a/n: so as this chapter was already getting absurdly long, i decided to move one of the scenes to the end of the last chapter. if you haven't already, please go back to the end of chapter 26 to read the interview! if nothing new shows up, try deleting and re-adding the book to your library and restarting the wattpad app.

After the interview, Montoya lets us go with another lecture, culminating in: "I expect you two to resolve your differences. You have one day to ice your wounds, take some Tylenol, and get over it. Tomorrow, you are to meet me here."

Last time, when we exited Montoya's office, Eris and I hugged tightly against the lockers. Now, we're fuming as if we're sophomores after our first fight when she pulled a knife on me, my face thrumming, my ribs sore.

Today, we have nothing to say. I wonder if she's found another girl to take up her time. Another distraction. I wonder if she'll break her vows of chastity after all. Why I ruminate so much on this, I don't know. Maybe I'm the one acting like the obsessive girlfriend now. Maybe I should be her girlfriend so we can preserve our rivalry without anyone else getting in the way.

"You need a ride?" Eris asks.

I look up. "What?"

She pauses to stare at me, from my face to the ripped hem of my dress. "Don't make me have to ask your stubborn ass twice."

My stomach does a flip. Logically, I should want to be as far away from her as possible in this moment.

"Okay," I say.

I don't expect that one, uncharacteristically agreeable word to set her off. But she tenses her jaw, teeming with hate.

"Really?" she asks. "Now you agree? Now you're fine with me taking you home instead of insisting on walking ten miles? Why?"

Her confession the night she showed me her forgery: Because I missed you, you stupid bitch.

Those same words would sum it up perfectly if I repeated it now.

It's absurd. It makes me into a pathetic, sorry excuse for a human. It's a fault in my wiring, because her betrayal should bring us back to normal. Our fight is obviously proof of that, but I'm balancing on the edge, the all-or-nothing mentality I'm used to failing me. I never thought it was possible to feel so many opposing things at once.

I hate her so much it makes my stomach flutter. I hate how she ignores me, and I can't stand feeling that way, craving her presence even if she hurts me.

"I don't have the energy to fight with you at the moment," I say.

"So that's the secret?" she asks, her intense gaze laser-focused on me. "Wear you down until you're too tired to argue?"

I start walking with her toward her car. "That's very toxic, Eris. But I wouldn't expect anything else from the likes of you."

She rolls her eyes but doesn't say anything because she knows I'm right. She's a walking biohazard, and I'm already feeling the radiation poisoning.

And I missed it. I missed it, I missed it, I missed it.

Though I doubt she feels the same. The girl has zero self-restraint, so if she really suffers from a tendency to miss me, she wouldn't have disappeared two weeks. Unless the Axel thing really cut her deep. Or maybe she's simply over me. That could've been the final straw, preventing her from ever being able to see me as anything but her enemy.

I don't even miss her that much. All this frustration, all this anxiety—it's only because we have a lot of things to resolve. Things that will take a lot more than our fists.

Her car, which she supposedly wrecked during her birthday bender, looks the same as ever. She has no need to be careful with her father always there to clean up her messes.

"The police talked to me," I say once we're on the road. "They asked about you. The people driving the car into Tijuana were tied to Ximena. They think I sold her the painting. And they know I met her at the warehouse party. With you."

She drums her fingers on the steering wheel.

"Did you really think no one would find out we were there?" I ask. "What about Javier? Is he the snitch? Could he have been the one who told the police?"

"Javier is dead," Eris says flatly. "So is his dad. Jalisco got to them, like, two days after after the party."

"And you had nothing to do with it."

"You'd be surprised how quick people drop like flies in this business."

"We need to make sure we tell the police the same thing."

"I haven't talked to them, and I don't plan on it," she says, and I'm dizzy at the Eris-ness of her car, saturated in her chaotic energy despite its clean perfection. "I got lawyers, and it's not like they can charge me for anything. Yeah, I used a forged painting as collateral in a drug deal, but the cops didn't find it. That shipment went through. The drugs and the paintings they did find didn't have anything to do with me, so I'm clean. Same for you. If they think you sold the painting to someone you thought was just an art dealer, so what? You weren't laundering money with it."

