Rule #13

For the first time in weeks, Marlene looks at herself. The mirror, though smudged, hides nothing. Brown roots dyed blonde. DIY haircut. Simple, unmatched jewelry; dice studs in both ears, a swooping septum, and a beloved dolphin pendant hanging around her neck. 

Marlene leans forward on the tall stool, heels digging into the bars below, and pushes her chin into her hand. Staring. Waiting. Unraveling. 

“You again,” she scoffs at herself. 

And oh, good, she’s talking to herself! “Is this narcissism?” 

Her reflection doesn’t answer. 

“No, no,” she grumbles, giving herself a flat smile. “You’d have to like yourself to be narcissistic.”

It’s the solitude, Marlene decides. She’s losing her mind because she’s been surrounded by energetic, enthusiastic munchkins for days, and now she’s alone. Doesn’t know what to do with herself. 

“Alone,” she mouths at the mirror. 

The yurt across from the Lodge is the only place, besides the kitchens, where the campers can’t tread. Most of the round space is full of costumes and props for the counselors’ Rooster Calls and Camp Games, as well as boxes with old camp shirts, and the Activity Director’s tiny desk, which Mary rarely uses. 

Marlene sits in the rare silence, the rare space, and blinks at her reflection. A face made for drama, her Nana used to say. Big nose. Expressive eyes. A mouth ready to mold. 

All this time with her campers, the lovely, young five distractions she gets to take care of this summer, have kept her away from this. 

From Marlene McKinnon. 

Her face is a blank canvas. At least for this moment, Marlene’s got none of her armor, the practiced expressions, the curated appearance. She’s got no audience but herself.

You’d think she’d relish the peace. 

She doesn’t. 

“Now I don’t mean to interrupt your existential crisis, but we’ve got 20 minutes until showtime.” Mary leans on the entryway of the yurt with a smirk. 

Marlene straightens. “Oh shut up, I’m just trying to figure out how Loki would do his makeup.”

“You know I see Loki as more of a non-binary villain myself,” Mary hums as she crosses the room. She drags another stool beside Marlene and pushes the bag of makeup in front of them. 

“I can see that,” Marlene agrees, meeting Mary’s eyes in the mirror. “But what flavor of non-binary are we talking? I need an aesthetic.”

Mary grabs Marlene by the chin and nudges her to meet her gaze head-on. “I’m thinking a smokey look. Dark and mysterious with a touch of charisma.”

“Very specific.”

Mary shoves her lightly and Marlene finds herself smiling. And oh, how quickly her mood shifts into something tolerable. From the moment Marlene showed up at Hogwarts, Mary Macdonald, or rather, the entire goddamn staff has been a lighthouse, helping Marlene over rocky waters, guiding her home. 

Marlene’s trying hard not to get attached. She only gets one summer of this. One summer and then she’s off to the real world, barely scraping by in New York with 6 AM open calls and pizza slices for dinner. Check by check. Audition by audition. The dream. 

Hogwarts is temporary. But it’s harder to remember that around people like Mary. People like Dor—

Marlene snaps to her senses, shoves away the dizzy thoughts, and starts getting ready. 

Mary sighs, rummaging through the make-up bag. “Of course we don’t have any shades of foundation darker than—” She stops to squint at the bottom of the light brown foundation. “Brazilian Bronze.”

“Dear god.” Marlene grabs the bottle. “Who’s in charge of stocking staff costumes and makeup?”

After a moment, Marlene looks up to find Mary grinning. “Well, me.”

“Even so,” Marlene tsks. “The activities directors before you should have stocked it too.” It’s all too typical in the performing arts world; makeup, hair, costumes…they’re all made for the skinny white girl. 

“Good thing I’m always prepared for whitewashing bullshit.” Mary pulls out a bottle of concealer and foundation from her cargo pants pocket, both Fenty Beauty, and both one shade too dark for Mary’s skin tone. 

“Wow, Dorcas is sharing?” Marlene can’t help but smile. Again. “That’s not like her.”

Mary smiles back, only her expression is much too knowing and mischievous. “So you know Dorcas’ exact foundation shade, huh?”

