hold me really tight (until the stars look big) - I

Mica rubs her eyes, nodding. 'I'm—fuck, Jael—I can't stress enough how sorry I am, how sorry we both are. We never meant for you to get caught up in—in all of this.'

Jael shakes her head a little. 'It's okay,' she mutters. 'I'll handle it. It's not your fault, or Tate's, or anyone's fault. Maybe—maybe it's supposed to happen like this.' She looks at Mica. 'Please dont tell Tate, though. He doesn't have to know how I keep seeing him kill me.' She tries to make it sound like a joke, but she fails horribly.

Mica grimaces, jaw set. 'I won't—I won't tell him,' she promises quietly, placing the wrapping paper on the nightstand and handing Jael the iPod. 'There's nothing on there, yet,' she says. 'You can take a look at mine and Tate's iTunes and decide who you want to sync with. It's not much, but I hope you like it.' There's a beat. 'Also, what do you want for dinner?'

Jael tosses the iPod back and forth in her hands. 'Thank you,' she says, quietly. 'Pizza's fine, I don't—I don't eat much anyway. Um—Could you ask Tate about calling my mom and dad…? I don't want—I don't want to raise suspicion or something.' She bites down on her lower lip.

Mica smiles, nods. 'I'm sure he'll be fine with it. He'll probably let you do it after dinner, is that alright?'

Jael nods. 'Y—yeah, sure, that's fine.' She gives Mica another smile. 'I'll be ready.' She's more lively now, for no particular reason other than feeling a little accepted.

Mica gets off of the bed, runs her fingers through her hair and smiles happily at Jael. 'Go shower,' she says pointedly, 'Eat your lunch. Eat your cake.' She looks around the room, looks on her watch. 'It's past one o'clock, dinner's at six. We can watch a movie if you'd like.'

Jael nods again. 'Yeah, that would be great… I'll take a shower first.' She's still in her pj's, wearing sweatpants and a tank top. 'I'll be back in a bit.' She already searches in the closet for something to wear.

Mica nods and leaves the room, her eye catching a drawing of something that looks a lot like Tate on the way out.

Jael's in the shower within moments. She takes her time, not rushing anything today. The warm water does a good job relaxing her tense muscles, and the headache slowly fades.

'Jael wants pizza,' Mica singsongs while she grabs Tate's hand to yank him up from the couch he's sitting on. 'Also, she wants to call her parents.'
'Is that so?' Tate asks, letting himself be dragged to the guest room. He hasn't seen Mica this lively in weeks, and he sure as hell isn't going to ruin it.
'It's suspicious if she doesn't call, Hale,' she points out. 'It's her birthday. Look at it as a present.'
'I already gave her a present. I bought her an iPod.'
Mica shrugs. 'I told you you should've gotten a kindle.'
'Her room is filled with books,' he protests. They're in front of her door, now, the sound of water running behind it. Mica turns the lock and walks inside, he follows reluctantly.
'What are you—'
Mica shuts him up with a look, turns around and grabs something from the nightstand. She holds up a drawing.
'Holy shit.'

Jael turns off the water, absentmindedly humming a song while she grabs the towel to towel her hair dry. She tries not to look too much in the mirror at her hipbones that are showing emphatically since a week or two, or at her small shoulders and pointed collar bones, or at how thin her wrists are starting to get.

The drawing is beautiful, no doubt. It's just—it's him. It's him. No scene, no tables or kitchens or couches or anything—just the curve of his body, the sweatpants low on his hips, his face tilted a bit, profile carefully sketched. He looks relaxed, jaw loose, skin tight over muscle but not—not... He looks good.
Mica's fingers catch the edge, carefully turning the page.
Tate closes his eyes, hand raised, palm forward. 'We're invading her privacy,' he mutters, grabbing her arm and pulling her out and away.
Mica flips him the bird, but otherwise doesn't put up a fight.

