WIND & RAIN

        their  situations  are  too  similar  yet  somehow  not  same  at  all.  the  question  makes  giovanni  squint,  deepen  his  thought  to  try  &  find  an  inkling  of  an  answer  that  might  be  right——-does  he  go  very  far ?  &  where  does  he  go;  why ?  how  does  he  ever  come  back ?  questions  he  doesn’t  know  the  answers  to;  he  only  knows  he  feels  closer  to  that  place  each  day,  this  place  where  emotion  cannot  cross  the  threshold———he  stands  always  with  one  foot  in  the  doorway,  leaning  his  way  inside,  scared  to  step  through  completely  for  fear  that  the  door  may  LOCK  behind  him.

        ❛ i  think  so, ❜    he  finally  says,  voice  distance  as  his  gaze,  peering  out  the  window  into  nothing,    ❛ i  am  not  sure  where  it  is  i  go,  but  it  happens  swiftly,  and  then  …  i  feel  as  if  i  am  only  a  body  trudging  about  this  house,  working  like  a  steam  engine.  i  am  here,  but  …  not,  not  for  a  few  days.  and  then  i  am,  out  of  nowhere,  until  it  begins  again. ❜    hopping  carefully  down  from  his  window  seat,  he  floats  quietly  over  to  the  piano  &  plucks  a  few  notes  in  harmony  with  lady  usher——-careful  to  stay  at  her  volume,  adding  little  to  the  melody  beyond  a  few  staccato  sounds.    ❛ i  do  not  think  it  is  the  future,  though.  you  have  a  strange  way  with  that,  i  suppose,  but  for  me  …  it  is  nothing.  i  am  just  gone,  like  i  have  never  been  a  person  to  begin  with.  is  this  the  same  for  you ? ❜

the  sound  of  quiet,  intermittent  notes  drifting  from  the  piano  have  her  head  cocking  in  quiet  thought  as  she  considers  his  words.  “you  should  go  somewhere  else,”  there  is  little  force  in  the  words  as  she  looks  around  the  room,  towards  the  window  he  had  been  lingering  at,  “perhaps  come  to  my  home  for  supper.  the  children  would  be  glad  to  see  martino.”  the  sound  of  laughter  in  the  halls  again;  they  have  been  so  still  and  stagnant  of  late,  like  a  haunted  house,  haunted  by  the  living  beings  still  milling  through  it.  “sometimes  i  feel  like  i  am  not  in  control  of  anything.  the  world  is  set  before  me  and  i  tread  steps  set  by  someone  else,  make  moves  that  have  been  determined  long  ago.”  lady  usher  plucks  another  note  and  shifts  her  gaze  to  giovanni.

THAT’S WORTH NOTING. he knows the feeling. the system as a whole tends to be quieter in public. they say less. if you say something, people might start paying attention, and the best way to be invisible is to be quiet and give people no reason to look at you. sometimes they look anyway, in quick fleeting glances, but he figures those tend to be people like them. people who are also looking to not be seen, but who can’t help but look back. who maybe can’t bear to see themselves in mirrors or in other reflective surfaces, who may not even recognize their own face and body if asked to identify them in a lineup, but who are inherently interested in other people. pearl isn’t quite like that. that’s part, he decides, of what the other two find so interesting. to be both alike and yet dissimilar.

❝ good for you, ❞ he says. ❝ most people don’t even think about the shit they say aloud. don’t think of phones being tapped, or people around them listening in. jesus. it’s all been downhill since we passed the patriot act and it’s going to get worse. the surveillance state is now, not hypothetical. ❞

this really isn’t the time, he knows, but he can’t really help himself. someone has to fucking say it, since most people are unwilling to.

there’s a pause. then he cracks a smile despite himself. ❝ i grew up, ❞ he says mildly, ❝ in a small town in new jersey. i know i don’t really seem like the type. lived in new york for ten years now, so i don’t really fucking… feel anything about where i’m from. but i do know people loved to talk. so i guess if you don’t have to worry about mass surveillance because you’re living in the middle of fucking nowhere, your neighbors’ll keep an eye on you for them. ❞ he sounds just as dismissive of washington township as it deserves. nothing good there. sure, they saved it from nuclear meltdown, but that wasn’t because they particularly loved it. it was just the right thing to do, no matter what had happened to them there.

a pause. he nods after a moment. some people can go from career to career. most people, in fact, are more indecisive about their life path than the system is.

