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Get monumentally fucked up, is how Effy puts it, and Naomi can see no reason—after the fiasco the night has turned into—not to agree.

"Did you see her?" she asks, taking one of the pills from the palm of Effy's hand, chasing it with a swig from a flask full of vodka. The burn is tremendous, and she finds herself coughing into her fist while Effy laughs in her ear.

And Effy just shrugs, smiling blithely. "See who?"

"Emily." It's amazing, Naomi thinks, how efficient Effy is at getting off her face, how quickly she's gone from looking nearly crushed beneath the weight of whatever ridiculous bullshit Freddie and Cook have going on (and Naomi can't think of Cook without shuddering at the moment, and revisiting the sight of his hands all over Emily's body, on her tits; Christ, it was sickening) to seeming absolutely all right with everything. No, not all right. Better than all right because she doesn't care, does she, and Naomi wants that for herself; wants not to care for a few hours, at least. She wants to bloody forget about everything—her confusion, her traitorous body, Emily's mouth—so she polishes off the drink and says loudly, so she can be heard, "Got any more?"

Of course she's got more; loads more, because Effy is very good at this fucked up business—got it down to an art form, has probably had years to perfect it. They get more vodka, and more pills, and eventually, when Naomi feels just wobbly enough (looks it, too, from the funny way Effy's staring at her), Effy asks, "What about Emily?"

"What?" Naomi's so unsteady now that dancing's become a high-wire act; her coordination's basically shit, but she's got hold of Effy's shoulders, for balance, and Effy doesn't seem to mind. "Fuck—What?" Naomi's starting to think that drugs work differently for Effy, like she's rearranged the chemicals to her liking, because they aren't doing for Naomi what was promised; they aren't making her forget. She feels good. Feels fucking amazing, really, but her gut's still twisted up, and now that she's been reminded, she can't get her mind off Emily.

Effy laughs. Her eyes are bright, surprisingly keen, when she presses closer to Naomi, says something Naomi can't make out, because the music's just grown louder with every pill, with ever drink. So she shakes her head, pointing to her ear so Effy gets a clue. Effy's smile grows wider as she wraps an arm around Naomi's waist, lets her mouth brush against Naomi's cheek and asks, "Did she fuck you?"

It's probably the drugs, Naomi thinks, that make her sway dangerously when she feels hot breath against the side of her neck. She closes her eyes and tries not to move until the world rights itself, but it really doesn't seem to want to. "Fucking hell," she murmurs; when she inhales unsteadily and opens her eyes, Effy's still right there, in her line of sight, infuriating smile plastered to her face. "I... No, I mean—Y-yes." Fuck. Fuck.

"You like it?" Effy asks, her words even, penetrating.

Naomi shakes her head and says, "Yeah." She blinks slowly, wets her suddenly dry lips and asks, because good as she feels, nothing about this moment seems right, "Fuck'd you give me?"

"Good shit, right?" Effy replies, moving her hand down Naomi's back till it's on her bum, and Naomi doesn't even think to flinch, as she normally would, or pull away. She just freezes, her mouth dropping open, like she's been startled into submission. "Truth pills, Naomi."

Frowning—truth pills sound strange enough, almost funny, would be funny if not for the fact that Effy's doing something silly with her lips, sliding them along Naomi's jaw—Naomi replies, as soberly as she can, "No such thing. Your hand's on my arse, Eff, and your mouth—" Except she's not sober, can't sound sober, sounds actually quite like the most insane caricature of an off her tits twat, really.

Effy kisses her, and it's absolutely filthy, something straight out of porno, or what Naomi imagines would be, because naturally she's never seen one or wanted to because they promote the denigration of— She groans loudly, only peripherally aware that people could be watching them, if they wanted, if the club weren't so dark. Not that it matters, because Effy's tongue—it must be the drugs, absolutely the drugs, the pills—is quite magical, has managed to lull Naomi into a state of arousal so acute, Naomi isn't even bothered when Effy's thigh presses up between her legs. Isn't even bothered when her thoughts stray to Emily, to Emily's mouth... To the things she wants to do to Emily, wanted to do the minute she saw her in the club, the instant she saw Cook's fucking hands

"Come on," Effy says, taking Naomi's wrist and tugging. Naomi, dazed, nods once because she isn't really thinking all that clearly and whatever Effy's got in mind seems as good an idea as any.

If she weren't so fucked up she'd probably huff in dismay at being dragged into a bathroom stall, because really, of all the places to do this— And this turns out to be pretty straightforward, all things being equal. Effy's hands are unsteady as they reach beneath Naomi's skirt and tear at her tights. When she begins to stroke her, right through her knickers ("Wow," she whispers. "Fuck, Naomi, you've really got it bad, haven't you?"), Naomi shuts her eyes tightly. Her back's firmly pressed to the stall door and where she normally would have worried about things like, "How will that lock hold?" or "Christ, can anyone hear us?" all her mind can process is, "Breathe, breathe now or you'll faint." It doesn't help that Effy's started kissing her again—fleeting kisses that allow Naomi the chance to suck in air—or that she's murmuring things like, "is this how she did it?" and "there?" as she rubs Naomi's clit deliberately, with purpose.

When Effy, her voice dripping with envy (and it's the only thing Naomi will remember of the evening, Effy's envy), asks, "Are you in love?" Naomi can't respond. She can't because her orgasm is shattering her, leaving her, she's sure, a million broken pieces on the sodding floor. When it's over, and she's breathing raggedly, she leans heavily against the door; because nothing much is holding her up now—not Effy, and not her own weak legs.

"Open your eyes," Effy says softly. It could be a caress, her voice, but Naomi feels accusation. It's a good thing, then, that she's not sober, that she's so high none of this will ever seem real, or like something to feel guilty about. As soon as she follows Effy's command, opening her eyes to see Effy gazing back—intensely, always intensely, knowingly—Naomi slumps a little. Effy smiles, touches Naomi's face, "Were you expecting someone else?"

Naomi shakes her head, says, "Yes." Then, "Bollocks, truth pills" which makes Effy laugh, loudly. Someone—and it's the first time Naomi's had the notion they might not be alone—calls out, "Dirty lezzas" which only makes Effy laugh harder, so hard her entire body is shaking.

Naomi reaches for Effy's shoulder, misses and wraps her hand around a delicate arm. She raises her eyebrows in surprise because only now is she realizing how different—"I'm so fucked up," she says, exhaling roughly. "Jesus."

"Monumentally," Effy agrees. "It's all right"


Effy takes her by the hand and leads her away until they're swallowed up again by the darkness of the club. They don't dance anymore, just press against one another, Effy's grip astonishingly tight. They drink, but Naomi refuses to do more truth pills.

When Naomi vomits right outside the club entrance, she decides it's truly time to go home; she summons a taxi and Effy rides with her. They don't hold hands; they barely speak or look at one another.

"I don't think I'll remember," Naomi says, already feeling the void of sleep calling for her. "Seems best."

"Don't care so much," Effy replies absently, "what other people think."

"What people?" Naomi asks, palm to her forehead. It's starting already—the slow, inexorable trip back to reality.

"People who aren't Emily."

The taxi stops just as Naomi's ready to tip back into the headrest and lose herself. Effy shakes her and says, sternly, "Go home."

Naomi does.