Jael opens the bathroom door a moment after Mica and Tate leave her room. She's only wearing her bra and a pair of panties and the cold air gives her goosebumps. She puts on her clothes and brushes her hair while staring outside at the top of the trees of Central Parks and smiles a little. There's already green everywhere and it makes her happy. She loves spring. It's her favorite season.
She pulls her hair together in a messy ponytail and smoothes her clothes, and then she carefully tries if the room is still locked.

'How does Jael know what your penis looks like?'
Tate chokes on his own spit.

Jael hears Mica's words and gasps. Her hand freezes on the door handle and she just stands there, eyes wide, waiting for Tate to answer. She wonders how Tate's face looks like right now and can't help but smile a little.

'What the hell, Mica!' Tate exclaims, face red.
Mica shrugs. 'She has drawn you naked. And the penis is like... spot on. And I know what your penis looks like, Tate.'
'We wouldn't mention that again,' he points out.
'Semantics. She knows what your penis looks like. You didn't answer the question. How does she know. Did you fuck her? Please tell me you didn't fuck her. God—you totally did. You totally fucked that girl and then locked her up in a room. Jesus...'
'I didn't,' he says, loudly. 'I didn't—I didn't sleep with her.' He sighs. 'I swear! I was showering, and then I... kind of wasn't showering? She was in the room. It was an accident!'
'An accident!' Mica sputters, laughing. 'She totally studied your dick and it was an accident!'

Jael covers her eyes with her one hand and groans, just groans, silently, regretting ever drawing that. She wonders how much they saw, how many drawings they looked over. The sketchbook is still on her nightstand, they probably put it back like it was.
She stays quiet behind the door, her cheeks hot to the touch, her knees weak.

Tate groans, rests his cheek on the glass table, eyes closed.
'It's alright, honey,' Mica coos. 'This way, when you finally do fuck, she already knows what it looks like!'

Jael bites down on her lower lip to keep herself from laughing out loud, slowly shaking her head. She never really thought about that—about fucking Tate. Self-preservation.

'Please shut up,' Tate begs without opening his eyes. 'I beg you, please shut up. Just—just put it on the pile of things we never talk about.'

Jael knocks on the door, a bit hesitantly. "I'm done showering," she says, her voice a bit muffled through the closed door. "Been a while." The last part comes out really quietly.

Mica walks turns the lock, cheeks red, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as she smiles. 'Hey. Do you have your iPod? We can look at the libraries now.'

Jael nods and hands her the iPod. "I don't—I don't mind which one you sync with, honestly." She smiles a little awkwardly and lets her gaze wander off to Tate, who is still leaning his head on the table. She stares without realizing it.

Tate pries one eye open, cheek not-so-charmingly still smashed against the glass. When he sees Jael, he smiles.
'Oh you will mind when you see this guy's awful taste in music,' Mica mutters.
'I heard that!' Tate quips, sitting upright. 'My taste in music is fantastic, don't listen to her. At least my library isn't filled with Lana Del Rey.'
'You know all of her songs, you hypocrite!'
'It's because you sing them all of the time. They're forced upon me.'
Mica rolls her eyes. 'Keep telling yourself that,' she says before turning to Jael. 'Seriously, though, just look at what you like and I'll sync it for you. I'll get the laptops.'

Jael nods and sits down at the other end of the kitchen table as Mica gets the laptops. She folds her hands in her lap and looks around a bit. She hasn't been out since Tate's birthday and she hasn't had the chance to check out the penthouse at all.
She looks a little misplaced, sitting at the edge of her chair, back straight. She chews her lip as she takes in every detail around her, carefully avoiding Tate's eyes. "Did you um—did you furnish the whole thing yourself...?" she asks, trying not to sound too impressed.

Tate shrugs slowly. 'I—kinda? I just told the interior designer what I wanted and she just—she just did it. I just told her what I had in mind and chose the colours.'