❝ jesus. whoever named you two definitely managed to hit the nail on the head, huh? ❞ red hair for rose. color and brightness. meanwhile, pearl, more neutral in everything – her outfits, her tone, her opinions. maybe by _you two would get along_, pearl really just means they’re both opinionated bastards. that would fit. elliot and sam get along with pearl; he gets along with rose. that’s just how he goes. he knows his presence is something of an acquired taste for many people. he usually points out something along the lines of the fact that if they have trouble with him, they’re going to have a real fucking problem with darlene. ❝ guess i’ll keep a look out, then. not likely, but you never fucking know what’s going to happen.❞

she  only  HALF  knows  what  he’s  talking  about.  acts  and  surveillance.  things  that  pearl  perhaps  should  know  and  should  care  about,  but  that  have  long  ago  faded  to  the  periphery.  there  have  always  been  eyes  in  the  trees,  in  the  telephone  poles,  in  the  windows  and  walls  around  them.  something  is  always  watching  and  waiting.  the  stars,  maybe.  pearl  isn’t  unusued  to  being  watched  -  by  herself,  by  others,  by  the  government  and  the  shah  and  a  camera  lens.

fingers  twitch  idly  in  her  lap  as  he  speaks  about  where  he’s  from.  it’s  the  sort  of  information  pearl  never  thought  elliot  would  give  up  willingly.  it’s  private  -  personal  -  something  that  could,  she  supposes,  be  used  against  him.  pearl  wonders  if  he  has  noted  her  LACK  of  hometown.  perhaps  he  assumes  she  is  from  the  city;  maybe  she  IS.  she  has  been  here  four  generations  in  a  row,  though  pearl  does  not  remember  them  in  that  order.  there  had  been  a  knight  in  between  two  of  them,  a  scullery  maid  between  the  next.  winding  up  here  is  not  unusual,  though.  she  is  more  often  in  a  city  than  outside  of  one,  in  this  time,  and  more  often  in  new  york  than  any  other.  it  hadn’t  been  a  lie  to  say  she  likes  it  here.  getting  lost  in  the  never - ending  SOUND  helps  her  find  some  sleep  at  night.

“i  didn’t  know  that  about  you,”  voice  drifts,  only  tinged  with  unease,  “you  seem  like  the  sort  of  person  who  has  lived  here  all  your  life.  maybe  that’s  just  because  i  never  knew  you  in  another  context.”  it’s  easier  to  imagine  someone  elsewhere  when  you  have  already  seen  them  outside  of  the  norm.  elliot  has  always  been  HERE.  not  in  jersey.  not  in  a  forest,  or  the  seaside,  or  a  mansion  full  of  thick,  stale  air.  perhaps  that’s  part  of  the  reason  she  likes  these  meetings  -  there  is  something  cyclical  about  them.  this  one  excluded,  where  he  is  speaking  differently  and  holding  himself  differently  and  asking  questions,  offering  up  bits  and  pieces  of  the  past  willingly.

        signals  offered  across  rooms,  silent  communication  that  only  two  people  in  a  crowd  of  dozens would  understand,  barely  noticeable  to  the  unknowing  eye———it  sounds  precisely  like  something  martino  must have  read  in  a  book  &  delights  him;  how  secretive,  how  special !  it  warms  his  heart  to  know  miss  pearl  cares  enough  to  help  him;  so  wisely,  she  offers  idea  after  idea,  easily  the  smartest  between  the  two  of  them  when  it  came  to  living  life.  &  papà  will  like  it——-perhaps  this  will  add  to  their  argument,  the  knowledge  that  pearl  will  be  WATCHING  so  closely,  a  secret  code  between  them  should  anything  go  wrong.    ❛ you  may  be  the  wisest  person  i  have  ever  known——do  not  tell  papà,  though,  he  is  only  wise  in  …  strange  areas. ❜    witches  &  demons;  papà  seems  to  know  more  about  curses  than  he  does  going  to  parties.  has  he  ever  been  to  one ?    ❛ what  shall  our  signal  be ?  perhaps  …  i  bring  a  handkerchief  to  my  face ? ❜