"You sold the painting," I say. "And you're well aware that you have my hands tied, that I can't tell them it was all because of you."

"That was kind of the point, Ef."

"You're an idiot. I have your forgery at home. Nothing stops me from saying it's the original."

Her hands tighten over the wheel. I'm drawn to the shape of her knuckles, injuries following the sharp lines of her tendons.

"Really making it complicated, huh," she drawls.

"You made it complicated the second you dragged me into this. And now that they know we're linked, me as your plus one to the party, you need my name clear so you can clear yours."

She drags her gaze to mine, and I tense all over. There is no one in the world who looks at me like she does. I should be used to it by now.

"And what happens once the committee finds out about my painting?" I ask. "Don't you think that's enough grounds to disqualify us?"

Eris stays still, but her eyes briefly flash with panic. Clearly, someone didn't think of the consequences.

"It won't be hard to play dumb," she says. "Actually helps your brand, people seeing that your art is so valuable."

It's almost the same thing Iker did with Marcus. Marcus, tempted by money and prestige, making a deal with a criminal. Just like I agreed to work with Eris to secure the same things.

"And now you're going to put my family into even more debt," I say. "Again."

"I'll take care of it."

"Excuse me?"

"The money I got from your painting. I'll send it to you. And you'll keep that pretty little mouth of yours shut."

I laugh, ridiculing her. "Are you offering me a bribe?"

"Take the fucking money."

"Eris—"

"How about this, then, so we don't leave a paper trail. You behave, and I'll pardon your dad's debt. He won't owe Iker a single cent anymore."

"My painting isn't worth the fifty-thousand dollar debt," I say. "Not yet, anyway."

"I'll make up the difference," she says with a dismissive wave. "I get 50k on a shipment easy."

I wince, restraining myself from giving her a ten-minute lecture about not wasting her life on crime. "You shouldn't be moving drugs after drawing all the attention you did."

"I didn't say it'd be right away."

"And why are you offering to help us? After pulling up your little scheme to get back at me... what's with the backtracking?"

Could she actually be feeling guilty? Would I be even more of a fool to accept, falling further down the Lugo-Baines family drama spiral?

"I know it was stupid. Me doing that." She rubs her forehead, pinching her brows for a second. "I didn't think it'd become this big news thing. Being real, I don't know what I was thinking. I was just pissed at you."

"You were jealous," I correct. "And you need to fix this mess."

"I will," she promises. "I'll take care of it. Like I always do."

"Bribery isn't enough. You need to start thinking strategic. Thinking before you act."

"If only you could be my advisor," she says sarcastically.

"If I was born in your place, the entirety of Mexico would already be mine."

▴ ▴ ▴

The short ride from school to my house ends too soon, but we'll have the entire week to, as Montoya said, "resolve our differences".

In the shower, I inspect the damage up close.

The discoloration on my abdomen, the nasty scratch above my breasts and the trail of dried blood between them, probably having dripped from my nose. Or hers. Little flakes of her dried blood all over me.

Everything hurts as the water runs down my body, pooling red around my feet.

For the finals, we have to write an essay summarizing our collaborative experience and the insights from our work. I draft something about forgotten goddesses, Catholicism and colonization, but none of it flows—it sounds entirely too forced.

At school the following day, Eris is late per usual, and in the privacy of her office, Montoya confronts me about my name in the news. I've been dreading anyone finding out, but it was only a matter of time, and just as I did with the police, I feign ignorance and tell my principal that the painting they found was a forgery of my original.

"Cut the act, Persephone," she says in a harsh tone that completely throws me off. "Do you think I haven't figured out what's going on?"

My throat closes up, panic clouding my pre-planned words. Every day brings about a new aftershock in this mafia saga I never signed up for, and I don't know how I'll keep up.

"My husband grew up in Tijuana," she says. "I know who Iker Lugo is. I know what he does."

