Of Clichés and Confrontations:
Nachzes Black-Rider

Skye has been tutoring Phoenix for a year now. Their routine is always the same: Skye will show up at Phoenix’s house at exactly a quarter to five each day, sitting on the front step if the door is locked.

The door is always locked.

At 5:07 Phoenix will screech to a crooked stop beside the cracked sidewalk, Metal music blaring.

She always stops right in front of the fire hydrant; this irritates Skye to no end—Phoenix knows this. Skye suspects that’s why she does it.

The door to the Mustang will swing open, grating horribly against the cement, and Phoenix will clamber out, clothes rumpled, and smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. She’ll storm up the lawn, going right through what Skye secretly calls “The Weed Garden”, and push past Skye to jam her key into the rusted lock.

She won’t say anything, or even hold the door open, so Skye has to slip in just after her to avoid being whacked in the face by the screen.

“Sit. I’ll grab my stuff,” Phoenix will mumble, and clump up the stairs in her heavy combat boots.

Ten minutes later she’ll come back, drop her books on the kitchen table with a loud thunk, and plop down in her chair with a heavy sigh, flipping open her books.

For the next two hours they’ll sit there in awkward silence, while Phoenix fiddles with her dyed-red hair, staring blankly at her textbook.

At seven o’clock, Skye will gather her things and mutter a hasty farewell before rushing out, the door slamming behind her.

It’s never any different.

But today, for some reason, when Skye tries the doorknob, it’s unlocked. Taking a few seconds to think about it, she decides that if it annoys Phoenix, it’s payback for the fire hydrant, and steps inside.

The first thing she notices is that the TV is on, tuned to static. The second being Phoenix herself, sprawled out across the stained divan, asleep. Skye blinks, and smiles. In sleep, Phoenix’s face isn’t hard and angry—instead, a slight frown makes the edges of her eyelids and mouth curve down, her lips parted slightly to pull in air, the full, plump lower one sticking out in a tiny pout. Little sounds escape ever so often. Cute sounds. They make Skye’s smile soften.

Phoenix’s eyes flicker open, meeting Skye’s, and Skye suddenly realizes that Phoenix’s eyes are a very brilliant shade of violet. Lost, she bends down until their faces are just millimetres apart, ‘till she and Phoenix are breathing the same sweet air, and leans down to press their lips together.

It’s not a spectacular first kiss—it’s awkward, and sloppy, and the books are all wrong, because Phoenix doesn’t taste sweet or spicy, but like cigarettes and breath mints and liquor—but it’s still good.

Skye pulls away; and Phoenix blinks up at her, then smirks.

“Took you long enough,” she sneers, and then promptly seizes the back of Skye’s head and crashes their lips together again.

End