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The house belongs to them, at least for the week--Sara made the rich family hand over their keys before they left on vacation. They dance through the shining rooms, running their fingers over the fancy upholstery and turning the knickknacks over in their hands, smearing their dirty fingers over the glass-covered art and rumpling the good carpets.
Jean manages to figure out the corkscrew enough to wrestle open a fancy-looking bottle of champagne, both of them covering their fingers in foam. They're giggling and lightheaded by the time they get upstairs, weaving their way down a long hall of bedrooms.
"Boring," Sara declares when they peek into the girl's room, all pink and frothy with boy bands on the walls, and Jean nods. It is boring, they're here for more than that. The parents' bedroom is much more interesting, with its double bed and tightly curtained windows, with its gleaming walk-in closet.
They yank the treasures out in a clatter of hammers, tossing the fancy dresses and expensive suits onto the bed. Grownup clothes, important clothes, not little-girl shit. They toss their own worn-out shit onto the beds, the fine air tickling their bare skin.
Of course, they spent a lifetime knowing how to be naked with each other. Didn't share a womb, but they might as well have, crammed on top of each other in that little house. But the wine makes things different, that and the sharper edge of tossing their clothes onto a bed where grownups sleep, where grownups fuck.
There’s a buzzy edge as they zip and knot each other into place, poking at one's bare skin until the other says ugh, you bitch, stop. They manage to get themselves together enough Sara to get into a glittery green dress with fine gold spirals running up the skirt, heels clattering as she tries not to fall over.
"What do you think?" she asks, marching in a circle, swaying back and forth. She stops to pose as best as she can in the tight dress, twisting her face into an exaggerated model pout. "Prettiest girl on the block, right?"
"Prettiest girl in the world." The word comes out softer than Jean means it and she spins to cover it up, moving more easily in her big, heavy shoes. She clomps across the floor and back again in her crisp black suit, tie looped loosely around her throat, pants held up with one hand. "What about me?"
"Prettiest boy in the world." Sara's got a hand on her hip, watching Jean, eyes soft with admiration. Jean looks away from her gaze, scowling.
"I'm not pretty," she mutters. "Boys are handsome."
"Well, fuck handsome then." Sara keeps up her heels and makes her away across the room, dropping to her knees before the speaker. She grabs her beat-up cell phone from where she's tossed it on the bed and sets about trying to pair it.
"Yeah, that's the point of handsome. Fucking." It's the kind of clumsy, crass stuff they've tossed at each a ton of times, but it feels...strange, saying it now. Jean tries not to think about it as the music starts to blast and Sara rises to her feet, beaming.
"C'mon, pretty," she says, sticking out her hand. "And take those shoes off, I don't want you stepping on my feet." Jean rolls her eyes, but does as she's told.
Of course, they step on each other's feet anyway as they totter across the floor, Sara doing her level best to lead. She's got her hair down and it keeps falling in her eyes, but she stubbornly shakes her head and keeps dancing instead of going to get her tie.
"I'm the boy, I should lead," Jean points out. She has a vague memory of sitting in the kitchen while Dad dances a giggling Sara across the room, Mommy laughing and clapping her hands in the corner. Dad, leading and laughing and not dead.
"Misogynist," Sara huffs. Her arm jerks out and Jean spins with a yelp, the world blurring around her. Sara finishes by tugging her close and Jean staggers against her, grabbing onto Sara's shoulders probably harder than she needs to, just to be a bitch.
They're close, of course, they've always been close, but Sara's really close now and she's warm. Jean stiffens, her foot coming down a jacket one of them left of the floor. She staggers, falling towards the bed. Let go, she thinks, but she doesn't, and Sara doesn't let go of her.
"Bitch!" Sara yells as they tumble across the sheets, but she's laughing. They're both laughing, shoving at each other in their attempt to get up and swearing as their efforts keep them sinking into the ridiculously soft bed. Eventually they just slump back against the pillows, face to face, panting and smiling.
"Can't take you anywhere," Sara sighs, reaching out to take Jean's face in hand. She rubs her thumb over Jean's lip, shaking her head. "Pretty, silly boy."
"Stupid pretty girl," Jean shoots back, cheeks heating. She thinks faintly that she should probably pull away, but instead she pushes into Sara's touch slowly, defiant. The music keeps playing as Sara tugs her closer and closer, the fancy fabric of her dress scratching against Jean's shoot.
Any second now, she'll laugh, Jean thinks. Any second--
Sara's lips touch hers slowly, gingerly. She pulls back for a second, blinking at Jean, eyes wide with doubt. But that isn't right, Sara doesn't doubt, so Jean surges forward to kiss her instead. Her sister tenses her against her in surprise before she opens her mouth to let Jean in, her tongue brushing gently against Jean's teeth.
They break apart, gasping for air. Sara's face is flushed, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat Jean doesn't recognize her. Then she grins, teeth bared in that familiar Sara small.
"This dress is itchy as fuck, and your suit is getting all sweaty and gross," she says. "Wanna take this shit off and see if these rich assholes have a vibrator lying somewhere?"
Jean's heart beats in her chest, jackrabbit terror, cheetah love. She smiles back.