Jael nods a bit. "I'm—It looks good." She gives him a shy smile, a hesitant one. "Thank you, by the way. For—for the iPod. I really appreciate it. I'm—I'm sorry I told you I didn't want it." She's playing with her hands, a sign that she's nervous, being alone with Tate.

'It's alright. You—There's a lot going on.' Tate smiles awkwardly, shoulders tense. He visibly relaxes when Mica comes back, muttering frustratedly about tension while she places both laptops on the table.

Jael stays silent as Mica comes back, just watching. She notices Mica's growing, she notices how her belly slightly starts to round and she smiles, just a little, but a happy, genuine smile that vanishes when she thinks about her own, about the baby Denny forced her to miscarriage. In a few days it'll be a year ago she lost it. She doesn't tell Tate, or Mica, though. They don't have to know.

'Okay, so don't be afraid to insult anyone, no hard feelings because this guy right here—' Mica clacks her tongue, sighing like Tate's taste in music is the most devastating thing she's encountered in her life, '—has a lot of capital C Crappy music on his iTunes. Like... noodle hair JT Crappy. Maybe worse.' She sighs, rolls her eyes and scrolls down. 'He has The 1975. Who has The 1975? That's like... 40 songs and they're all the same.' She shoves both laptops half in Jael's face and frowns. 'Just... look through it. Choose whichever you want.' She looks at Tate pointedly. 'No hard feelings.'
Tate sticks out his tongue.

Jael feels Polar's nose against her knee. She reaches out her hand to rub his ears while she silently scrolls through the music. Tate has her taste. He has a lot of songs she also listens to, a lot of music she loves.
An abstntminded smile crosses her face. "Your taste is not too bad, Tate," she murmurs, not taking her eyes off the screen.

Tate grins openly and looks at Mica like he's won the lottery. 'See? Someone with good taste.'
'Gross,' Mica says, making retching sounds from where she's facing the counter, cupboard open. 'Your music is gross and your innuendos are gross. And you—', she turns to Jael, 'are just as gross as mister Good Taste there. All of you have no taste.' She sighs deeply. 'Also, we're out of brownie mix. I wanted to make brownies.'
'You've made brownies three times this week,' Tate points out, 'and ended up with burned ones because you at three quarters of the batter before it went in the oven.'
Mica turns around, making aggressive hand gestures at her stomach before just addressing her entire body as in look at me, asshole. 'Pregnant,' she says, articulating loud and clear. 'Pregnant. And in need of brownie mix. Desperate need, Tate. Do you want me to let loose the pregnant woman hormones?'
Tate rolls his eyes, retrieves his phone from his pocket. 'I'm on it.'
Mica smiles, all too pleased, and turns back to Jael after closing the cabinet.

Jael has shoved her chair a bit backwards and is cuddling with Polar, her arms around the dog while it happily wags its tail, his little black eyes closed, just as Jael's. "Tate's playlist is okay," she murmurs, her voice muffled away a little in the white cloud of fur. "He has a lot of music I like too."
She missed this. She missed being part of this thing, this family feeling she can't help but feel whenever she's with Tate and Mica. It feels good and it feals right and she missed it, and she wonders if she'll ever be really part of it. She still feels Tate's resentment towards her, she still feels the distance that's between her and Mica. It's there, and she doesn't know how to handle it.

Tate makes a quick call, Mica rolling her eyes on the background and mouthing something to Jael that looks like minions but could've also been onions. She isn't really sure herself.
'Tate's playlist is okay,' Tate singsongs, grinning widely at Mica while putting his phone back in his pocket.
'Oh shut up, asshole,' Mica grumbles, but the corners of her mouth are upturned. 'I'll sync them after dinner,' she says to Jael, letting the smile take over her face. She rubs her belly absentmindedly.

Jael lets go of Polar, but the dog stays close to her, as if he's scared she'll be gone in a moment again. She keeps rubbing his ears, just like he likes it. "That's okay," she says, looking at Mica, looking at her hand on her belly. Something inside her snaps. She has to fight tears all of a sudden and raises from her chair way too quickly. "I'm—I'll be right back," she stammers and she's out of the kitchen within a few seconds, closing the door of her room behind her, heart pounding in her ears.