"I didn't sell the painting," I blurt out, because I can't lie my way out of this one. "It was Eris."

She gives me a tense smile. "I figured."

Under the weight of the truth, I feel like the child I never allowed myself to be—helpless and afraid. Every muscle is sore from yesterday. I spent hours icing the swelling, dabbing antibiotic ointment on my scrapes and concealer on my bruising.

"I didn't think Eris would follow in his path, but I was wrong," Montoya continues. "And I have to apologize for bring you two together, but more than that, I have to caution you. You can't afford to get involved. To provoke her. To continue this childish fighting, because she could retaliate in a very real way if you push her hard enough."

"You know them?" I ask.

"I know of them," Montoya clarifies. "And so do you. I can tell."

"Do you think the committee will disqualify us?"

"Of course not," she scoffs, and it's the only thing to give me any sense of relief—other than beating Eris to a pulp yesterday morning. "If they bring it up, I will smooth it over with them."

"How could you do that without telling them the truth about the Lugos?"

She laughs. "Oh, honey. Do you think you're the only one who knows?"

It must be an open secret. From the mafia to the art world, Iker may be more powerful than I thought. Too powerful to hide in the shadows.

"Eris isn't aware... that I'm aware... if you catch my drift," she says. "Which is why I ask you to keep this little conversation between us. I still think you have the best chance of winning." She lowers her gaze to peer at me behind her frames. "I don't know how these police proceedings will play out, but know that I am on your side. And I hope you also know that once this competition is over, it's in your best interest to stay as far away from—"

The door swings open, and Eris comes in—always so heavy on her feet, stomping around in those chunky boots of hers with zero grace.

"Buenos días," she declares. "Went on a little shopping spree yesterday. Come help me get the shit from my car."

▴ ▴ ▴

Twenty minutes later, Montoya becomes our babysitter, watching us like a hawk. Eris brought an overload of supplies, far superior to what the school's art room has in store.

Montoya sits with us through the arduous process of sketching and brainstorming, as if afraid that if she turns her back, Eris and I will start fighting again.

At least talking to Eris yesterday seems to have helped, because we're not at each other's throats today. Both exhausted from the back-and-forth and constant betrayals, we funnel all our remaining aggression into the painting.

She still looks worse than I do. One of her eyes has a circle of purple bruising around it like a halo. Her nose is bruised and battered, though I doubt I broke it. She's wearing a hoodie again, hiding some of the damage, and she has her hair down, concealing the edges of her beat-up jaw.

It gives me the same satisfaction as when I bruised her neck with my mouth.

Under Montoya's supervision, we work obediently like good little girls, our pent-up reserves of ideas making their home in the canvas, everything coming together in a cosmic symphony.

It's a freeze-frame of two goddesses in motion. At the top, suspended in outer space, Nana Buluku holds the moon in a protective grip. But it's cracked down the middle like an egg, dust and rock funneling into Chalchiuhtlicue's mouth, who emerges from the waters of the earth, ravenous.

Finally, Montoya leaves us to go attend to her actual overseeing-the-school responsibilities. The second she steps out the door, Eris collapses onto her back. "Fucking finally. What a relief."

But all I feel is the tension flooding back into the room in the ensuing silence, on edge at even the smallest of Eris' movements. It always takes hours to get used to going from nothing to having her at my side.

"Why relief?" I ask. And now I'm holding another secret—that Montoya knows the truth.

"I don't like the way she was watching us. It reminds me of my dad."

We continue. Eris stays in her lane, and I stay in mine, a safe distance apart as if we're back in the pandemic. But slowly, I settle into the silence. The steady rhythms of our hands. And when I let myself fully relax, I realize I prefer this. Even if I'm angry at her, I know that nothing can happen to her if she's beside me. Not while the moment lasts, at least. I don't need to be worrying about where she is, what she's doing, what new shady characters she's meeting.

Even when we were fighting, I was in control of how much she got hurt. I could decide when to stop.

I want to be the only one to ever make her bleed.

