A/N: Aha, finally got around to some actual writing! I love writing fiction, but I don't write too often because I'm way too lazy. ^.^ Well, today we have a lovely serving of slash! Yep. Any not just any slash... femslash! Yep, yep. It may be a bit short but eh, beggars can't be choosers. Anyway, I kept the pair nameless so it's pretty general. I thought it sounded kind of mysterious. *mysterious look* But I had to put one of the pronouns in italics to distinguish who was who. I hope it's not too confusing.

(sidenote: BTW, for those of you who were curious about the pair in Summer Rain and Winter Snow... it was Harry/Draco. I love HP slash. ^.^)

***

          It's early. Her clock's iridescent numerals glow ten past four. The pale moonlight streams in from the cracks in the window blinds, leaving stripes on her cold wooden floor. They remind her of jail bars.

          Her bed is large. Queen size. It's made for two, but she usually doesn't like to share. Usually. However, tonight the other half is cold, so she has it all to herself. She reaches over and replaces her pillow with the one on the empty side. It smells like jasmine and scented soap, if just a bit musty. But she likes that scent. It reminds her of rainy days and doing laundry in her grandmother's basement, although she can't remember why.

          She closes her eyes in a fruitless attempt to wander back into nothingness. She knows that she won't be able to fall asleep without her. Without her is spooned up behind her. Without the feeling of her breasts crushed against her back, the feeling of her stomach, down to the curve of her hips, one of her legs intertwined with hers. She likes to feel protected, all wrapped up in her, in what she has, until she drowns in an excess of emotion.

          They go to the park often, and take turns pushing each other on the swings until it rains. Until the heavens open up and cry at the beautiful tragedy of their love, saline trickling down to stain the sidewalk. Then they shriek and squeak and run home, and she clutches the stitches in her side from laughing too hard, when they reach the doorstep. She giggles and mentions the raindrops, like a halo woven into her hair. She grins and mentions the raindrops, clinging to her pretty lashes, with flirty emerald eyes clouded with lust.

          She kisses her.

          They're teeth clink together, like a wedding toast with champagne and guests and horrible music. She hooks her thumbs into the belt hoops of her jeans, pulling her closer. She tastes clean, like rainwater and lemons with sugar on top, but they're still just a bit tart. Her hands fly up to grab hold of her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks gently, wiping invisible tears away. She increases the intensity of the kiss, her hand snaking up to fist itself in her hair. Pulling her head closer, struggling to get her tongue deeper into her mouth, as if she were trying to lose herself. And she is lost, lost in the spiraling ocean of desire spreading through her chest, the burning ache in her lungs making her dizzy.

She's not sure if she wants to be found.

But the scent of jasmine and scented soap tickling her nose brings her back to reality, and she has suddenly become aware of the dull throbbing in her left hand that is being crushed between their bodies. She has suddenly become aware of the tears, hot and wet, sliding down the curve of her cheek, and she runs her tongue over her lips and can taste the salt and the sadness and the pain of goodbyes. She has suddenly become aware of the neighbors, curiously peering down from the first-floor window, wondering who could be making such a spectacle at their doorway.

But, she finds, that she doesn't really give a fuck.

It's still early. She forces her eyes open to peek at the clock again. Four thirty-seven. The moon is beginning to sink below the horizon, taking what little light it brought with it, and leaving her room cast in shadow. She doesn't know when she'll be back again. She never does. She doesn't know where she goes or why. She never will, she supposes. But she likes to sit on the windowsill, wishing it were all sunshine and daisies. Sometimes it is. But most of the time it's just rainwater and lemons.

She inhales deeply, face buried in her pillow, the complex aroma filling her nostrils once again. Her eyelids are heavy and she lets them slide closed, even though she knows she may only get another hour or two of fitful rest. It doesn't matter to her.

What does is that she finally remembers why the scent on the pillow reminds her of rainy days.

***