HE DOES ENJOY THAT LITTLE MOMENT OF VALIDATION. he has spent a generally large amount of time not being listened to, or being fought, or otherwise being blocked out by people who ought to listen to him. so to have someone just agree without a whole fucking ordeal, a shouting match, or even some less than real but still shocking gunshots, is just something nice to have. certain people could certainly learn from those tendencies. it might make it easier for everyone. either way he runs his fingers through – takes off the hat – fine, whichever, because moments like this almost knock things out of alignment in a way that is very difficult to realign – and glances back over at the computer screen.

funny to think about. pearl owning the camera shop. rose as the photographer. he and darlene practically followed similar paths in terms of what they do for a living – so to speak, anyway. darlene doesn’t have a career so much as she has a steady path that she engages in with a particular skillset. they both hack. they both can accomplish many of the same things, but the fact is that they have different angles. different tactics. he shrugs. ❝ city’s good for anonymity, yeah. but, i mean, you look past it. mass surveillance. cops. fuck, if you want to try to avoid surveillance, other people have phones collecting data on everywhere they are and everything they say around you. no way out. i guess i’d call it a double-edged sword, if i was being nice about it. ❞

he thinks about it all the time. what people do is that they create data patterns, and what he does is disrupt his own. they got rid of voting records and social media and any sign of elliot alderson anywhere. they expunged everything that might be used against him, and they are very careful about what they do and don’t install on their phone. once in a while he’s just swept the apartment for bugs, walking the edges of the apartment with everything turned off, listening for that faint hum that electronics make, checking behind items that he doesn’t remember moving, sweeping his hand underneath shelves.

he sees something in pearl’s gaze shift. a smile, and she’s gone. barely there. he happens to know what someone remembering looks like, though for them it’s often far less lovely. it would be surprising, to inform their past selves that eventually there would be memories not worth repressing. that it would be worse to forget rather than worse to remember. ❝ fair enough, ❞ he says mildly. ❝ sounds like we have plenty in common, minus our chosen careers. maybe i’ll run into her at some point. how good’s the resemblance between you two, anyway? ❞

he isn’t even asking to see an image. he knows better. that isn’t what this kind of conversation about. they might see each other. they might never see each other. new york is that kind of city, after all. too big to ever ensure any kind of meeting. the exact opposite of one of those small towns pearl mentioned.

pearl  thinks  on  that  for  a  moment  before  turning  her  smile  towards  him,  though  it  loses  that  quiet,  nostalgic  edge.  “well.  i  guess  that’s  what  i  have  you  for.”  for  combing  those  hidden  parts  of  the  world  she  does  not  truly  grasp  -  technology  vacillates  so  much  that  trying  to  keep  track  is  no  easy  task  -  and  wipe  all  notion  of  HER  from  it.  “though  i  don’t  speak  much  out  there,”  head  tilts  to  the  door  as  if  to  illustrate  THE  WORLD  with  a  simple  nod.  no,  she  does  not  speak  much.  not  to  the  people  she  will  not  see  again,  the  people  who  are  little  more  than  blurs  in  her  peripheral  vision,  more  the  idea  of  people  than  the  reality  of  it.  “not  much  for  other  people’s  phones  to  listen  in  on.”

they  don’t  really  work  in  the  camera  shop.  it’s  something  pearl  has  never  questioned  -  it  is  a  place  of  the  PAST,  her  bones  hanging  from  the  wall  and  making  her  chest  ache  in  that  dull,  ringing  way  it  does  when  she  looks  at  the  fiddle  for  too  long,  the  scuffed  wooden  floors,  the  ancient  till  she  still  uses.  there  is  no  website  for  the  shop  and  so  few  customers  that,  if  she  were  the  sort  to  think  about  such  matters,  she  would  wonder  how  she  keeps  it  open.

