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Growing up, Leta had hated the colour pink, though she often found herself forced to wear it. Pink was the colour of sweet little girls with happy families, of flowers placed on the table by a loving mother, of candy secretly passed to girls by their smiling fathers when they thought mother wasn’t looking. Leta wasn’t anywhere near any of that, and so she despised being forced to wear any shade close to pink.
The defiance was simple, rolling any pretty pink dress she was forced to wear near the closet patch of mud or dirt or leaf litter she could find. Her father barely spared her a glance, and so she had to remain satisfied with the tutting and explanations of her nursemaid and teachers who had been scandalized by her behaviour.
Leta swore that as an adult, she would never again be forced to wear that wretched colour.
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Seraphina hated pink. Pink was the colour of girls who sat together braiding hair and gossiping and talking about boys; Seraphina had no time for that. There was always a rough and tumble to be won, knees to be scraped on adventures and it truly was the worst colour for disgusting herself as she attempted to follow her father to work to get in on whatever action may be occurring at the aurors office.
Her mother and sisters tried to explain to her that pink was a proper colour for a young lady like herself, and her father told her that boys would find her much prettier if would stop destroying every pink item put on her. They were met with scoffs, followed by the same situation again, day after day, until they finally surrendered in her teenage years.
Seraphina swore that when she was in charge, the first thing she would do would be to outlaw that awful restricting colour.
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As an adult, Leta quickly found that she wished that the chains tied to her were as simple as a colour. Instead, she often found herself talked over or giving pitying glances whenever she offered her opinion. If one more man tutted and asked her if she didn’t have something more appropriate to be doing, Leta swore she would the hex that followed would put to rest any poorly conceived ideas left of her lady-likeness. If it wasn’t for the fact that people aside, she enjoyed her job, she would’ve already have told everyone there where to go as far as she was concerned.
But because she did like her job, Leta simply bit her lip and nodded when Travers told her that she would be required to accompany him to an important international conference. It took a lot more effort when he gave her a slightly critical eye and told her to wear something appropriate and more…appealing.
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Seraphina found these conferences tedious, but like many things in the political world, a necessary evil. In her rise into power, she had quickly learnt the art of smiling and nodding while silently thinking that the person in front of her really ought to pursue a new career. Of course, that didn’t keep the bite from her tone when an innocent remark was made in surprise over her station or how far she had come. Seraphina had fought far too long to allow even a shadow of disrespect at the foot of her long list of achievements.
It is in the middle of one of these drawn out conversations when her eye is caught. A woman sits in the shadow of the insufferable British representative, and Seraphina is incapable of keeping her eyes from roaming. The way the woman’s lips are set, the quiet anger burning behind dark eyes and a set mask; Seraphina knows that expression only too well. Sympathy and a sense of kinship is what fuels her first approach.
It is not however, what keeps her interest.
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Of all the things she had expected, Leta had to expect that this was not it. A warning glance from her employer had been the only warning she had received before being introduced a woman of high-standing, the president of MACUSA no less. Leta remains polite, disengaged, unsure of what this woman wants. It is harder to try and stay distant when a warm hand takes her own in a handshake and warm soft skin leaves her silently sighing in awe.
She doesn’t hesitate to raise her gaze, to meet the other woman’s intensity challengingly. Leta can’t lie and says she’s not pleased when it draws an amused smirk from the other. She also should’ve known that this woman – Sera, she insists- is not the type to let another get the upper hand. When painted lips press against the back of her hand, she knows her face is flushed as she continues to gaze into the eyes of this enigma.
It is at this point that Leta feels a fluttering in her chest and stomach and knows that she is doomed.
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Seraphina never liked pink. That is until she saw the colour spread across Leta’s cheeks and nose, until the first time she saw her lips part in a pleased sigh.
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Leta never liked pink. That is until she traced pink flush down Seraphina’s body, until she kissed her and tasted it on her lips.
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Years later, they would be married in spring. Flowers would be in bloom, bundles of pinks and whites scattered across trellising and tables sparingly. And when the brides saw each other standing in those familiarly coloured dresses, they both realized that until the day that they died, their favourite colour would remain pink.