“Last week she talked for an hour about how Fenty changed her life,” Marlene answers smoothly. 

“Sure, Marlene.” Mary grins at herself in the mirror and starts to mix Dorcas’ makeup with a touch of a lighter shade on the back of her hand. 

Marlene focuses on her own makeup, the routine so familiar, so intuitive, that her thoughts consume until she forgets her reflection. 

Dorcas Meadowes.

The name is intoxicating to think. A sort of chant, as if a Greek chorus was lined up in Marlene’s chest, screaming up her throat and rattling her brain. 

Dorcas. 

Dorcas. 

Dorcas.

Persistent and gorgeous and absolutely Marlene’s type. The kind of person that whispers dirty jokes; the kind of person that always says yes and jumps head first; the kind of person that people turn to in crisis, in celebration, in life. 

The kind of person that Marlene could so easily fall in love with. 

Marlene’s hand slips. 

“Shit.” Her winged eyeliner is drooping in the wrong direction.

“Awww are you nervous to perform?” Mary nudges her, eyeshadow brush in hand. “Got some stage fright, Marls?” 

Marlene nearly laughs. No, she isn’t nervous to perform. 

From the day she could walk she’s lived on the stage. A cute hobby for ballet turned into community theatre in middle school turned into local professional shows in high school turned into big-time agents and auditions. By the time Marlene was a senior she had a big enough resume, and more importantly, all the right connections. She didn’t have to go to college at all. 

But you don’t refuse an acceptance from Julliard. 

So no, not once in her life has Marlene been afraid to take the stage. The nerves and nausea come after the performance, backstage when she peels off her costume and mask and becomes Marlene McKinnon again. 

Of course, Marlene isn’t going to tell Mary that. Instead, she shrugs and says: “I don’t want to let our campers down. They’re counting on the real Loki and Thor tonight.”

Camp Games end every weeknight, where counselors organize anything from flag football to the more complicated, theatrical tournaments like today. When Mary and Lily had described the games at staff training, Dorcas had immediately turned to Marlene:

“You and me, McKinnon?”

Marlene quite literally couldn’t speak. She had lost the plot, forgotten her lines, and was left blinking like a damsel under the spotlight. That’s how it goes with Dorcas next to her. 

But all those years of drama were not for naught. Thanks to Marlene’s poker face, Dorcas has no idea just how affected, smitten, fucking enamored Marlene has become. 

And Marlene plans to keep it that way. 

So when Mary enlisted Marlene’s help for a Viking Camp Game, she agreed, leaving Dorcas high and dry. 

“Let’s run the lines again,” Mary suggests, smearing gold over her eyelids and cheekbones. 

By the time they’ve finished their third run-through, they’re both dressed as the infamous Norse Gods, and Mary is helping Marlene blend her black wing into something “dangerous”. 

“Oh my god, what is going on!” Lily exclaims from the yurt entrance. 

Mary lifts her head a little, brush hovering over Marlene’s face. “Finishing touches, Red.”

Marlene bites back a smile at Lily’s flushed face, the way her eyes hone in on Mary’s hips straddling hers. It’s not their fault that this was the best angle for lighting. 

Secretly, Marlene is glad that Lily found them like this. Maybe now the Counselor Manager will stop sending Marlene and Dorcas dirty glares. The same look she shoots Regulus with James or Sirius with Remus. Lily’s so obsessed with stopping the counselors from dating, and yet, she looks at Pandora and Mary like…

Well, Marlene might not know much about sex, but she’s no fool. There’s something undoubtedly promiscuous going on between those three. 

“I’m—just—well.” Lily swallows. “I came to say that it’s time! Showtime, I mean. The campers are sitting at the camp circle finishing up their ice cream. So we’re—uh—ready for your skit. That’s what I came to say so…”

Mary dabs a couple more times on Marlene’s left eyelid, then gracefully crawls off her. Lily clears her throat when Mary reaches down to help Marlene off the ground. 

“You two aren’t…” she trails off. 

“Oh come on,” Mary coos. “Finish your sentence, love.”

“Never mind.” 

