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It starts with the sour bite into a pomegranate, pink juice slips down Allison's chin. She spits out the seeds onto Lydia’s duvet like they're teeth, wolfish and predatory and curls her lips into a grin. Lydia's lost.
‘Hey,’ Allison wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘What if we killed them all?’
Lydia sinks deeper into her pillow and begins to laugh; Allison sometimes says things like this. (Things like – she’ll murder her mother and strangle her father, things like – she’ll wear the strips of Scott’s skin in her hair like ribbons.)
Innocent Allison with her infectious giggle and dimples which Lydia wants to sink her teeth into every time she smiles. Innocent Allison, who wraps her hand around Lydia's throat and slips two fingers in and out of Lydia's mouth until she turns a comely shade of red – the inside of a pomegranate.
Lydia smiles around Allison's fingers, lips swollen and cherry red.
Allison takes that as a yes.
+
They don't plan who's going to go first, not out loud, but Jackson seems to be the most obvious and natural choice.
So Lydia fucks him in the boys locker room after dark, lets him call her a filthy slut, a dirty fucking whore. He brushes his hands across her collarbones like he cares and snakes his arm around her neck, pulling her to his lips like loves her.
Pulling away, she bites her tongue until she tastes blood, anything to stop her gagging into his mouth. The taste of his sickly spit mingles with the copper and she runs her tongue across her teeth, pulling back her lips into a smile.
‘What the fuck—’ Jackson’s face distorts.
Lydia scratches at his face and smashes his head against the linoleum floor until she's lost count and Jackson's pretty face isn't so pretty anymore.
She kisses him all the same, right on his cheek - a picturesque Pollock mess of scratches from her fingernails (she’s got bits of his skin inside them).
Allison walks in seconds later and laughs, haughty and short.
Lydia raises an eyebrow, wiping her bloodied face with even bloodier fingers.
‘He's still inside you.’
+
After they burn Jackson's body in the woods they fuck continuously for two days.
Allison’s father doesn’t ask why they’re both grinning so much and why they both wince when they sit down for breakfast.
Lydia’s mother doesn’t ask why they both come home from detention with fresh blooming bruises and dirt marks on their knees. She simply thinks girls will be girls and gives them both frothy mugs of hot chocolate.
+
It's a week until they think about someone else. A search party for Jackson goes out but most people expect a rich brat like Jackson to be back in another week with a pretty blonde and a new car.
The high has worn off and they're both bruised and aching. Lydia’s itching for a new high and from the way Allison is snapping her plastic cutlery, she knows she is too.
Scott and Stiles sit with them at lunch, Scott's snoring on his sandwich and Stiles is trying to make a tight-lipped Lydia laugh by seeing how many fries he can put on Scott's head.
Scott wakes up on the thirteenth fry, bleary eyed and shaking salt from his hair.
Lydia giggles until she cries.
+
(Allison leans in towards Lydia in Biology and whispers, ‘Stiles.’)
+
Stiles isn't hard to kill, Allison wants to make it beautiful. Lydia just wants it to be over.
‘Jackson died in such a hideous way,’ says Allison, her eyes wide and glazed over.
Lydia smiles and unties a trembling Stiles, ‘That’s because he was so beautiful.’
They’re on the frozen lake, the one which Stiles secretly wanted to take Lydia all winter, but could never muster up the courage to ask. (Perhaps, he wouldn’t be tied up and pissing himself if he did ask her.)
They move slowly across the hard white sheets of ice and snow in silence; Stiles is gagged, he never is quiet anyway and his babbling would only serve to distract them. They make their way to the black pool of water, the ‘hell hole’ as everyone calls it. It never quite freezes over but remains cold enough hug you until the cold breaks your brittle bones.
‘I guess Stiles deserves to have a beautiful end then,’ says Allison and Lydia isn’t sure if it’s an insult or a compliment.
Allison’s already made Stiles write out his suicide note just in case but she assures Lydia everyone would assume it was an accident anyway - ‘It is Stiles after all,’ she told Lydia with a smile.
They kiss just before they throw him in. It tastes like ashes on Lydia’s tongue.
