lavenders (wlw oneshots)

You Squeeze My Hand 3 Times In the Back of the Taxi

A/N: Hii, so sorry I haven't updated this in such a long time, school has been exhausting 😭. But anyway, here's a oneshot about a closeted celebrity! Hope you enjoy this, and remember to vote <3

You're on your way to an awards show, set to walk the red carpet with your boyfriend, who's actually just a beard to cover up your sexuality. You actually can't stand the guy, but you need this cover, you cannot be outed. He gives the tabloids something to talk about, the scandalous fact that you're a serial dater. So you settle on tolerating him, because he draws the attention away from your secret.

Honestly, you don't remember which awards show this is. Award show after award show, and it has all blurred into something you go to just to please your label. They tell you that you need the publicity, that this is your most important era in music, and that you could potentially have the biggest pop album debut in history.

You know all that, and you so badly want the accolades and recognition and success, but you're so tired. You just need to have a quiet night at home with your true lover, taking care of the cats and bingeing Grey's Anatomy.

The New York cityscape speeds past the windows of the taxi cab. Your knees are bouncing up and down, fingers tapping erratically against your thighs. Your heart is pounding, breaths are short. You don't even notice.

But she does.

She slips her hand into yours. Your face snaps away from the window, eyes flashing with warning. The taxi driver can't know. Anyone could run to the tabloids and all this hiding and planning and pain would be for nothing. The best two years of your life so far have been marred by fucking paranoia. No. You refuse to slip up.

Retrospectively, it sounds overly dramatic. There's no way the taxi driver will notice, and even if he does, best friends hold hands all the time. But you know it is one thing when both of you were just friends, but now that you had something to hide, you did everything in your power to hide it.

She senses your panic, and smiles reassuringly, squeezing your hand 3 times in rapid succession. On the last one, she holds it one beat longer as she mouths, "You're ok, I'm here." She then drops her hand, fingertips ghosting over your hand. It is evanescent, leaving only a memory.

It is your own secret language. She always does this when you both are in public and you are anxious. It calms you down. It feels special. It's something that's uniquely your own, something that the world hasn't taken away from you.

You smiled at her, nodding. The action seems so trivial, but it means so much to you.

You are a romantic. You used to think that romance meant large, romantic gestures. Dancing in the pouring rain, kissing in front of the sunset, proposing on the pristine beaches.

But later on, you learnt that love and romance were the simple things. You never realised how special simple gestures like holding your lover's hands were until you had to hide it.

"Thank you," you mouth back. "Love you."

Her face splits into a smile. It's like sunshine. Your sunshine. You think back to the interview you had with her, where you described her as the sun emoji. You smirk slightly, remembering your publicist looking absolutely murderous after the cameras cut.

You remember her exact words. "In what way was that heterosexual behaviour?"

"We're here," your publicist announces from the front seat.

You take a deep breath, trying to paste on a smile. You can do this. You've done it a million times before. The public only sees what you want them to see. You've practised this. Shit, why are you nervous?

"Wave," she says next to you as your publicist prepares to open the car door. "Wave like we're the goddamn queens of England."

The door opens and both of you step out. It almost feels cinematic. The bright sun shines down on you, a sun flare framing your face. You step out, in your green dress with its cinched waist and full skirt. Both of you wave, smiles bright on your faces. The crowd screams, as the cameras click, and the lights are blinding.

She sees your facade flatter briefly. Your smile is still frozen to your face, a picture of grace and elegance, and to anyone else, they wouldn't be able to sense that anything is wrong. But as always, she knows you all too well.

She steps closer to you. You want to hold her hand. You need that comfort. Your hands are shaking from holding back from her.

It's ok, you think, as you take a deep breath. A few more hours and you get to be alone with her.

5 tedious hours later, both of you reach your home.

"Come on babe," she says, pulling you gently toward the bathroom.

A wave of tension releases from you as you realise how badly you've been craving her touch. Not in a sexual way, instead craving that assurance and steady warmth she exudes.

Upon reaching the bathroom, she begins to help you out of your dress. Through the mirror, you smile as you notice her nose scrunched up in concentration as she fiddles with the stuck zipper.

A part of you wishes you had these ordinary moments with her so often that you would take it for granted. That it would feel mundane, a trivial part in a life with her.

But you don't, so you cherish every second with her because that's all you can afford.

The dress falls to the ground. Her eyes languidly scan your body, committing every inch to memory.

"God, you're gorgeous," she breathes.

You blush, slipping into an old oversized T-shirt. She then lifts you off the ground effortlessly, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head. You laugh, ordering her to set you down so you can kiss her properly. Your lips meet, and the kiss is slow and passionate, full of love. You become intoxicated by her and her soft lips, drunk on this euphoric feeling.

After both of you change, you get into bed. You turn over to face her, lacing your hand through hers. You love that feeling.

"Goodnight," you say.

"Goodnight," she responds, smiling softly.

A few moments later, you hear her breathing even out, indicating that she has fallen asleep. Yet no matter how exhausted you are, you can't seem to fall asleep.

Sighing, you slip out of bed, padding on the floorboards softly as you make your way to the calm of the music room. You sit down by the piano, and you start playing aimlessly. Soon, you have a simple melody, and lyrics begin to form.

"There's glitter on the floor after the party, girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby..." you start to sing softly.

"... hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you, and I will hold on to you." you finish, and a lone tear rolls down your cheeks.

You look up, and realise that she's standing in the doorway, tears glistening in her eyes.

You love her so much, and the song is a beautiful promise of that, but you are also deathly terrified the world will force you apart. Force her to become a stranger whose laugh you could recognize everywhere.

She comes over to the piano and sits down next to you. "I'll always be here for you, you know that right?" she whispers.

You try to nod, because you do trust her, yet your mind is your greatest enemy, forcing you to imagine a world where she left you, because you weren't enough. She sees the look on your face, and can immediately tell that you're self doubting.

"Come here," she says, pulling you into a hug. You melt into it, safe in her arms. "We'll focus on the present, ok? I'm here right now, and I love you so so much."

"I love you too."

Both of you sit there in the music room, safe from the prying eyes of the world, content in each other's arms.

It seems trivial to most, yet to you, you will cherish and hold on to this memory forever. Just as how you will hold on to her through everything, because that's what love is.