By the time Lily stomps out of the yurt, Mary’s already moved on, cleaning up the makeup scattered across the counter and checking her lipstick. 

Marlene crosses her arms. “Are you planning on doing anything about the sexual tension between you two?”

Mary takes her time to turn around and face Marlene. “I was going to ask you and Dorcas the same thing.”

Sexual tension. Sexual. Sex.

If Marlene were less of an actress, she would have flinched. But her poker face really is tried and true. The comment, the implication, the assumption does nothing to rifle her teasing expression. 

“Alas.” Marlene sighs. “Rule #13 keeps all of us apart.”

Mary snickers. “Sure.”

******

“You shame Asgard with your disrespect and slander!” Mary’s voice booms in the campfire circle. 

The campers lean forward, eyes focused on Mary as she swings her hammer around her head. “Loki, I hereby banish you from the land of the gods, you must never set foot in Asgard again!”

Marlene falls to her knees. “Whyyyyyyyy!”

Her cabin giggles across from her, Ginny, Lila, Sam, Riley, and Philip with chocolate on the corners of their lips, eyes wide and eager. It makes Marlene’s heart soar. 

Mary turns her back, her red cape flicking behind, golden boots stomping over the woodchips as she holds the infamous hammer, Mjölnir, to the sky. In reality, it’s no more than a paper-mache contraption that Pandora helped them DIY last night, but it does the job. The campers cheer, some Gryffindors standing up to raise their own, invisible, hammers. 

Marlene swishes her green cape and darts across the circle, this time the Slytherins whooping. She pretends not to notice Dorcas’ big smile on the right, her cabin of young campers beside her just as enraptured. 

Then Marlene grabs the hammer and whisks away from Mary until they’re standing with the firepit between them. A face-off. Thor vs Loki. God vs God. Brother vs Brother. 

“If I’m banished to the land of the humans, I’m taking your hammer with me!” The sounds of gasps follow Marlene’s dramatic exit. 

She’s panting and grinning as she sprints away. 

******

Normally, Marlene adores Camp Games. 

It’s three hours of the counselors being absolutely ridiculous, and the campers eating up every second. Everyone commits to the bit; tonight, Sirius and James are dressed up as Freyja and Freyr, both wearing long blonde wigs and walking two of the pigs from the camp’s animal farm. 

For this Camp Game, the campers have to complete as many “challenges” as possible, each organized by a different Norse God, in order to win back Thor’s hammer from Loki. It’s fun. It’s silly. It’s sweet. 

Only problem? Until the closing skit, Marlene doesn’t have to do anything. She’s not assigned to any challenge or any station, not even the nurse’s cabin to help Remus with the scraped knees and sore-loser tantrums. 

A “break” Lily told Marlene this morning. The counselors switch off so that everyone gets a night off every now and then. 

Marlene knows Lily is trying to help. 

But really, the last thing she needs is a goddamn break. 

“Marlene?” 

She freezes, trying to straighten on the bean bag she fell into once she found her way back into the yurt. “Yeah?”

Dorcas opens the door the rest of the way. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

Something cold seizes Marlene by the neck. 

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you!” Emma pushes back the curtain in the corner of the green room. 

Marlene jumps. “Jesus! I could have been changing in here.”

Emma’s smile is answer enough. She’d hoped that would be the case. 

It should make Marlene’s stomach flutter, make her dizzy with want, but unsurprisingly, she feels nothing but nausea. “What’s up, Em?”

“Wanna do some improv with our characters?” 

David had paired them up as scene partners for class. “The Children’s Hour” isn’t exactly what Marlene had in mind for their acting final, but Emma was resolute. 

And when it comes to Emma, Marlene has a hard time saying no. 

Emma runs a hand through her short curls and steps forward, stealing Marlene’s breath. “We could go back to my dorm…”

Marlene shakes herself awake and picks up her backpack from the floor. “Can’t sorry. I’ve got a coffee date with a friend.”

“Please, Marlene?” Emma places a hand on Marlene’s wrist. “I really want to nail this scene. David’s casting for the Spring play, you know, and we’ve both got a shot for Medea.”

