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She thinks her skin might be glued to the plastic. She can’t see it anymore, not in the dim light of the cheap tiki torches that Helen’s parents had lining the pool, but Madeline’s pretty sure if she lifts her arm an inch - eugh, ow, yeah - some of that neon green plasticine will come up right with it.
Madeline glances over to where Helen floats, splayed out like a starfish and looking more like a corpse than her best friend. Although she supposes Hel could still do that, dead. A Weekend at Bernie’s situation, Madeline lugging Helen around for their shift, waving her lifeless hand at the attendees.
Hel never seems to care how she looks - or at least, not in a way that makes sense. While Madeline keeps her head above water, careful to preserve herself from the chlorine, Helen lets herself be fully submerged, pool lapping at the sides of her face while staring up at the sky. No, Hel will care in a few weeks, after her hair has gone green and her skin has broken out - then she'll throw herself, teary-eyed, onto Madeline's shoulder and they’ll spend the afternoon raiding the nearest drugstore for foils and foundation.
“I still can’t believe that agent gave you his card,” Hel says, voice high and airy from the champagne they had smuggled out of the venue.
Madeline pretends to look at her nails as she soaks up Helen’s gaze, that glow of admiration, “It was nothing.”
It’s a lie - she spent the next half hour being berated by their boss for it, but Helen didn’t need to know she cared what some slobbering old manager thought. It didn’t feel important, anyway, not when they were bussing trays for that shiny agent and his wobbling wedding ring, and Hel had whispered - he’s looking at you, Mad - then joked that he should get an impromptu audition. Not when Hel looked so alive, so excited, as Madeline wandered up to him with her batting lashes and poked out chest and -
“Mad, you crawled into his lap.”
“Did I?” She did. She ran her fingers through his sweaty toupee to the sound of Helen’s snickering from the side and felt fucking unstoppable.
“Of course you did,” Helen laughs again, but it doesn’t feel as good this time.
Madeline’s voice cuts in harshly, “I only did it because you wanted me to. For us.”
The water turns cold. Helen sits up, eyes on Madeline with a disturbing, uncomfortably sincere focus.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Helen says slowly.
“Everyone else does.”
Madeline settles back into the pool floatie with a scoff, her face suddenly hot. She stares at the night sky, devoid of stars, the moon gone, city pushing out all light except for an unnatural purple haze. It’s not at all like the nights back home, and she thinks that’s a good thing.
She sighs and does her best to relent, “I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Madeline swings her arm down, plastic squeaking as she reaches for Helen’s pruning fingers - it’s as close to an olive branch as she’ll ever get.
“Hey,” Hel says, always willing to take her scraggly leaves, “Want some more coconut shrimp?”
A small laugh rolls out of her and Madeline shakes her head, “Don’t tell me it’s still in your suit.”
Helen goes silent, the only sounds being the distant hum of cars and Madeline’s heels idly kicking. Something tickles in her palm. She looks down to see something that resembles a leftover from liposuction, an orange, blobby thing, curled into an odd ---
“Get it off!” Madeline shrieks as Helen cackles, “Ugh, Hel, it's warm!”
The waterlogged shrimp clings to her skin as she shakes her wrist frantically. Her pool float rocks from side to side underneath her, churning the water into small waves that lap over Helen’s sadistic grin. Madeline tries to readjust and throw the hors d'oeuvres off, but her plastic-melded arm catches, and the three of them - float, shrimp, and Madeline - flip into the water with a terrified screech.
Something about the water scares her. It’s not that Madeline can’t swim - she can doggie paddle just fine - but she would perish in any sea-related disaster from the panic alone; from that feeling of water curdling and burning up into her nose and throat, choking her out (not in a fun way!), her arms reaching out for something solid, only to be met with nothing but water. Now, in the 5-foot depths of Helen’s childhood pool, Madeline Ashton thinks she just might die.
She’s ready to give in to her fate, imagining the sorry speech her mother would give at her wake, droopy and dull about her poor, poor Maddie, when arms wrap around her and pull her back to the surface.
Madeline chokes down a breath, air tearing through her lungs and sending up spurts of coughs. The same arms steady her, one hand firmly rooted on her shoulder as the other tries to clear the chlorine from her eyes. She opens an eye to see Helen’s pained face, eyebrows pressed together in worry so tight she thinks the skin might split between them.
“Oh god, Mad. You're shaking."
Helen’s hand swipes over her cheek, and Madeline allows herself to lean into the touch as her feet find the bottom of the pool. She can just see the faint pink of Helen’s lips, still pursed in worry. Frowning, she brings her wavering hand to Helen’s lips and soothes the pout with a faint tap.
