Chapter Text
Marisol sits on the living room sofa, textbooks and papers thrown around her haphazardly as she races through an assignment. It’s a rainy Thursday night, water droplets beating the window across from her incessantly. She’s the only one home so far, an odd occurrence, to say the least. Violet almost always beats her home, her last class of the day wrapping up nearly two hours before Marisol’s own.
Marisol seems oblivious to this fact, though, her attention fully on a paper that isn’t due until the Friday after next. She flicks through a textbook, searching for a definition she needs before giving up and grabbing another to search, huffing as she does.
The front door flies open, a drenched Violet stepping inside with a scowl aimed at the back of Marisol’s head. Her socks squelch in her ankle boots, her jacket drips water on the floor, and strands of her dark, wet hair are plastered to her face. Her very, very angry face.
“Hey, vida,” Marisol greets without looking, still scanning for that damned definition.
Violet's answer is cold, as chilly as the dark Portsmouth night outside the living room window: “No.”
Marisol’s brow furrows at the answer, but her eyes stay trained on the pages in her lap, “Huh?”
Violet doesn’t respond, her soaked boots stomping into the bedroom, leaving a trail of footprints behind. Marisol shrugs it off, however. Violet would clean it up, she’s more neurotic about mess than Marisol herself.
The flat’s relatively quiet for a while, Marisol finding her definition and getting through a few paragraphs without having to scavenge more. She’s not too bothered over whatever’s going on with Violet, even if the interaction was far from normal. It’ll blow over, whatever it was, it always does.
Violet stomps in from the bedroom, her boots still firmly laced on her feet. “No shoes in the flat,” Marisol calls in the tone reserved for her older brother or their friends. Alright, now she’s a little bothered. Violet never leaves her shoes on, she’s the whole reason for the rule’s existence.
Marisol finally turns, finding Violet’s back to her now as she walks to the kitchen. She’s still wearing her soaked clothes, her hair tied back now, and has a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She leans down to rummage through a kitchen drawer, clattering noisily as she does.
When she finds whatever she was looking for, she stands, turning in Marisol’s direction but avoiding her eye, and reaches across the counter for her keys, the ones Marisol dropped off when she got home. Violet pockets them, her features remaining contorted as she adjusts the strap on her shoulder.
“What’s the bag for?” Marisol ponders aloud, finally drawing Violet’s gaze, nearly recoiling at the fire held within it.
Violet’s jaw clenches, her entire face tight with anger as she spits her answer, “To carry my stuff.”
Now Marisol’s extremely bothered, and, quite frankly, confused. “Why do you need it? Are you going somewhere? Do you need me to come with?”
“No,” Violet answers again, stiff and harsh. “I’m going. You’re staying.”
“Where are you going?”
Violet’s eyes drop from Marisol’s as she steels herself, gripping the countertop, “Northampton, with my tía.” She clears her throat, forcing her shoulders straighter as she stares down at the counter before her, “Because I need to think about us.” The words are softer than the others, her anger slipping away and only leaving behind hurt. Violet pushes off the counter and walks back to the front door hurriedly.
Marisol’s jaw is on the floor as she watches her rush to leave her behind. Then she scrambles to her feet, running across the room and nearly face-planting in the fuzzy socks she slipped on with her sweats, “What? Why? What the hell’s going on?!” she shouts panickedly, eyes wild as she slides to a stop in front of Violet, blocking the door.
Violet still avoids her eye, crossing her arms and staring at the hardwood under their feet. She digs the toe of one of her boots into the floor, “You forgot about me. Again.” Her voice is soft, hurting, and Marisol’s heart cracks in her chest.
“What are you talking about?” She reaches out warily, taking hold of Violet’s nervously fidgeting hands and squeezing tight. “What do you mean I forgot you?”
“You forgot to pick me up. For the third time, and I had to walk home in the pouring rain,” Violet’s voice is stronger now, more confident in her words. “I called you eight times and texted you a hundred more. I waited for almost an hour at Stella’s, until I gave up because I was so embarrassed.”
Marisol’s staring into space, slowly processing the first sentence that left Violet’s mouth, let alone the last. Then, “Shit!” she whispers, eyes clamping shut. She was supposed to pick Violet up. Violet had a study group that ended at seven, over an hour and a half ago. And of course, she didn’t even have her car because she let Marisol borrow it to get lunch with her mother while hers is in the shop. Shit, shit, shit.
“Vi, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to forget. I just got busy, I swear,” Marisol meets her gaze imploringly, hoping it’s enough to stop whatever’s happening in front of her.
Violet shakes her head, forcing herself to remain resilient, “You always say that. But you still forget. You forgot me a month ago, you forgot me a week before that, and you never do anything I ask because you always forget or get busy. I’m getting sick of it,” she lets out a harsh exhale before attempting to wrangle her composure into place, “What were you even busy with? I was only a few minutes away.”