Marlene doesn’t have a shot, actually. After roles like Juliet and Stella, her type-cast has been cemented: innocent, lovely ingénue. It’s Emma who always gets the villain. Just like in this scene, where Marlene is the scared classmate, and Emma the conniving brat.

But with Emma’s soft touch on her wrist, with her eyes pinned to Marlene like she is all Emma wants in the world. How could Marlene say no?

“Hey? Marlene? You alright?” Dorcas is kneeling in front of Marlene, their eyes tight with concern. 

Marlene quickly stands. “Yep, sorry, just tired I guess.”

Dorcas' eyes track Marlene as she walks across the yurt. “Maybe you should try and take a nap with the break we’ve got?”

“No, that’s not—” Marlene pauses. “You’ve got a break tonight too?”

“Yep.” Dorcas grins.

“Oh.”

“Disappointed?” Dorcas’ smile remains, but their voice isn’t quite as steady.

“No, not at all.” 

Marlene really shouldn’t have said that. She really shouldn’t have admitted something so close to the truth. But with the light in Dorcas’ eyes, it’s hard to regret the words.

“I’m glad to hear that because I’ve got something planned for us.”

“You…do?”

Dorcas crosses the yurt and Marlene’s chest tightens with anticipation. But there’s no more than a brush of air as their shoulders pass hers. “Coming, McKinnon?”

“Mmhm.”

******

The anticipation doesn’t ease as Marlene and Dorcas walk through the camp, taking a path in the woods so they don’t interfere with the Camp Game. Marlene has to stay in her Loki costume, and she somehow feels both ridiculous and cool with her cape trailing behind her. Dorcas is dressed in loose linen; a light yellow top with matching pants that flutters in the breeze. 

Marlene is supposed to be the God tonight, and yet, somehow it’s Dorcas that’s divine. 

She tries not to stare at them as Dorcas talks about the fight her cabin had at dinner; a heated discussion about sharing the camp copy of The Hunger Games, which is apparently back in style. This, of course, spirals into a discussion about which counselors would survive the arena, and Marlene almost dies when Dorcas turns to her and says:

“You’d win, McKinnon. And I bet you wouldn’t have to kill anyone to do it.”

“You’re underestimating my violent tendencies,” Marlene replies. 

“Pretend to be all dangerous if you want—” Dorcas flicks her braids over their shoulder with a laugh. “But I know you’re a big softie.”

Marlene doesn’t dare show her surprise, but she allows herself to ask: “How so?”

“You’re terribly sweet with the kids, you refuse to kill mosquitos, and you teared up during Barty’s ghost story the other night.”

“I did not!”

“Oh don’t be coy, that was a heart-breaking tale. Even Regulus was all choked up.”

Marlene rolls her eyes and tries to ignore the squish and squeal of her heart. Dorcas has been paying attention. Perhaps almost as much as Marlene has been paying attention to them. 

But this—this couldn’t happen. Not again. Not after Emma.

Emma Washington. 

All of Julliard, though no more than 1,000 students, worshiped her. They’d walk around campus and Emma would wave to students and professors alike, chatting with the cafeteria workers, or screaming across the hallway to tell the fucking college president that her blazer is gorgeous. 

Everyone loved Emma. It was hard not to.

She was, is, the villain typecast. That should have been a red flag, but it charmed Marlene instead. The Lady Macbeth to Marlene’s Macbeth, the Iago to her Desdemona, the Tamora to her Titus. Less stage time, fewer lines, and yet Emma’s name danced on everybody’s tongue after a show. 

Of course, Marlene knows Dorcas isn’t Emma. Dorcas is sincere, where Emma was fake. Dorcas cares, where Emma didn’t. They’re both ambitious, talented, and beautiful, but there are important shades of human in between. 

And yet that breathless, broken feeling in Marlene’s chest that had been hiding, biding its time…it’s waking up. 

Marlene felt like this before. And she refuses to lose herself like that again. 

When they reach their destination, Marlene realizes Dorcas hasn’t filled the silence. They’d just let Marlene wander in her mind and waited for her to return. 