in  truth,  pearl  does  not  remember  the  moments  in  between,  always.  there  are  some  times  she  realizes  she  does  not  know  when  she  got  where  she  is.  sometimes  it’s  because  she  died  and  was  not  always  here,  but  other  times  she  wonders  if  it  is  just  the  hollow  feeling  in  the  pit  of  her  stomach  radiating  ever  outward.  it  ought  to  worry  her  more  than  it  does.  “in  small  towns  you  are  always  being  invited,  or  dropped  in  on,  or  gossiped  to  and  about.  i  have  never  seen  my  neighbors  here.  i  like  that.”  there  are  people  living  in  the  apartments  all  around  her  -  pearl  can  sometimes  hear  them  living  and  breathing  just  a  thin  wall  away  -  but  she  has  never  seen  them.  not  in  the  hall.  not  on  the  stairs.  maybe  the  building  hosts  other  ghosts,  and  they  cannot  be  seen.

“i  don’t  think  photography  is  her  career,  this  time,”  pearl  supposes  she  might  be  wrong.  she  thinks  she  might  have  already  met  the  photographer  rose  -  thinks  perhaps  she  SOLD  HER  A  CAMERA  -  that  maybe  pearl - the - subway - death  has  already  happened.  or  maybe  it  hasn’t.  surely  that  causes  some  news,  and  surely  elliot  would  have  seen  it,  and  surely  he  would  have  confronted  her  about  it.  so  it  must  not  have  happened.  not  YET.  “it  changes.”

Brain.  To say you have a tendency to overthink things would be an understatement of the century. It’s the only way you can function. Spending more time with your thoughts than others because they simply don’t understand. How can you make them understand? The answer is, you can’t. Some people are beyond logic and reason, but that doesn’t mean they are lost. You are the one who is more lost than they ever are, hemming and hawing over all the choices that you don’t need to. To tell you to ignore it though and to trust your instinct would be nothing short of a waste. Stay with your thoughts, but it will not give you peace of mind.

HE WATCHES HER FOR A MOMENT. you can tell a lot about someone by the institutions that they trust. where someone places their faith is where everything hinges. it informs what they trust and what they don’t, and what they think is real and what isn’t. the most important thing in the world is who you trust. he would know. the whole system lived with long periods of time in which they trusted no one, not even themselves, and he knows what that can do to someone. he cannot help but think of the mastermind again, and elliot in his most depressed moments. the people he’s trying to protect. and sometimes he was part of that lack of trust too, a shared sense of paranoia and distrust stretching through all three of them.

❝ too bad, ❞ he says mildly. ❝ never trust the feds. there’s some decent fucking advice for you. anything they don’t fuck up probably qualifies as something they’re lying about. ❞ does it sound cynical? yes. but he’d at least call it honest, which is more than a lot of people would. honesty is something that he’s had to work on with the rest of the system, and even more so when it comes to other people. but he is more willing to dispense with advice and opinions on shit, especially when it comes to making fun of the united states government. or tools of capitalism in general.

he watches as she turns the hair elastic around on her wrist. no elliot or sam yet to complain about the way he’s treating pearl, so either they’re not paying attention, or they’re interested in seeing what detail he can get out of it. or maybe sam’s distracting elliot. that does happen sometimes, some little moment of solidarity between him and sam like a residual of the way things used to be, before elliot came back.

he pauses. he considers. the chair creaks as he leans back a little. ❝ a camera shop, ❞ he repeats. ❝ but not the photographer type, i’d think. unless you’re only photographing anything besides yourself. i suppose it’s… nice. to have something passed down through your family like that. ❞ his tone sounds utterly flat. he has no fucking clue what it’s like to have something passed down through a family. the only thing most of the alderson family that he knew created was just varying degrees of trauma. it’s just the polite thing to say. he has no personal context, and he never will. there’s a chuckle. ❝ i don’t think i’d mind it. give it enough years and maybe i’ll end up out there. when mass surveillance becomes even more blatant than it already is, ❞

after a moment, he taps a few more keys, more just to make some kind of tangible progress in the quiet. pearl stares up at the ceiling, and he watches the blue light pouring forth from the screen. ❝ i don’t get along with very many people. what makes you say that? ❞ some genuine curiosity, not just the prodding and the prying. he isn’t made to be that friendly. it’s not what he’s for, even if he does occasionally find a person or two that he can get along with. so it’s a rare thing, to be told he might get along with someone. sometimes it’s an insult. but he doubts that with pearl. she’s not the type. which means it might even be genuine.