+
That night they devour each other until there is barely anything left. Lydia’s nails scratch escape plans on Allison's soft skin, drawing blood, always drawing blood. It’s a fight for dominance, or rather a disjointed sadistic dance which Lydia allows herself to lose and be led because she's never been crushed this hard and this fast by a horrible creature like Allison Argent.
Allison has got Lydia tangled between her legs with soft tendrils falling from her crown and tickling her thighs as Lydia licks her cunt with her tongue with almost acidic lashes which burn, burn, burn.
They can both wrap boys around their fingers and laugh as they watch the hapless idiots dance at their will from invisible strings and porcelain fingers.
Lust is never a weakness, Lydia learns as Allison slaps her three more times and bites into her neck, drawing blood, always drawing blood. It's not enough because it doesn't hurt enough and Lydia yells for it to hurt, really hurt.
She wonders if Stiles and Jackson were in pain before they died and she comes so fast she almost blacks out.
+
Scott smells Stiles on Allison the next day and it’s the beginning of the end for them. They both try to avoid his accusing glares and notes and whispers of ‘where’s Stiles?’ but it all seems laughably futile.
‘Scott should be next,’ Lydia says idly when they’re painting their nails because Allison won’t.
‘Yes,’ Allison kisses Lydia on her knee. ‘He should.’
+
Allison loves challenges and Scott is most certainly a challenge. He watches them both avidly, waiting for them to give something away.
What Scott doesn’t know is that Lydia and Allison have been pretending for a very long time, it’s almost impossible to see a crack in their veneer.
He finally confronts them in the woods (he must have tracked their scent, the downside to planning to kill a werewolf) a few hours after Stiles’ body is discovered and 'if Jackson was a Pollock then Stiles is a definitely a Bourgeois,' thinks Lydia with a grimace when she sees the pictures that Scott throws at them.
Scott punches Allison in the mouth when she giggles at the photographs and Allison can’t help but spit out with a mouth full of blood, ‘Oh, so that’s why I dated you.’
Lydia has a knife to his throat the moment he pulls his arm back for another punch. ‘I’m sorry Allison, this won’t be very beautiful at all,’ Lydia says and drags the blade across his throat.
It’s not like in the movies, it doesn’t happen in one quick sweep, the knife gets caught and she has to wrench it from his jugular.
The blood gets everywhere and all Lydia can think of as she stares at the jagged line across his throat is, ‘ah, Rothko’.
+
Lydia and Allison hide out by the edges of the woods. Derek’s probably found Scott’s body or more than likely felt it and it’s only a matter of time before Derek comes crashing through the brush and decapitates them both.
‘Do you want to kill yourself or do you want me to do it?’ Allison asks as easily as if she’s offering her a ride or one of her dresses. ‘I’ve got a razor on me, it would be quick.’
‘I’ll do it myself,’ Lydia winces away the image and closes her eyes. ‘Do you want me to kill you?’
There’s silence for a while but Lydia refuses to open her eyes in case she does something stupid like cry.
‘I hope you’re not sleeping because I’m fucking dying,’ Allison croaks and Lydia’s eyes snap open. She holds back a hysterical laugh at the sight of Allison lying on the ground with her wrists bleeding out, a razor in her twitching palm.
‘You crazy bitch,’ Lydia can’t help but smile as she pulls Allison into her lap. ‘You crazy, crazy fucking bitch.’
They laugh and grin at each other because it was always going to end like this. It was always going to end with one of them lying in the other’s lap, bleeding with eyes fluttering to the heavens. Lydia doesn’t say it, doesn’t even try to think but she’s desperately reaching for Allison’s wrists, tugging at her as if she’s a string of rope, her escape.
There’s nothing they can say to each other that they both didn’t know already or isn’t cliché. And Lydia knows how much Allison hates clichés – hated, Lydia thinks as pushes Allison’s stiffening body off her legs and lays her down on the ground.
They’ve done it all, burned a hole in the middle of the world and Allison doesn’t owe Lydia anything anymore. She never has.
+
In her final moments, Lydia wonders how poetic it would be if she too slit her wrists and lay by her lover’s side.
She also wonders if there was ever any art in what they did but then again, there is always poetry in monstrosity.