“Your plan is to do some beekeeping?” Marlene nods to the hives in the gate just beyond, a soft buzz filling the air. She’s avoided this part of the camp for the most part; despite all of Ginny’s claims that the bees are “friendly”, Marlene has no desire to test the hive’s friendship. 

“Try again,” Dorcas sings. 

Marlene turns to the left, where the outdoor kitchen is. A series of tubs labeled with flour, spices, and yeast are laid out in a row. “Are we…breadmaking?”

“Yep! I got permission from Evan. I used to love doing this as a camper, and I know you haven’t had a chance to get your hands yeasty yet.”

“I’ve been dying to get my hands yeasty,” Marlene deadpans. 

“Oh shut up.” Dorcas grabs her hand and guides them to the table. 

Marlene watches with amazement as Dorcas pulls out the bowls and measures the ingredients, bossing Marlene around with sly smiles and gentle quips. When they get to the “choose your own adventure” Dorcas chooses sweet, and Marlene savory. 

“I can understand why you like this,” Marlene mumbles as she kneads her bread with her fingers, kitten style. She can’t help but miss her two cats with her mom back home. They always wake her up with gentle taps on her belly, a touch of claw sinking under her pajamas. 

“Whenever I feel like shit I bake.” Dorcas’ head angles to the side, the sunset behind her like an orange halo. “Gives me the space to think and then I can eat warm comfort food after all that emotional labor. Messes up my diet though.”

“Diet?” Marlene frowns.

“Yeah, it’s part of the whole swimming thing. Our coach tells us what to eat so we have all the nutrition and stuff.”

“Seems like a lot.”

“Hm?” Dorcas looks up from their dough. 

“Having to watch what you eat to perform,” Marlene says, pretending as if she doesn’t know, doesn’t understand. Her whole life she’s switched from diets to diets. The thing about the leading lady? She has to look a certain way. 

“It can be,” Dorcas agrees. “But as my grandma always says: If it were easy, anyone could do it.”

“Your mom’s side, I’m guessing?”

Dorcas’ hands still, and Marlene immediately regrets what she’s said. Last week, when Dorcas got a call from her mom on the camp landline, she came to Marlene in the aftermath, her face stained with tears and eyes laced with guilt. Dorcas talked about all the pressure and time that came with competitive swimming. How sometimes, it felt like her mother only loved her for the awards won, records broken. How sometimes, their love for the water was overshadowed, undermined by the urge to win. 

Marlene understood Dorcas more than she knew. 

But the intimacy, the affection tangled up in all the pieces that Dorcas has shared about their family, their dreams, themself is too much. 

Too much. 

And yet, Marlene doesn’t stop Dorcas when she nods and continues:

“Mmhm, like mother like daughter. But my grandma’s tough for good reason. Grew up as a maid for rich white families in Alabama. That’s how I know how to make bread, actually.” Dorcas leans into the dough, adding more weight to the knead. “And her mom was a slave in Louisiana. A whole line of survivors and fighters, so you know, I gotta do the same, I mean it’s their hard work that I’m even alive and here and—”

Marlene moves around the counter until she’s at Dorcas’ side, a breath apart. “You’re a fighter too, Dorcas. Just because you’re fighting a different battle doesn’t mean you’re not strong.”

“Yeah, but swimming isn’t quite the same.” Dorcas sucks in a breath. “I guess that’s why I have to keep going once this summer ends, you know? The Olympics is for them.”

“Not for you?” Marlene asks. 

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Dorcas admits. 

“Ditto.”

Dorcas snaps her head up, but they don’t ask. They don’t pry. They wait with a hopeful expression. 

Marlene gives herself three seconds to decide. 1. The less Dorcas knows about her the less it will hurt, right? 2. The more Marlene hides, the safer she will be, right? 3. It’s too late, isn’t it?

“My grandmother had expectations of me too.”

Dorcas steps away from their bread, attention fixed on Marlene. 

“She was quite good at what she did. Tony worthy, in fact.”

“Those are the…acting awards?”

Marlene smiles. “My grandma had three of them. All displayed on the hearth.” 

