#stormscngs

Learning a language is not that hard, as long as you’re born into it. That is how her brain works, at least. Even as a fluent trilingual, learning a new language does not come naturally to her. She likes things to be intuitive and rational, everything fitting into its own neat little box. Languages are all syntax and verbs and linguistic rules that give fuck all for making sense. It’s horrible. And here they are: learning a new language like they were born speaking it.

It doesn’t surprise her to see how well Ada takes to it. Despite her sleek outlook and aloof demeanour, Gisèle has always known that Ada Greengrass was made for love. Like a prickly little succulent, she doesn’t even require too much attention – just somebody who understands her and how to care for. The real irony is how well James Potter has taken to the challenge.

See, there already existed a dynamic between them. Gisèle liked that it did—that, if she did not know what to expect, exactly, at least she knew how she felt about him. But this? Ada contently curled into a croissant with her head on his leg and tipsily humming to herself? It completely rearranges the dynamic. It changes everything.

James Potter has an entire language of his own. What’s worse, he’s absurdly good at brainwashing people into learning it. A language that begins and ends with the best of intentions. Where sentences are punctuated with laugh lines and steady hands. Which possesses a long vocabulary of honesty and consideration. Every day, there is a new poem unravelled between the quiet presence of someone who seems so wholly content — to be there, to wait, to love.

Distantly, Gisèle wonders if it is just the rosy glow of her rather stylish wine goggles that is making everything look so damned nice. Life hasn’t felt this easy since, well, ever. Everything feels perfect. Ada’s falling asleep as prettily as she does everything else, lashes fluttering as she obstinately fights the inevitability of it. James is stroking her hair, eyes illuminated by the glow of some true crime show on the TV. And Gisèle? She’s buzzing under her skin.

The hornets’ nest is under her skin, buzz-buzz-buzzing restlessly. What does it mean? Where is this going? The tender thistle has nestled into the recesses of her heart, prickling away the warning. If it seems too good to be true, it is. That’s the rule. She knows this.

And then he looks at her.

“Everything okay?”

It would be bad if he sounded concerned, but he just sounds amused. Like she is some small creature to be charmed by. Not unprecedented, but novel, in this situation certainly. It fades the buzzing into the background.

Her answer escapes her in a sigh of amazement: “She looks so happy, doesn’t she? Everything’s great.”

“Sure hope so,” he answers.

For a moment, they both just watch her eyelids flutter shut, mouth finally falling slack. And god, that’s the kicker, isn’t it? He hopes for the best for Ada Greengrass. He watches the love of her life like she hung the moon. Gisèle would know. She has been doing the same since she was three years old and has no intentions of stopping any time soon.

“I know so,” she confirms. And then, because the threadbare cotton-clad shoulder looks like the most welcoming home she’s ever had, Gisèle folds against it too. The language isn’t hard to learn at all.