“i’ll  have  to  take  your  word  for  it,”  she  says  it  EASILY  -  he  clearly  has  more  experience  with  THE  FEDS  than  pearl,  and  she  long  ago  learned  that  it’s  best  to  listen  to  those  who  know  more  than  her.  thinking  you  know  everything  only  leads  to  PAIN  when  it’s  revealed  to  be  untrue.  no  one  can  know  EVERYTHING;  not  even  pearl,  in  her  multiplicity,  knows  all.  maybe  she  knows  less  than  those  around  her,  even.  god  knows  she  does  not  feel  like  them  -  not  largely.  elliot  is  one  of  few  exceptions.

lips  quirk  at  the  corners.  “a  camera  shop,”  she  echoes  him  with  a  nod,  fingers  still  in  her  lap  and  eyes  focused  on  him.  the  expression  is  different,  too.  like  his  words.  elliot  has  never  looked  at  her  like  THAT  before.  she  isn’t  sure  what  THAT  look  means  -  perhaps  she  is  wearing  thin  on  him,  perhaps  she  is  overstaying  her  welcome.  AGAIN  -  if  that  is  true,  if  he  wants  her  to  leave,  he  will  have  to  say  that  to  her.  pearl  will  go  as  soon  as  she  is  told  and  not  a  moment  before  then.  ROXIE  USED  TO  YELL  AND  CRY  AND  LADY  USHER  DID  NOT  LEAVE  UNTIL  ASKED  TO.

“no,  not  really.  i  don’t  have  the  eye  for  it.  ROSE  is  the  artistic  one.”  not  every  time;  not  always;  but  rose  is  the  one  with  lovely  poems  of  the  stars  and  eyes  that  see  the  art  of  the  world.  pearl  sees  things  in  their  dreadful  truth  -  rose  sees  what  COULD  be.  perhaps  that’s  the  curse  of  being  eldest.  fingers  smooth  the  fabric  of  her  cardigan.  “i  prefer  the  city.  there’s  more  anonymity  here.  people  take  notice  of  the  strange  woman  who  lives  alone  in  the  woods  and  only  comes  to  the  village  every  other  week  on  market  days,”  is  that  how  those  small  villages  still  work?  pearl  has  not  been  to  one  in  a  while.  perhaps  she  will  be  back  soon.  “in  the  city  you  are  nothing  but  one  face  in  the  sea  of  thousands.  no  one  remembers  the  people  standing  in  line  at  the  coffee  shop  with  them  here.”  pearl  shrugs  with  one  shoulder.

anyways,  she  simply  likes  cities  more.  it’s  easier  to  lull  into  nothing  in  them;  letting  the  street  sounds  and  the  rumble  of  trains  beneath  her  feet  take  over  and  empty  out  her  skull.  the  ocean  is  similar,  though  less  effective.  woods  are  too  quiet,  with  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves  and  distant  creatures  lurking  too  soft  for  it  to  work  in  the  same  way.  “small  towns  are  the  worst  with  gossip.”

        for  years,  he’d  hunted  death  like  prey,  made  it  into  a  habit,  a  job;  can  this  kill  me  ?  could  this  ?  but  then  came  the  woman  he  would  make  his  wife——so  quickly  everything  giovanni  had  known  for  more  than  ten  years  had  been  obsolete.  he  hadn’t  wanted  to  die,  he  wanted  to  live,  to  love.  his  loneliness  was  set  aside  &  for  once,  he  remembered  his  HUMANITY.  this  was  shredded,  when  she  died.  he  still  doesn’t  think  he’s  healed;  his  son  can  only  patch  so  many  wounds,  one  person  cannot  make  up  for  dozens  lost.  he’ll  die  too,  one  day.  then  every  reason  giovanni  has  to  be  a  person  at  all  will  be  gone  from  the  world  entirely.  why  bother  after  that  ?  