It’s not a bad memory to drag out of the ashes. Christmas Eve at Nana’s; stockings overflowing with Swiss chocolates, the steady hum of holiday jazz, a home-cooked meal for three. Nana, mom, and Marlene. Never more, never less. 

Until last February, when Nana passed. 

“So you are a theatre kid!” Dorcas jumps, literally jumps. 

“Right, well. I started because of my grandma.”

Even though Marlene’s face is perfectly neutral, Dorcas seems to recognize the heaviness clogging the air. The grief and guilt stifling Marlene’s breath. 

“And now?” they prod, stepping closer. 

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Marlene repeats Dorcas’ words.

Dorcas is so close that her words dissolve into a whisper, a secret shared in the inches of space between them. “Whatever you decide, you’re going to be spectacular. You’re amazing, Marlene.”

“You’re amazing, Marlene. That was amazing! I mean, did you see David’s face in there? He was blown away.” Emma paces the green room with a grin. 

Marlene shakes against the mirrored wall, back pressed into her reflection, knees pressed to her chest. She’s trying to listen to Emma, but the ache of a performance over, the burn of a role complete consumes her. Their scene went well, great, even. They killed “The Children’s Hour”. 

Her phone buzzes, likely Nana checking in to hear how the final went. 

“Come on, Marls!!” Emma slides over to Marlene and sits on the floor in front of her. “We have to celebrate.”

Marlene looks up and latches onto Emma’s brown eyes, her devoted smile. Maybe part of the pain is that with this final finished, the two of them won’t have an excuse to spend time together. 

Emma will return to her life of easy popularity, the rising star of Julliard, and Marlene will watch her shine from afar. 

“What is it, babe?” 

Marlene’s heart melts at the term of endearment. 

“You don’t fool me, you know.” Emma tilts her head. “I can tell something’s on your mind so spill it!”

One breath. Two. And then Marlene goes for the punch: “I like you a lot.”

Only Emma doesn’t wince. She doesn’t flinch or walk away. “Yeah, obviously.”

“What?”

“And I like you too.” Emma crawls forward, hands cradling Marlene’s cheeks delicately, reverently. “I was waiting for us to finish the scene cause I didn’t want our characters to get too raunchy. I mean it would hardly be suitable for Mary to want to undress—”

Marlene cuts Emma off with a hug. She presses her face into the side of Emma’s neck, swimming in that lavender smell, those perfect tight curls falling over her eyes. 

Emma holds her for a beat, then pulls away. She doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t ask, doesn’t even hesitate before her lips are on Marlene’s. 

Too much. 

“Wait—”

Marlene’s protest is muffled by Emma’s tongue, dancing, fighting, conquering. It takes the crawl of fingers under Marlene’s shirt, over her skin, and down her stomach, before she jerks away. 

“Stop,” Marlene croaks. 

Emma’s lips are swollen, eyes flushed. She leans forward as she asks: “Why?”

And Marlene can’t think of the right answer. An answer that will allow her to keep what she wants so dearly. So she says nothing. 

“And that’s why sourdough starter is basically like a pet or even a child, cause you have to really care for it, you gotta feed it, love it, keep her safe in the winter, in the summer, in all the seasons really. You nurture the starter, the starter nurtures you. And with the sourdough bread you’ll make from it—”

Marlene blinks, vision spinning from Dorcas walking around the outdoor kitchen, cleaning up the spilled dough, checking on their two loaves in the oven, and washing the bowls in the sink.

“I’m sorry—-shit, let me help clean up.” Marlene moves forward. 

“Oh good, you’re back.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She doesn’t mean to sound so sharp, so testy. But the feeling of Emma all over, too much, too much, too much, lingers.

Dorcas doesn’t hesitate: “You went somewhere else for a second, and I was just waiting for you to come back to me.”

“To you,” Marlene repeats dumbly. 

“Mmhm.” Dorcas grins. “I’m in no rush. You know that right?”

It seems Marlene isn’t able to form coherent thoughts, so she just parrots Dorcas again like a dumbass. “Know what?”

“I’ll wait for you.”

It’s so unexpected, so god damn charming and sincere and gay, that Marlene feels the blood rush from every corner of her body, right into her cheeks. Oh, shit.