"You've been reckless," I finally say. "Cutting off fingers, selling paintings without my permission"

"You make me reckless," she murmurs, ruler in hand to measure out our goddesses' golden ratios—something I taught her a few weeks ago.

"It's not my fault you have no impulse control," I say.

"Not when it comes to you. It's actually really bad for business."

I set my pencil down. "And what can I do for you not to lose control?"

Her spine straightens, her eyes closing for a second, her next inhale staggered. "You know the answer to that question, Persephone."

It's the way she hesitates to say my name, like I'm everything she wants to avoid.

"Well, fighting seems to have... helped."

She moves to wipe at her nose, then flinches at the pain. "Yeah, it was overdue."

"Word has it you wrecked your car on your birthday. Were you drunk?"

She shakes her head. "The only thing I was fucked up on was you."

God, she's so immature. But I have no choice but attempt to cooperate. Attempt to be reasonable, even if I don't have any impulse control when it comes to her, either.

"I didn't realize it would make you so upset," I say, referring to the Axel thing.

She sighs. "I know it's dumb. Irrational, whatever. I just... I'm not used to feeling that type of way. I'm not supposed to be the jealous type."

"It's extremely unfair for you to hold it against me."

She leans back on the floor again, covering her eyes with her arm. "I hate this conversation."

And despite all her lunacy, part of me is flattered. The fact she's so possessive of me for no valid reason. How much I could hurt her by doing so little.

"We need to... communicate," I say.

"Communication is key to all healthy relationships," she mocks. "Fucking hell. I'd rather put my fist in your mouth."

"If it helps us finish this painting sooner, I'm down to do anything."

She bursts out laughing and shoves me lightly, the first time she's put her hands on me today, sending pain shooting through my limbs, but I don't mind it when it's her. "Uh huh. Right. Prove it, pendeja."

Because I'm stupid, I get the urge to climb on top of her. Feel her sore body between my legs, her whimpering at the pressure on her bruises. But because I have standards, I restrain myself and say, "You really need to grow up if you want to survive. You can't be making serious, dangerous decisions because of petty drama."

She raises her arms over her head, stretching her spine, her back arching slightly off the ground, and it takes everything to force myself to sit still.

"That's all this business is," she says. "Pettiness, jealousy, envy. Someone disrespects you, looks at your girl the wrong way—hell, even if they hold their chin too high—it's boom. Bullet to the head. You think I'm bad? You should meet the men."

"It doesn't mean you need to follow their example."

"Yeah, I fucked up," she says half-heartedly in a way that reveals zero guilt. She clearly can't be losing that much sleep over murdering multiple people in her youth, and this is nothing in comparison.

"It's so pathetic," she continues. "You're right. You're my unhealthy coping mechanism. And what's fucked is that it's mutual so it doesn't seem unbalanced. Like the more you hurt me the more I feel justified in hurting you. And then we're even, but we never let it stay that way. Re-balancing the scales forever. But what happens once we're finally equal, huh? When there's nothing else for us to ruin?"

I raise an eyebrow, impressed at her sudden honesty.

"I don't see how we could ever be equal," I say. "You've done me a lot dirtier than I've done you."

She sits up abruptly, her face contorting into a familiar glare. "You didn't hold up your end of the deal. If you had just gone back to my house and stayed with me, we could've baked cookies for all I care, I didn't give a fuck—I just needed you there."

Could all this have been avoided... if I had simply... gone back inside? Watched a two-hour movie, gone to sleep in the guest room. The kiss wouldn't have happened at all, and that would've been it. No sudden lesbianism. No anguish. No tears.

Curse my stubbornness.

"For the record," I admit. "I didn't even enjoy kissing your brother."

Eris perks up as if this is the best news she's heard all month. "Oh yeah? So you're saying I'm better?"

"Objectively and subjectively, yes."

She fights to hide her smile, but it's the most obvious thing ever. She attempts to return to the painting but gives up and looks at me again. "You know, despite everything, I feel like we make a pretty good team. We could take on the world." She knocks on my head with her fist. "You with that huge ass brain of yours. And me with my golden bullets."