        now,  it  feels  like  he’s  died  already.  like  he’s  a  ghost,  bound  to  his  child,  holding  onto  every  crumb  of  humanity  he  can  just  to  HAUNT  him  while  he  lives,  make  sure  he’s  not  alone.  glancing  back  out  the  window,  giovanni  feels  the  hint  of  a  pang  in  his  heart,  &  wishes  briefly  it  wouldn’t  fade  away.    ❛ i  do  not  feel  like  i  have  merely  lost  a  part  of  myself,  though.  i  feel  like  i  have  died  as  well. ❜    countless  memories  play  in  his  mind.  shouting  at  martino  for  mentioning  his  mother,  the  agony  of  regret  that  came  after,  little  hands  tugging  at  his  another  time;  papa,  where  did  you  go  ?  you  seem  far  away.  he  hopes  martino  won’t  remember.    ❛ perhaps  i  should  cease  my  use  of  the  word  feel—-that  is  my  problem.  i  feel  …  little,  now.  fear,  of  losing  martino,  and  love,  of  course.  but  when  he  is  not  in  the  room,  or  when  he  mentions  the  past,  makes  my  mind  wander  …  i  go  away.  i  do  not  know  where,  but  i  am  not  here.  it  is  not  normal.  and  i  know  he  has  noticed—-that  is  the  worst  part. ❜

“maybe  you  have.”  it  is  not  a  COMFORTING  notion,  but  lady  usher  has  never  been  noted  as  a  calming  presence.  no  -  she  more  often  causes  unease  than  she  soothes  it.  “we  die  several  times  over  while  living.”  fingers  resume  their  quiet  strumming  at  the  strings  of  the  harp,  playing  something  distant  and  melancholic.  anything  harsher  makes  her  ears  ring  and  head  throb,  and  perhaps  the  music  will  soothe  the  disquiet  that  has  so  seized  giovanni  in  a  way  her  words  cannot.  music  is  simpler  than  speaking  -  more  UNIVERSAL.  everyone  can  understand  the  swelling  sound  of  music,  even  when  words  fail  them.  she  does  not  play  so  loud  that  one  must  raise  their  voice  to  speak  over  it;  she  so  hates  the  sound  of  raised  voices.

        this  answer  seems  to  calm  his  nerves,  eases  the  rapid  running  of  his  mind;  martino  isn’t  very  fashionably  inclined  if  at  all,  but  with  miss  pearl’s  assistance;  perhaps  he’ll  look  put  together  for  a  ball  yet.  at  the  very  least;  he  won’t  look  outdated,  like  a  fool  who’d  thrown  together  the  nicest  things  he  thought  he  had.    ❛ grazie  mille,  i  do  not  know  what  i  would  do  without  you. ❜    still,  like  his  father,  he  then  finds  something  to  SIGH  about——–miss  pearl  has  brought  up  a  different  concern,  &  he’s  worried  all  over  again.  it  shows  in  horror  across  his  face,  brows  knitting  together  once  more  as  his  eyes  flood  with  a  certain  despair.    ❛ oh,  but  miss  pearl—–i  am  the  furthest  thing  from  charming  !  all  i  know  about  is  poetry,  and  history,  and  i  stumble  so  much,  and  make  friends  with  frogs  easier  than  people  … ❜    a  boy  he  fancied  at  university  had  made  fun  of  him  over  a  froggy  companion,  once.  he  hadn’t  returned  for  a  week.    ❛ and  the  crying—-oh  no,  what  if  i  get  nervous  ?  i  will  cry  for  certain,  and  then  i  will  be  laughed  at  … ❜

AAA  THE  RED  STAR  IN  THE  TELESCOPE  IS  SOLDIER  PEARL  AND  THE  BLUE  STAR  IS  LADY  USHER  AFTER  ROXIE’S  DEATH  AND  THE  BINARY  STAR  IS  OBVIOUSLY  PEARL  AND  ROSE  AND  I

@wldbirds​  yOU ASKED FOR IT

I see fire in the darkness Rage against the void I see every time Man cried out And raised his sword against God SOLDIER  PEARL  /  THE  GAME  PEARL  PLAYS  REFERENCE  SWORDS,  AND  SOLDIER  PEARL  ‘DOESN’T  BELIEVE  IN  ANYTHING’  IE  GOD