"No, I'm not," she says, "See?" but even she can hear the waver in her voice. She bites down on her tongue to keep from shivering.
“Mad,” Helen sighs, lips moving against Madeline’s finger.
She wants to shrug this off. She wants to make Helen track down that stupid piece of shrimp and chuck it into the bushes, if only so Helen would stop looking at her like that, eyes wide and worried. She wants to let air rush between them again and create a safe distance but Madeline can’t do anything but stand and stare and notice how close they are, can't help but feel as the air bites at her skin everywhere where Helen isn't. That the cars are humming and the sky is wonderfully empty, that the world seems to be only them and nothing else. She wants to stay like this forever. She wants to feel nothing but Helen’s arms around her, to give in to this warmth and never leave it again.
So, she does. Madeline leans forward and kisses Helen, gently at first, hands shifting to cradle her face. She’s not sure what she expected Hel to be like, had wondered from time to time at parties, or while they practiced lines, watched her lips move with a fascination that she chalked up to idle curiosity. She expected something gentler, maybe, to match Helen’s quiet voice and meek sweaters, but Hel is firm, pushing and parting Madeline's lips with a surprising force.
It's electric, invigorating, like every gorgeous dress Madeline’s passed by in the window and wanted but couldn’t have, now in her grasp, under her tongue, spreading out with a sweet, intoxicating taste - somehow, Hel tastes like heaven.
She lets out a short whine when Helen pulls her in closer, hands weaving into her hair with a satisfying ache. Madeline’s mouth widens to let more of her in, then bites down on the plush of her lip. Helen yelps and shoves her back, freezing cold water rushing over Madeline’s stomach as they separate. Her eyes snap open again to see Helen, panicked, looking anywhere but her.
“Mad, I’m not,” Helen says, lip broken and starting to bleed, the color mixing with Madeline's lipstick, “This isn’t - I can’t?”
“You can’t?”
“Ken’s a really good guy, and I don’t want to - I just can’t, Mad.”
A familiar flush rises in Madeline's face as her toes curl awkwardly against the rough bottom of the pool. She wants to grind herself into it and come up as nothing but dust. To be anywhere but here, with Helen and her granny panty shrimp or her ridiculous dreams of Ken and Barbie and a boring little picket fence. She wants to forget this ever happened, their little thrill. What she really needs is to go back to what they were, so instead, Madeline throws her head back and laughs.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Hel, I wasn’t asking you to do anything. You just looked so worried.”
Helen’s face falls into an expression Madeline can’t quite discern - somewhere between surprise and sadness - but she knows whatever electric pulse existed between them just fizzled out for good.
She reaches out and clasps Helen’s arm with a too-wide smile, “Kenny has nothing to worry about, and neither do you.”
She tries her best to get comfortable in the nest of pillows Helen had laid out for her on the floor. The house isn’t set up for guests because Hel rarely has them. Madeline is probably the first non-Sharp to walk through its sparsely decorated rooms in years. Helen's parents, rarely home anyway, decorate as if it's a psych ward, all vast white walls and empty shelves. It doesn’t take her long to realize there’s not much of Helen anywhere, either.
She lifts her head, looking around the plain walls of Helen’s room. The only proof of life is a small collection of comedy records and an even smaller photo of them taped on the dresser, neon blue and pink uniforms somehow visible in the dark.
A whimper breaks her focus. Madeline freezes, watching the sheets in the bed above her shift and settle.
It's been tense since the pool and - well, whatever it is that Madeline did. Tried to show affection. Being kind, now a mortal sin. Helen had barely glanced at her the rest of the night, drying off and going to sleep with less than a word between them. It makes Madeline twitchy, and she has half a mind to wake Helen up and demand a truce or an apology, or just - to look at her again, but Madeline isn’t that desperate, so she’ll sit all night instead with these blank, sad walls, and try not to think about any of it too much.
A few seconds go by.
She shouldn't want to think about it.
Helen shifts again.
She really, really, wants to think about it.
Madeline squeezes her eyes shut and tries to imagine anything else, the standard fantasies that normally lull her to sleep, her future Oscar speech, her Wikipedia page, what she’ll say to future fans asking for advice - but Helen invades them all; Looking at Madeline from the crowd, her name plastered all over the 'personal life' section, nails digging into Madeline’s arm as they dodge paparazzi.
Those dull little nails that had laced themselves up in Madeline’s hair, splayed out against her cheek, that had been so warm and alive. She can still taste Hel on the tip of her tongue, a sweet, almost peppery flavor, and an ache rolls through her body, tapping each muscle with a hungry need for more.
