People grew up like plants. Some plants grew together naturally, they compliment the soil the other grows in, wards off pests and gives shade in just the right way. Others grow like vines, and Dorothea was most definitely a vine-type of plant. So her companions would climb around and within her, would flourish on the high tops that she could reach, and then perhaps be strangled by the very same shadowy shape that had allowed them so high up.
     It wasn’t intentional, it just happened that way. She never wanted them to leave when they’d intertwined with her so much it’d be an impossible job to distinguish, the further you went, where she finished and they began. Their existence, in her history, constituted one indivisible unit.
          The string quintet played softly in the background, the people bustling around them lavishy pouring through the entrance still, coming and going to the gardens, just enough breeze traveled back and forth as if to accompany the several smoking guests. And somehow Dorothea didn’t expect her. She hadn’t seen her in, well, years, and she —  still so beautiful.  Dorothea had missed her so much, the immediate response to her appearence was to smile, bright and bashful, up at her.  The bitterness resided in her eyes, when it finally landed upon her that this was reality, time had passed, and there wasn’t enough water under the bridge to let the bad blood wash away.
        “  Lady Edith,  “  She marveled at the sight in front of her, swallowing down pride and hurt and spine as her hands reached for a butler’s tray and took two glasses, offering one for the other woman.    “  May I bribe you with some fine spirits?  I promise to not impose with my taxing trips.   “ Â
her skin doesn’t always feel like a home, and it’s in moments such as this one that edith feels that realization dawn upon her with daunting strength, its mercilessness tugging at her bones until her back is against a metaphorical wall the minute her eyes land on dorothea’s face; there’s a hunger in the way her gaze travels the other woman’s jaw, her nose and cheeks until they lock eyes at long last.
and it is then that edith understands this: she is neither a warrior in spirit nor in possession of enough mental fortitude to withstand the cascade of memories that comes crashing down on her when dorothea’s lips part to reveal her name and—oh, how little she has changed.
it’s been years but in that single instance, it feels as though not a day has passed.
“b—bribe?” she stutters dumbly, unsure of what else to say when she accepts the offered glass with unsteady hands, the clear liquid sloshing against the crystal glass. her cheeks flush in clear embarrassment; at present, there is nothing that could help ease her anxiety. and to top it all off, the sheer idea of ruining her own gloves by spilling the glass’ content thanks to her frayed nerves is a terrifying concept, one that she can envision coming to pass if past experiences are anything to go by.
there are so many feelings lodged so firmly in her throat that edith fears she could spend all day scratching at her skin and still, nothing would come of it. never having been a slave to her emotions, this is the first time in a near decade that she feels her own feelings so acutely to a point where it knocks the breath out of her lungs. but she has to say something or all this will have been for naught.
so she presses her lips together and decides to fight against the tide that threatens to drown her. “have—have you been… well?”
