The Roles We Play
Jan. 20th, 2012 02:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archiveofarethusa"I think," Helene said one day, when the days were half spring and half summer, "we should be our own romantic leads in our musical. We'll steal the show no matter what, and anyway I want to kiss you blind, and I want everyone to see that I can."
Vera just looked at her, carefully expressionless, and handed her a peach. "Here, fresh from the garden. You were saying about inexplicably developing an unfortunate and powerful lunacy?"
"Wrong L word, sweetheart. I used to think ten out of nine of all the romantic cliches in the world were all vicious lies until I met you. Now I know it's nine out of ten, and that may sound unimpressive but it's glorious, what you do to me, and I...oh, that's amazing. What do you put in the fertilizer, gold bullions? And don't distract me with your fruit!"
"Why would I ever need to do a thing like that?" Vera said. "You do a fine job without me. Also, you're getting the juice all over your fingers."
Helene raised an eyebrow and made a show of licking her fingers before returning her attentions back to the peach, just as messy as before. Vera sighed, long-suffering, and rested her head on Helene's shoulder.
"That's settled," Helene said. "I'm never distracted - or not serious - about, ah, role play. Have you heard about the all-female revues in Volacoeur? We could have a stab at something like that, call it experimental or - here's an idea - performance art. It would be phenomenal, Vera. We'll fall in love every night, and they won't ever know that it's really and actually us they'll be applauding for. Not even the single-cells back home would know enough to start moralizing. Doesn't that tempt you a little bit?"
"You're going to get us in so much trouble one day," Vera said, but Helene felt her smile. Helene smiled back, taking Vera's hand with the hand she wasn't holding the peach with. "You know, I don't think I'll mind so much, if it's with you."
"Helene," Vera said, huffing electric laughter against Helene's neck, "you can stop talking now. I'm right here, and you know I'll do it."
That had happened so long ago as to not matter. Vera probably wouldn't be rutting someone else in their house if it did. Moving on, Helene could do. She could take change and run into the sunset with it, or at least drag it bloody and screaming across the border. She could close her eyes and become someone new. It wasn't like she was lacking in experience, and she could already feel something inside shedding her like a serpent's skin. It had been casting her off for a while now, truth be told.
Helene thought she could still feel the sweetness of their garden clinging to her fingers, but when she looked down at them there was only blood. She wasn't even sure whose, though she vaguely recalled taking a screwdriver to the face of some irritant. Possibly that was just fantasy; it didn't seem to matter anymore.
What mattered in the world, anyway? How much could be pruned to the effect of nothing greater than more space and less things needing a good braining?
Helene looked down at her bloody hands. Licked them, experimentally.
It wasn't at all bad.
Helene wondered how Vera's new lover might like being shed himself, opened with cold, unyielding hands and deft metal edges to see all the dark, messy parts no one ever saw of themselves, and decided she wanted to see it more than she cared what he might like. Helene drew out the stiletto dagger from last year's Ima'ami and watched the dying rays of the twilight sun slice across the blade, cutting and gleeful. If happiness was being understood, she held all of it she would ever need in her hand.
By the time the sun came crawling back into her sky, Helene would have the blood of more than an immemorable one on her hands.
Vera just looked at her, carefully expressionless, and handed her a peach. "Here, fresh from the garden. You were saying about inexplicably developing an unfortunate and powerful lunacy?"
"Wrong L word, sweetheart. I used to think ten out of nine of all the romantic cliches in the world were all vicious lies until I met you. Now I know it's nine out of ten, and that may sound unimpressive but it's glorious, what you do to me, and I...oh, that's amazing. What do you put in the fertilizer, gold bullions? And don't distract me with your fruit!"
"Why would I ever need to do a thing like that?" Vera said. "You do a fine job without me. Also, you're getting the juice all over your fingers."
Helene raised an eyebrow and made a show of licking her fingers before returning her attentions back to the peach, just as messy as before. Vera sighed, long-suffering, and rested her head on Helene's shoulder.
"That's settled," Helene said. "I'm never distracted - or not serious - about, ah, role play. Have you heard about the all-female revues in Volacoeur? We could have a stab at something like that, call it experimental or - here's an idea - performance art. It would be phenomenal, Vera. We'll fall in love every night, and they won't ever know that it's really and actually us they'll be applauding for. Not even the single-cells back home would know enough to start moralizing. Doesn't that tempt you a little bit?"
"You're going to get us in so much trouble one day," Vera said, but Helene felt her smile. Helene smiled back, taking Vera's hand with the hand she wasn't holding the peach with. "You know, I don't think I'll mind so much, if it's with you."
"Helene," Vera said, huffing electric laughter against Helene's neck, "you can stop talking now. I'm right here, and you know I'll do it."
That had happened so long ago as to not matter. Vera probably wouldn't be rutting someone else in their house if it did. Moving on, Helene could do. She could take change and run into the sunset with it, or at least drag it bloody and screaming across the border. She could close her eyes and become someone new. It wasn't like she was lacking in experience, and she could already feel something inside shedding her like a serpent's skin. It had been casting her off for a while now, truth be told.
Helene thought she could still feel the sweetness of their garden clinging to her fingers, but when she looked down at them there was only blood. She wasn't even sure whose, though she vaguely recalled taking a screwdriver to the face of some irritant. Possibly that was just fantasy; it didn't seem to matter anymore.
What mattered in the world, anyway? How much could be pruned to the effect of nothing greater than more space and less things needing a good braining?
Helene looked down at her bloody hands. Licked them, experimentally.
It wasn't at all bad.
Helene wondered how Vera's new lover might like being shed himself, opened with cold, unyielding hands and deft metal edges to see all the dark, messy parts no one ever saw of themselves, and decided she wanted to see it more than she cared what he might like. Helene drew out the stiletto dagger from last year's Ima'ami and watched the dying rays of the twilight sun slice across the blade, cutting and gleeful. If happiness was being understood, she held all of it she would ever need in her hand.
By the time the sun came crawling back into her sky, Helene would have the blood of more than an immemorable one on her hands.