for the prompts: general 34 + crygi? tysm
this is four months late, written at two am and not beta'd but i was listening to zolita and suddenly felt inspired so here goes
kinda hooked on you (and in the mood for an obsession) (crygi)
“Well, I can scratch that off my bucket list now.”
“Are you spying on me?”
Gigi was taken aback.
Realistically she shouldn’t have been, any normal person would ask the same thing in Crystal’s shoes (that day, a red pair of Mary Janes. Gigi had seen her wear them a few times before, rested on the seat next to her in homeroom whenever Nicky decided to sleep in and use the excuse of “still being in France's time zone”).
France was actually seven hours ahead of them but Gigi didn’t care.
Gigi might have taken the batteries out of every clock in the school if it meant she could turn around, pretending to be startled by the sound of Crystal’s clunky shoes on the seat, certainly not checking out what her eyeliner looked like that day as she did it, whether her hair was hanging loose or under one of those beanies instead, a strand of ginger pouring out the side like a rusty corkscrew.
Normally Gigi had a stopper, something she could slip into the top of her bottle the second the cork popped out, something to stop the wine from spilling all over, staining her skirt and splashing Crystal’s Mary Janes. She’d drink it all later at home when no one was around, just a few sips first (it didn’t really count as stalking if she never typed in Crystal’s name - instead it was happenchance; never any harm in clicking Jadia from her own profile, a picture of the two of them singing karaoke in Jan’s garage. Then from there, she’d get to Heidi, a mishap involving two of the same purple gowns leading to a rather funny picture of them pretending to fight at prom last year. And well once she got to Heidi then all she had to do was press one more picture and she’d somehow stumbled on Crystal. Complete happenchance).
But after the first few sips were when things got dangerous, a sip turns into a swig and a swig into the rest of the bottle and before she knew it Gigi was three years deep wondering why she hadn’t gone on the stupid school trip to Illinois or taken up fucking ceramics from the age of seven.
Oh shit.
Ceramics.
On the floor.
A little pink vase smashed into at least nine pieces thanks to Gigi and her bony elbows.
Or maybe her nosey eyes.
Nosey, not spying.
Certainly not spying.
“No.” She spoke plainly, deadpan. Her own way of flirting. “I’m just really into ceramics.”
“Well, it doesn’t really look like it.” Crystal made her way over, stopping shy of the pink shards to help pick them up. “You’re meant to throw it on the wheel before you’ve made it, not on the floor after, you know? That’s not what it means.”
Gigi didn’t know which type of flirting was worse; the suggestive and emotionless remark or the awkward and terrible joke.
She thought of a family trip to her Grandma’s when they were kids, Symone kept throwing her teddy out the window for one of the neighbour’s boys to catch, Gigi’s spindly-self running up and down the stairs like a headless chicken trying to get it back. So she’d done what any ten year old annoyed at their sister would have done in that situation, ran down to the boy and told him that Symone had a crush (girls still had cooties then, it was a big deal).
Of course, her Grandma was right that day, and she’d probably still get a huge telling off at age eighteen if she so much as suggested she ever wasn’t.
But Gigi knew there were always exceptions.
That sometimes two wrongs made just the right amount of right.
“I’m sorry, was it yours?” Gigi placed the pieces on the side, unsure whether to bin them or whether it was the sort of thing that could just be super-glued back together (yeah, she’s really, really into ceramics).
“It’s fine. I can just make a new one.” She pointed to the wheel. “You done it before?”
Gigi could see the corner of a tattoo poking from the v of her shirt, a sudden desire to trace her finger across it. One nod and her finger would push the fabric to one side, tracing the letters over and over again until she could feel Crystal’s chest rising and falling under her wrist.
She’d never done that before.
“I’d like to.” She nodded, already cringing at herself before even half a second had passed.
“Aha! The student becomes the master.” Crystal beamed, a big toothy grin Gigi had only caught glimpses of every now and again; on the bleachers of the football field when she took a bite of what Gigi assumed to be a Meatball Marinara (it was hard to tell the exact contents of a sandwich from that far away, especially when trying to do so usually resulted in a pom-pom to the head from Jan and some sort of speech about levels of pep. “Sorry, I just feel starved.” She’d had to say once)(It wasn’t a lie).
So Gigi made her way to the stool, letting Crystal do her thing.
Or at least to some extent, the girl could not explain a simple step-by-step if her life depend on it, her instructions a jumble of chronology and using concepts as foreign to Gigi as the feeling of Crystal’s stomach pressed on her back, her arms wrapped around her own so close she could feel the girls forty-seven bracelets jangling on her arms.
Foreign. Unfamiliar. New.
But not bad.
Certainly, not bad.
“This is crazy. I don't know how you dare call yourself the master.” Gigi let a chuckle slip out, a real one that almost turned into a snort (she’d have been embarrassed had Crystal not laughed too, her laugh loud and batshit. The song you found so bloody annoying that you couldn’t help but go home and ask Google to play at full volume on repeat until anyone else came back).
“Look I’m sorry this isn’t all one, two, three, four cheerleader stuff but you just gotta feel it, yano, be one with the clay.”
“One with the clay!?” Gigi turned around at the sheer absurdity, Crystal’s hands suddenly over the top of hers, holding the clay in place just in time to stop it from spilling over.
Gigi guessed wet clay would be a little harder to clean up than wine.
“Fuck. Sorry.”
Gigi didn’t move her head, still turned to face Crystal, watching as the other girl’s eyes darted between herself and the wheel.
She’d never realised someone so out-there could be so sensible.
It was fucking cute.
“It’s alright.” Crystal replied, her voice trailing off at the end, just in time for Gigi to move in and close the gap between their lips, her head spinning fast like the wheel, over and over again until they removed their hands to let it slow.
By the time Gigi felt wet clay on the small of her back she could almost see straight.
Her vision became clear as they pulled apart, her arms around Crystal’s neck, wrists crossed over behind her.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
That was another phrase her Grandma was obsessed with. Little Gigi never quite got that one, why would you put such high stakes on something like that? How would you know that you were right? Know enough that you’d risk dying for it.
Really, really know?
Gigi glanced at the table next to them, the misshapen blob in its centre. She didn’t even know what she’d call it? A short vase? A pot? An ashtray designed for those super long cigarettes everyone seemed to smoke in the 60s?
“Look at it. It’s perfect.” Crystal smiled, nodding her head to the thing.
So that’s what it was: It.
Gigi uncrossed her arms but it was okay.
She knew it was okay.
“Well, I can scratch that off my bucket list now.”
“The throwing?” Crystal’s eyes were wide, the corkscrew that usually framed them pushed aside by Gigi in all the commotion.
She was free to pour.
“Yeah. Need to try the other thing again before I can say it really counts, I think.”
“Oh, of course,” Crystal replied, imposing wisdom on Gigi that she’d fall back upon later in life, mixed in somewhere with the teddy bear and the crosses and whatever the hell it was Shakespeare said about gold and glitter. “Gotta try everything twice. That’s what I always say.”