“Are you—” Dorcas moves away from the sink, turning the corner of the kitchen counter to inspect Marlene’s face up close. “My god you’re blushing.”

“I’m not!”

“You are!” Dorcas cackles, pointing to Marlene’s cheeks with the sort of adorable glee their campers wear on a zipline. 

Her voice softens, “Wow.”

Marlene has to duck her head, sliding her palms over her traitorous face and willing herself to cool down. 

“No, come on, don’t hide it!” Dorcas’ voice is insistent, but she doesn’t touch. No, she never touches. 

That’s probably why Marlene forces herself to meet Dorcas’ gaze. To face the mess of feelings flushing her cheeks. To acknowledge all she hasn’t. 

Because Dorcas isn’t Emma; she’s so much more. 

“I have to tell you something, Dorcas.”

Dorcas stands up a little taller, and the gravity crossing their face makes Marlene’s heart drop. Because this is a truth that is too much. 

Too much. 

This is a truth that will end the lovely, silly game they’ve been playing. This is the truth that will show Dorcas that they don’t want Marlene. 

That she can’t be wanted. Not in any normal way. 

Marlene takes in a shaky breath: “I’m asexual.”

“Cool.” Dorcas smiles. She waits as if Marlene has more to say, as if that wasn’t the biggest bomb to drop on whatever—-whatever the hell is happening between them. 

“You’re…fine what that?” Marlene frowns. “Do you know what it means?”

Dorcas laughs. “Well I know what it means more generally but I’m excited to learn what your specific preferences are. Only when you’re ready, of course. Like I said, I’ll wait.”

“You’ll wait.”

“You’re repeating me a lot today,” Dorcas teases. 

“Well you keep saying insane shit.”

Dorcas throws her head back and cackles. Their laugh rattles Marlene, filling her up with ooey gooey affection and oh, shit, it’s happening again. 

“This right here is my new fucking favorite thing,” Dorcas breathes, eyes taking in every inch of Marlene’s blush. 

“You really just—don’t care? No sex, no making-out, just…”

“Just you? Your mind? Your attention? Your—” Dorcas cuts off. “Yeah, that’s more than enough for me, Marlene. I mean, seriously, I’m obsessed with you how you can’t see that confounds me, I’m not fucking subtle.”

Marlene goes with her gut, with her heart, and pulls Dorcas in. Though the embrace is fragile, Marlene’s arms are tight around Dorcas’ waist. 

Dorcas stumbles backward, then recovers, sliding her arms gingerly around Marlene’s upper back. 

It’s a little like floating on water, Marlene realizes. That strange, magical impossibility of gliding weightless across the water’s surface, as if you’re absolutely nothing to gravity. Being held by Dorcas feels fucking impossible. 

But oh, Marlene has been here before. She knows how this ends. The second she pulls away, Dorcas will come closer and take take take. 

Too much.

So Marlene holds on tighter; she hides her face in Dorcas’ neck, she breathes in the smell of campfire, flour, and pine, and delays the inevitable. 

“I really really like you, Marlene,” Dorcas begins. “And if you’ll let me, I’d like to love you.”

Marlene gasps and Dorcas must feel the shudder on her skin because they freeze, then gently pull away. Yet when their faces hover beside each other, Dorcas doesn’t try to kiss Marlene. She doesn’t try to ask for more. For too much. 

“Sorry I didn’t mean to drop the L word on you, I’m just used to saying how I feel.”

“I’m not,” Marlene admits, still bracing herself for something to go wrong. For something to splinter and slice her from the inside out. 

Dorcas smiles. “I’m well aware. You’re so very mysterious.”

“Part of my charm, no?”

“I’m not going to run away if you let me in,” Dorcas says simply. “In case that’s what you’re worried about.”

And before, Marlene would know better. Would know that there are some truths not everyone can handle. That in the end, she will always be too much. 

Too much. 

But Dorcas already knows the worst of it…and she’s still here. They’re still waiting. 

“How’s this for honesty?” Marlene steps forward. She summons the courage to let the mask fall, to offer Dorcas a sincere, nervous smile. 

“I like you too.”