I see mothers weeping in chairs Clutching their shawls in the morning Everything is lost, all is gone And she tries to find the joy in life But she is wasting away 

their smile only grows, and their eyes only get brighter, and they can’t help but let the laugh in their throat spill out. clara oswald has two homes in this itty, bitty universe: the tardis, of course, and here. right here, in pearl’s arms, laughing and beaming and looking up at her. their person. the laugh fills the space between them until they close the gap with another jumping-against-pearl sort of hug, hanging on the much taller woman and burying their face in her ocean-perfumed neck for a perfect moment. 

clara’s laugh finds its home in pearl’s throat and chest.

clara just–they can’t stop any of this, and better yet, they don’t need to. they know pearl knows them, that she always has and always will and will always be the one who loves and accepts them no matter what name they’re each sporting in that life. they know she knows how clara is, how they’re too loud and talk too fast and are too bossy and how they can’t help but be too much too often. they know that pearl will love them without conditions, in every way available, and they will always, always return that love until their dying breath and well past that.

clara lets themself drop back down, after pressing a small kiss of greeting where their lips rested. their eyes are so, so bright for their pearl.

‘i know where you keep it.’ 

i also know where the glasses are, which drawer the bottle opener will be in, which playlist you’re going to put on, how many glasses and songs will pass before you stand and reach out for me, how many more will pass before you link our fingers and pull me along to our room, the number of steps that will be, the hum that will sound in your purple-stained throat as you help me unzip my skirt, and how your fingers will linger on my waist once you have. 

i know what side of the bed you will eventually settle on and how you will settle there with my ring around your finger, and how you will fall asleep before me, and what little noises you will make as you drift deeper and the way i will just barely trace your face as i think about how lucky i am to have this life with you. 

i know that i will eventually drift off, that you will wake up, that you will look at me as i looked at you, that you will hold your left hand to your chest and smile like a sunset, that you will startle the lightest bit when you realize i am awake, that you will pause for just a moment when i move closer and pull your face to mine, that you will melt into me and i into you when you realize this is our life and that you are safe here.

i know all of this and i love you for all of it and more. i know all of this and it makes me excited for each moment we have together. i know all of this and it will never bore me.

they take pearl’s hand in theirs. ‘let’s head inside?’

pearl  does  not  LOVE  much.  she  long  ago  stopped  herself  from  it,  from  letting  herself  fall,  but  CLARA?  pearl  does  not  think  she  could  stop  loving  them  even  if  she  tried.  it  had  at  first  felt  like  FOOLISHNESS;  like  stepping  off  the  edge  of  a  high  precipice  without  heeding  the  solid  ground  far  below.  now,  though,  it’s  like  flying  every  time  they  meet  -  every  time  pearl  comes  BACK,  knowing  there  is  someone  who  missed  her,  who  looks  forward  to  their  next  meeting,  it  makes  returning  SWEET  rather  than  BITTER.

she  will  hold  on  until  they  let  go.  pearl  is  NEARLY  NEVER  the  one  to  break  an  embrace;  she  would  stand  here  in  the  doorway  with  clara  in  her  arms  all  day,  if  they  so  pleased.  it  is,  in  those  moments  with  clara  held  close,  the  ONLY  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD  pearl  longs  to  be.  she  has  seen  all  the  wonders  of  this  world  in  every  possible  time  -  she  will  see  them  later  and  already  has  -  but  none  compare  to  this  feeling.  this  breathless,  contented,  HAPPINESS  that  is  warmer  than  the  hottest  summer  day  in  the  largest  desert.

in  others  pearl  might  find  it  STIFLING,  but  clara  is  both  the  heat  of  the  sun  and  the  cool  shade  of  the  oasis.  fingers  lace  around  clara’s  and  pearl  pulses  their  hands  together  just  once,  a  quick  tightening  of  the  fingers,  GROUNDING.

I’M  HERE.  YOU’RE  HERE.  THIS  IS  REAL  AND  SOLID  AND  THE  TRUEST  THING  I  KNOW.