Shea’s face beamed at that answer, her ebony eyes back on the russian woman, “You are really talented. You should be featured here.”

“I don’t really think I fit here, with all… this…” Sasha waved her hand, dismissively, “and honestly neither do you. Your work is fantastic, like seriously genius. Everything else here is so boring, I’ve been studying these for at least half an hour now.”

“Genius? Why you think they place my portraits here, and not on the main hall? The curator here hated all of the portraits. They were not going to let me show anything, but some dude cancelled last minute.” The taller woman smirked, “And don’t go all flattery on me. I might start believing you!”

“They are good! Extremely so! I’ve been obsessed with your profile photo for quite some time. I actually felt real dumb that I didn’t matched the styles until the very last picture.” Sasha admitted, unblinkingly.

Shea seemed to be a bit taken aback. Shyly, she tilted her face a bit

“Why didn’t you text about it? I mean, if you liked it that much. We could’ve talked about it, you know?”

“I didn’t want to, uhm- be creepy?” Sasha excused herself, feeling lame.

“You wouldn’t have been creepy at all girl. I mean, I left you post-it notes every day. I couldn’t get worst than that.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Sasha could see Shea slightly nibbling her lower lip, something crossing through her eyes she couldn’t quite name.

“Can we, like, talk about that? I mean, why did you do that? Do you, uhm, leave notes to every dog owner or something?” Sasha tried to pick her words carefully, trying to sound purely curious instead of extremely clingy.

Shea bit her lips, pursing them, avoiding eye contact again.

“No, I don’t leaves noted to… anyone else.” She sighed, “You are gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Well, we are here at an opening night, talking like we were old friends when this is the first time we have actually seen each other. You didn’t even needed to tell me your name for me to know who you were, and the other way around. I think we’ve long past the line of crazy here.” Sasha shrugged, trying to sound reasonable within possibility.

After a few bits of silence, Shea spoke again.

“I- I feel like I know you, you know? Like, I read your file and saw your photo there, the one that you have to give to make sure I can recognize you in case you try to jump me or something, and- it was like I’ve already seen you? I could read there where you lived, where you worked, but something about you just… clicked with me. And then I got to your apartment, and to your dog, and I can kind of pieced together a life for you. How you keep very few pictures of you with other people on display, how everything is extremely organized except the living room that is a mess of paintings and brushes, how this little guy is always near your bed when I arrive because he misses his mom. I didn’t know if any of the stuff I imagined was real, but it felt like it was getting to know you without actually meeting you. And then I started leaving you notes because I wanted to talk to you and you started answering back some of them and I just kind of saved them because they had cute drawings and-” Shea covered her mouth with her hand, eyes completely opened. The word panic was written all across her face.

“Oh god, I’m sorry I don’t want you to think I’m a stalker or something I just-”

Sasha took both of Shea’s hands in between hers, pulling them down from their frantic parade as Shea tried to explain herself. The russian had a shit eating grin plasttered on her face, her teeth showing, that confused Shea, as she had stopped rambling at Sasha’s movement. Sasha slid slowly her thumb over Shea’s skin in small circles, liking the velvety sensation of it under her touch.

“I keep your notes too. I sometimes read them before I sleep because they are very relaxing to me, I mean the idea of someone actually talking to me because they wanted to. I thought I was going crazy, asking Vanya about you, as he seemed to like you a lot and honestly so did I, more of what I was supposed to,” she laughed, not letting go of Shea’s hands, “I was very obsessed with you- No, I AM really obsessed with you, that’s why I was panicking when you found me. Because you clicked with me too…”

Sasha’s smile was sincere, and she could see how something inside Shea melted away, her breathing going back to normal, her hands relaxing in between Sasha’s. The blonde took a step forward, the distance between them almost gone by now. Sasha could feel the heat radiating from Shea’s body. She liked the feeling of it against her skin. She wondered if, perhaps, she had never gotten Vanya, if they had met somewhere else. Maybe on an art exhibition, maybe on the train home, maybe on a bar in which they might be sitting alone and decided to keep each other company. She was almost sure that yes, they somehow would have met, as this was the kind of bond the universe works very damn hard to build.

Shea’s eyes scanned Sasha, a new full smile spreading in her face. Sasha liked the sight of it, she wanted to make Shea smile more, she had a cute smile.

“So maybe… We can get to know each other? Better? Like we know a lot of the other and nothing at the same time. Maybe we could go to the park and get some ice cream, it’s still not that chilly like for ice cream to be a terrible idea and I’m free tomorrow, and the leaves are beautiful this time of the year, all shades of orange and yellow contrasting with the sky. Vanya might have to tag along, however, as he gets cranky if I don’t spend the whole weekend with him. But it’s not like I want you to feel you are at work or something! Oh dear, it’s a terrible idea, that’s basically what you do in your work and-”

The pull on her hands stopped her mid sentence, plush lips softly touching hers, asking permission. Sasha let go Shea’s hands and placed them on her waist, pulling her flush against her body, lips parting a bit to kiss Shea deeply. The taller girl’s arms snaked around her neck, playing with her frizzy curls, as she sucked a bit on Sasha’s upper lip.

The kiss didn’t last long enough, in Sasha’s opinion, but it was a promise. Shea’s smile as she kept her hands on Sasha’s shoulders was smouldering, bright like a hundred suns, warming every cell in Sasha’s body.

“I’d love to go to the park with you and Vanya tomorrow. I can’t say no to either of you.”

Sasha beamed and she felt childish as to be this happy about a simple date. As Shea’s hand slipped through her arm into her hand, fingers intertwining as if this wasn’t the first time they have done so, Sasha knew that yes, this was the kind of love she ached: uncanny, passionate, unique and oh so very them.

#Teal Post-its sale Greenies and artsy portraits can build something resembling the Sun #sashea #sasha velour #shea coulee #fluff #lesbian au #prompt fic #Nox #rpdr fanfiction

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