Mica looks at Tate guiltily. 'Is it something I did?' she asks tentatively, hand still on her stomach.
Tate looks at the door Jael went through, shaking his head slowly. 'I'm not sure,' he murmurs.

Jael sits down on the bed and fights to breathe, to breathe, to breathe. She's jealous. She's jealous, because Mica is pregnant and she's going to have kids and Jael lost hers and it hurts, it hurts so much she can't breathe.
She doesn't want to be jealous. Kyle was jealous. Denny was jealous. Jealousy brings bad things, it brings bitter taste and breathless things, it brings purple bruises and crimson red, and salty tears, and pain.

'You should go talk to her. Look if she's alright,' Mica says, a little breathless. She doesn't want to be hurt, doesn't want to be a slave to these fucking hormones that keep doing things to, or with her body.
Tate nods, stands up, caresses his knuckles lightly over Mica's cheekbone like he used to do with Macy, the hurt and guilt suddenly heavy yet hollow in his heart. He opens the door to Jael's room.

Jael's crouched on her bed, legs pulled up, face hiding in her hands. Her toes are curled, she's pained, and doesn't even hear Tate coming in. She's crying, sobs muffled away in her hands, shoulders tensed.

Tate sits down next to her, hand hovering above her shoulder, too careful to touch, too careful to do anything. He isn't good at comforting, he isn't good at listening, at picking up signs. He doesn't—he doesn't know how to be good.
'Jael?' he says, softly.

The sudden sound of his voice scares Jael and she jumps, creeps away from him until she realizes it's Tate and she breathes out slowly. Her cheeks are wet, her lips trembling. She just stares, doesn't really know what to say, how to explain, how to speak at all.

'Talk to me,' Tate pleads.

Jael shakes her head, slowly, looking away. "I don't know," she says, voice quivering. "I don't know. I don't—I don't know how to do this." She's clenching her fists, pushing her nails deep into the palms of her hands. "I can't pretend like there's nothing. I can't, I can't do it, it's too—it's too much. I'm too much," she stammers. She stares at the armchair at the window. The sun is bright, the sun is painfully bright and she squeezes her eyes against it.

'You don't have to pretend anything,' Tate says quietly. 'You don't have to pretend to like any of us, or be grateful. We... We try to make your stay bearable, but that doesn't mean... that doesn't mean you have to be grateful for me kidnapping you.'

Jael looks at him, hesitating, then saying: "But I am." Her voice sounds unreal. "I'm not saying that I'm—you know—happy about what happened. But it's—you, you are the best thing that happened to me in ages." Her eyes wander off again and she bites her cheek. "I'm so stupid," she mutters, barely audible.

Tate doesn't say anything, just sits and stares and doesn't speak, because she told him he was the best thing and he didn't know what to do: be happy because he was the best thing, or be angry that this... this girl had never had anything better than someone who laid dead bodies next to her on the backseat and locked her up in a room full of books like she was something to be kept and locked away.

Jael is silent for a while, just sitting next to him, only breathing. "April 4th," she says, really quietly, and it looks as if she's even smaller after she said those words. "April 4th, that's the—that's when I lost the kid in the hospital." She tries to swallow, her throat is dry. "I told Denny on my birthday. My parents told me they found me in my room. I don't really recall what happened. All I know—all I know is that it hurt like hell."

Tate breathes in sharply, wordlessly looking for her hand and grabbing it, tightly.

Jael doesn't cry. There's only a sick feeling in her stomach and she holds on to Tate's hand as if it would save her life. "When I woke up I started losing blood." She smiles, bitterly. "I don't know how long it took, but eventually it was gone. The baby—my baby." She breathes in, closes her eyes. "Mica—I was as far as Mica is now."