A River Flows In You | Clea Dessendre
Characters: Clea Dessendre x gn!Reader Words: 611 Author's Note: For all those who have fallen for the eldest Dessendre. Hard. A moment of peacee for our girl.
✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ . ˚ * ✦ . . ✦ ˚ ˚ .˚ ✦ . . ˚ .
It was late by the time she came to collect you. Stars bright through the windows late. Streetlights hazy with ambling fog late. Moon passed the opus of the sky towards the horizon kind of late, when, finally, the door to the piano room opened. But it just wasn’t right yet. In your chest, a gentle beast of worry at the corners of your heart. The anxiety never ceased since you’d seen her off back into the canvas. She said she would be back so much sooner.
“I could hear you from the canvas,” she voiced once the two of you were in bed, side by side. “You played sad songs.”
At this, your memories go back to those songs. You tried playing happily. You have for months trying to convince your hands to a softer register, one of feathers on wind, of flames on a single wick dancing, of the first notice of love in the body. Yet, the ones that came were those of worry. Concern. Of a young love given too much to carry. One you so desperately want to voice.
You manage, though, just above a whisper, “You were in there longer today. I was scared, Clea.. I was scared you’d been lost to... to it just like... just like...” Like Aline, like Renoir, like Alicia, like Vers–
Suddenly, you are tugged onto Clea's side of the bed. Arms wrap around you tightly, bringing your hammering, rattling chest against the cool serene of Clea's. You look up, searching, but Clea’s eyes remain closed, but a hand finds yours and holds it firm between the two of you, before saying, "Breathe, ma lapine, you'll give yourself a heart-attack." Then, Clea began taking several deep breaths, holding you tighter, to give you a serene rhythm to follow.
You wanted to cry at that moment. Here she was, equally as tired and ravaged by this war. So exhausted from the monsters she paints. The tactical embrace she has adopted to fight in Aline and Renoir’s plot, the quest to guide her sister, the confusing complexity of an imposter painted brother. All of this on her shoulders, and you are the one being comforted. This world of responsibility you had no access to. You only knew of the one you lived in with real Clea-- one of greying under eyes, skipped meals, countless nights either in the canvas or in her father's study, tracking down the whereabouts of her brother's murderers. The empty side of the bed. A whole manor of quiet. It's what drives you to the music. You don't want to admit your worry. You don't want to admit to your lonely.
“It’s almost over,” She reassures, a whisper against your hairline, once your breathing has calmed. At this her gaze opens and meets yours. You want to be brave for her. Afterall, while your heart yearns for her, for her family, it is her family. The pain, it originates from her heart.
And to be part of her heart means you'd have to be strong. Strong, for her.
“Almost over," You say back and press your forehead against hers. Before you can pull back, you are pulled down. Soft. Everything is soft in that kiss. When you pull apart, she is gazing at you, for the first time that night, with the small crooked smile and eyes full of mirth.
“You really should learn to sleep without me. You're starting to wrinkle, ma lupine."
You huff at her snarky tone, but burrow into her arms deep, inhaling every bit of her– that otherworldly smells of flowers and earth– and, also, feel the tiniest smile at her teasing against the warm skin of her collarbone.
"May I never. May I never."