Slowly, like a shark moving under the water, careful not to break the surface, Madeline's thoughts and hands wander, tracing down the length of her stomach.
The idea of more is what keeps her hands moving, fingers flicking themselves under her negligee, imagining with a guilty glee how Hel would tease her, the way she always does, biting at the sensitive skin of Madeline's thighs, scratching a promise for what comes next. More is the sound of Hel's gasp, soft and sad and pathetic, tiny puffs of air that aren't for her, but she steals them anyway. Helen’s voice rings vivid in her ear as Madeline lays her hand flat on her cunt.
So needy, Mad.
She wishes there was something for her to sink herself into, someone for her to punish, but her teeth only meet air where there should be the skin of Helen’s chest, and a quiet pant comes out instead. Madeline sets her jaw, desperate not to make noise, to hear only Helen, as fingers - what she imagines Hel’s would be like - begin to rub small circles against her clit with a steady, vicious pace.
She pictures Hel, eyes aglow and focused on nothing but Madeline and her body, on the vicious pull and push neither of them can resist, on the slow building of heat between her thighs until it becomes a roaring fire. Her index finger pushes down harshly on her clit, and she feels her back tense under her own weight, muscles already beginning to falter.
That soon? Hel might whisper, and Madeline pushes harder, faster, sliding one finger, then another, to curl up inside of herself and continue to build, instantly rewarded as pleasure rolls through her gut, pushing out of her as another moan. She almost chokes as another wave hits her, harder this time, triggered by the slightest movement of her hand. For a moment, she sees herself as Hel would - skin glistening, ruthless under the covers, her lips parted and wet as she struggles to hold off her orgasm. Then, Helen would lean in and kiss her, teasingly soft at her brow, her cheek, her neck, her breast - for each spot that gives a perfect performance, all of it for them, her entire self handed over without protest.
It’s this, above all, that pushes her over, that sends a feverish shock down her spine, nerves frying themselves as Madeline comes with Helen in her ear, her hand in her cunt, lips pressing endless praise firmly into her skin. And the Academy Award goes to - she coos. Madeline's too tired to hide her smile as her body sags back onto the mat, breathless.
She lies in the dark, alone again, and slowly eases her fingers free. She brings her pointer finger to her mouth, watching as it shakes from effort, and drags it across her tongue, its salty taste mixing with the last remnants of Hel’s lips on hers.
The sound of Helen's cry brings Madeline back to herself. With a twist of her neck, she stands, wiping her hand on her hip as she hovers over the bed. She watches as Helen turns back and forth, caught in some restless nightmare. Something rises in her stomach, crawls up her diaphragm with a worrying tenderness, a feeling she can only allow in the dark, when she can't quite make out its shape. This feeling extends out into a hand that gently sweeps over Helen’s slick hair.
“Hel,” she whispers, hovering the back of her hand just above Helen’s brow, her thumb turning to wipe at the sweat on instinct, like a mother wiping at a child's cheek - and like lightning, the feeling shrieks back up Madeline's hand, shoots through her chest with a delayed thunder clap of panic. She shouldn't be doing this, not tonight, not now, not ever. She should go back to sleep, or at least, back to pretending she was.
She watches as eyebrows pinch back together and a split lip trembles.
Madeline sighs and lifts her head above the water, above the feeling ready to choke her out. Carefully, she brings a knee onto the mattress, then shifts over Helen to lie beside her, drawing her arm up and over Helen’s shoulders.
A terrible relief crashes through her, and in the cramped, hot space of Helen Sharp's childhood bed, Madeline Ashton thinks she just might die.
Then, Helen, still asleep and forgiving, moves to grasp Madeline's hand, steadying those still-sticky fingers with her own. The room goes quiet, the only sound the steady in and out rhythm of their breathing, a faint electric hum.
With a feeling that comes too easily and begs too much, Madeline allows herself to lean into Helen's back, hands intertwined as they melt together with the blank room and sweaty sheets that feel like the entire world, stretching out into nothing but them forever. She closes her eyes and pretends it's true.
“Come on, Kenny, why don’t you just stop by the party for a little? Hel's should come too, of course, but the poor thing has a shift,” Madeline says, voice dripping in faux sweetness, “And I’ve heard so much about you, I simply must meet my best friend’s future husband!”
Ken barely has to say anything for Madeline to know she’s got him. She hears Hel begin to stir in the hall, and she quickly ends the call with a giggle.
“Talk to you soon!” She says into the beeping line.
“Is that the agent?” Helen says, with a pat on Madeline's arm.
“I had to leave a message.”
“Aw, well, thanks, Mad.”
“Of course, Hel - anything for us.”