For sapphic drabbles, Random number gave me 19: beneath.
For the pairing, let's go Nesta/Clare.
Yes, love this! Fair warning, it turns sad by the end... I hope you enjoy! Written for @sjmsapphic Day Two: maiden, mother, crone | touch | red string of fate
The willow keeps their secrets.
That’s what Clare always says, ducking beneath the trailing curtain of green leaves, pulling Nesta after her by the hand. No one will find us here. She's right. The branches are thick, falling down and brushing the grass, sealing them into a green-hued, quiet world that belongs only to them. The river babbles somewhere beyond the green curtain, signaling life continuing without them. Nesta has stopped caring about the outside world. This, right here, is all she needs.
They’ve been coming here for two summers now, ever since Clare first pulled her through the branches and they sat in the green, sun-dappled grass, talking for so long they lost track of the afternoon. Since then they’ve claimed this space. They keep a blanket folded in the crook of the roots, together with a small stack of books and little notes they write each other.
They come here as often as they can. After lessons during which Nesta’s mother has been extra cruel. After market days. After Nesta’s father says something that sits wrong and she needs to get it off her chest. Clare always comes.
Today, they’re lying in the grass, their shoulders touching, watching the light move through the branches. It’s peaceful. There’s nowhere else they need to be.
Clare turns onto her side. She watches Nesta for a second, and she can feel the gaze like a brand. Nesta turns towards Clare at the same time she touches Nesta’s face, her fingertips tracing the sweep of her cheekbone, unhurried, like she’s confirming something by touch that she already knows by sight. Nesta freezes, holding her breath. Clare tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting her fingers trail down the curve of it. Nesta feels that small touch everywhere.
“Shh.” Her thumb moves to Nesta’s jaw, tilting her face up slightly toward the light as if to study her. Then her fingers drift down to the soft skin of her throat and rest there, feeling her pulse. Nesta wonders if Clare can tell it’s speeding up in anticipation.
Her hand moves lower, to the center of her sternum, and she presses her palm there, warm skin against flushed skin, like she’s steadying her.
Nesta exhales slowly, trying to steady her racing heart. Clare’s fingers come back up, tracing her bottom lip in a feather-light touch. Nesta parts her lips, a soft sound escaping them.
Something pulls in Nesta's chest, something enormous and frightening and entirely inevitable. She closes the distance herself, surging up into Clare’s arms.
Clare makes a soft sound when their mouths meet, her hand sliding into Nesta’s hair. She kisses her back deeply, slowly, with a tenderness so sincere that Nesta doesn't know what to do with it. She has never been kissed like this. Like she’s something deserving of love. It’s nothing like she thought it would be. She used to think she’d know what to do, but she doesn’t. She only knows she doesn’t want this feeling to stop, ever.
When they finally pull apart, gasping for air, Clare is smiling, her eyes still closed.
Nesta wakes to the grey morning light, greeted by her own, cracked ceiling, lying in her own cold bed.
The dream dissolves quickly, like water slipping through her fingers. Clare's face goes blurry, then her voice goes distant. The phantom warmth leaves her last. Nesta lies still and tries to hold on as long as she can, sighing deeply, feeling tears trickling down her cheeks when the feeling inevitably leaves her.
Clare Beddor has been dead for two years.
The willow is probably still there, its branches long and thick with green leaves, their blanket tucked between the roots, their notes probably falling apart from the effects of time and the weather. It’ll still be there, their private little world, keeping secrets for all eternity.
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