You knew this was a bad idea.

Her father was a homophobe, and you needed to get into West Point. It didn't help that you were born to a bipolar mother who was now dead, and a deadbeat alcoholic junkie.

But here you were, with her.

You always liked the way she was after sex, a little hoarse from all her noises, and sleepy. Right now, she was laying on top of you on your couch as you watched the News absentmindedly. Her head was tucked under your chin, and she was muttering random Navel facts as she slid in and out of consciousness.

She nuzzled closer and mumbled something about Coral reefs, smiling sleepily when you kissed her head. Kelly could be a lot for some people. She was touch, and loud, and wanted to get in trouble. She could fuck you up if you weren't being careful.

And you, a lesbian, a Gallagher, a genetically-coded fuckup, had said fuck careful. You had figured that this wasn't going to last long distance, and that was okay. But, in the mean time, why not take everything out of this that you possibly could?

She was gorgeous, and she could play Softball, and she could kick your ass even if you were taller than her. She was fun, and good in bed, and had access to Daddy Dearest's Scotch collection- a nice benefit to an already drop-dead kinda girl.

So, you had adopted the motto, "The sun has allowed me to hold it in my arms. It is a warmth that I know will burn me, but I can hold the fucking sun!" You got the tale of Icarus told back many, many times, like you had no idea what you were.

She was Apollo, and you were Icarus.