I imagine us both victorious. World famous. But Eris belongs in a different type of spotlight. She'll take whatever attention she can get, even if her name goes down in history for all the wrong reasons.

"Just," I say quietly. "Don't let me go to prison."

She's sitting closer to me now. "Nah. I'd take you away to Guerrero before that could happen. Don't think you could get away from the feds in Canada."

And now an alternate predicament is presenting itself—at the opposite end of North America. Instead of her moving in with me in Canada, I could follow her to Mexico. As a fugitive. Codependent enemies—criminal edition.

"You'd rather me be a pain in your ass in Mexico?" I ask, echoing the same thing she asked me.

She smiles, her cheeks flushing a little, but maybe that's just the bruising. "Any time. You wouldn't last a day in prison. Hell, not even an hour."

The thought of losing the plan I've held onto for so long—moving back to Canada—because of her antics floods me with another wave of irritation. I shouldn't want to forgive her. I shouldn't want to have her close, even closer than how we're sitting now. But two weeks without her has pushed me to the brink.

When I offered for her to come with me to Toronto, I had a vivid image in my mind—a two-bedroom downtown apartment, tulips in the summer, splitting groceries and arguing about laundry. This possibility, however, conjures up nothing—a step into the total unknown.

"You're the one who sabotages me, and then you get to be the one who saves me from your consequences," I say. "Sounds awfully manipulative to me, Eris."

The sweet smile on her lips fades, but this time, it's as if her anger is directed at herself instead of me. "Yeah, I'm a piece of shit, aren't I? But I won't pretend to be the bigger person. I'm not letting you get away. I'm never leaving you alone."

"Prove it," I say, mocking her. "Stop leaving me alone. Stop ignoring my texts. Be in my space at all hours of the day, and never let me have any peace. Insult me, hurt me—just don't disappear."

She goes quiet, and I cringe at how desperate how I sound. Our painting, with the first layer already done, awaits us. I first thought she would be the mortal version of Buluku, divine chaos of the void, but she has Chalchiuhtlicue's appetite, consuming my creation.

"Don't say things like that to me," she mutters. "Don't give me permission."

"I am giving you permission," I say.

"Why? I thought you couldn't stand me."

"I can't. But believe it or not, as much as it makes me hate myself, I do care about you."

The words surprise even me as I say them. I can't pin-point the moment that marked this shift.

"I can do more than just hurt you, you know," she says quietly.

I don't know if I can handle that. It would be so much easier to let her hate me. Let it shield us even if we spend every waking second in one another's company.

"You're doing an awful job thus far," I point out.

She hugs her knees to her chest. Unlike me, she has made no effort to hide her bruising with makeup, wanting everyone to see her battle scars. "I would lose it if I lost you, you know that? But that's what I was trying to do. With the painting thing. Push you away completely. But here you are. Can't get off my ass for a minute."

"That's not true. I lasted two weeks without showing up at your house and demanding answers. In fact, I probably should've."

She's staring at me again. And I hate how easily it makes me unravel. How no matter how hard I try, I can't crawl into the comforting, bottomless pit of our hate and never come out. I don't care if all we do is fight. I want to be surrounded in her poison, know everything about the worst things she's done.

"I know you won't stay away from me to keep me safe from your world," I say. "Because you've already sabotaged me. Already involved me. And it's done. I'm not untying myself from you anytime soon. So do me a favor and don't ever leave my sight again." And then I add the final, stupid, closing word: "Please." 

▴ ▴ ▴

a/n: lmaoooo it's so obvious they're SO down bad for each other at this point 💀 i hope you enjoyed the long chapter and persephone and eris' first honest and vulnerable conversation since chapter 23 (!!!)

song is "black vivaldi sonata" by sudan archives! it truly encompasses the cosmic goddesses vibes and persephone's feelings. like c'mon @ these lyrics: 

I don't care if we start a war in heaven
Who really needs to be rescued?
Why can't we blind them in the room together
Wouldn't understand it if we told you

So, I've fallen down
Can't believe I fuck with you now