Marisol glances at the textbooks and laptop still spread out on the sofa, “I’ve been working on a paper all afternoon, I’m so sorry.”
“When’s it due?” Violet asks the question, even as she knows the answer won’t help anything.
Marisol bites her lip, eyes falling from Violet’s and their joined hands dropping, Violet’s limp in her own. “Two weeks…” she whispers, ashamed and guilty.
Violet takes a deep breath, her frustration suddenly boiling inside of her, “Two weeks? You have two weeks for that and not ten minutes for me?” she nearly yells the question, angry and hurt.
“I know, but I didn’t mean to, Vi, I swear,” she’s desperate now. She knows she messed up - again - but this isn’t that big of a deal, right?
Violet finally pulls her hands from Marisol’s grasp, jamming them in her jacket pockets, “I know you didn’t mean to, but sometimes you need to actually mean things for me. You can’t just -” she huffs, a hand slipping from her pocket to rake through her hair, “You can’t just breeze through this relationship! You have to care, you have to remember, you have to try, but you never do!” She steps back from Marisol, adjusting her bag’s strap again and trying to move past her.
Marisol’s hand reaches out on its own accord, gripping the damp sleeve of Violet’s soaked jacket. Her throat feels tight, and she can feel tears prickling behind her eyes, because she knows she does care. She cares about Violet’s work and her passions and her family more than anything.
And she does remember, at least the really important things. She remembers Violet’s smile and to set an alarm for sunrise, and which brand of tea Violet likes best. And she really does try, she always tries her hardest, no matter what. She tries to make dinner when Violet’s tired even though she’s clueless without her, she tries to make Violet laugh whenever she’s down and even when she’s not, she tries to get all of her schoolwork done as soon as possible to leave time for movie nights and the chores Violet hates.
She cares, and she remembers, and she tries, she just sometimes messes up. She can work on that, she can fix those mistakes, she has all her life. This doesn’t have to be the end of everything, or a big deal. It doesn’t have to be anything more than a mistake that Marisol can - that she will fix.
She’ll fix it so she never has to see that anger on Violet’s face, or upset in her voice, or frustration in her stance. She doesn’t like those emotions on Violet; she likes happiness and smiles and laughter on Violet, she even likes blushing and stuttering on Violet.
Violet’s jaw is set, her features tight as she stares down at Marisol’s blank expression, a thousand thoughts flitting through each of their minds. Whatever’s in Marisol’s head, Violet knows she’s done. She’s done with feeling like she’s the only one working for this relationship, she’s done with giving up so much of her life for Marisol and not getting anything in return, she’s done with walking three kilometres in the rain at eight o’clock at night.
She doesn’t want to be done, she doesn’t want to walk out, but she also doesn’t want to keep feeling like this, like she’s not worth it, like school and Marisol’s future are more important than her. She doesn’t like it, she never has, and she can’t put up with it anymore.
“I love you,” Marisol whispers the words before she even realises her lips are moving and her voice is coming out, fragile and raw. Her eyes go wide when she realises what she said, and even wider when she realises she means it, she means it more than anything. She looks up, “I love you. So much. Please… don’t leave. I’ll fix it. I’ll remember. I’ll write it on my hand or something, I swear.”
Violet meets her gaze, dark eyes watery and pleading as she stares into Violet’s. She grips her sleeve tighter, silently urging her words to take hold, Violet’s resolve starting to waver at the hand gripping her and the eyes gazing into her own, the hand slipping in hers crumbling her determination beyond repair. Marisol squeezes her hand, tears starting to well in her eyes.
Violet sighs, dropping the duffel bag from her shoulder to grip it in her free hand, “At least keep your phone on you from now on.” She starts to turn away before pausing, “And next time I walk home in the rain… I’m walking to the train station,” she warns.
“Yeah. Okay... Deal. That’s fair. Yeah... Yeah,” Marisol lets go of her hand and watches Violet walk back into the bedroom, dragging her bag behind her. “Yeah,” Marisol murmurs in disbelief one last time, the last few minutes finally catching up to her.
She turns to the kitchen, stepping up to the oven and flicking on the stovetop. She pulls open the fridge and stares into it, her mind still whirling as she tries to decide on what to cook.
Violet steps out from the bedroom after a few minutes, dressed in a dry hoodie and leggings. She walks up behind Marisol and starts grabbing ingredients over her shoulder, setting them on the counter and pulling out cookware, too.
She drops some tomatoes in a strainer and turns on the sink tap, washing them in silence. She dumps them on a cutting board after drying them briefly, turning around and opening a drawer to pull out a knife. She starts dicing the tomatoes, Marisol finally closing the fridge door and stepping back into the kitchen as she does. “I love you, too.”
Marisol only nods, wary of sending Violet out the door for good this time, even as her eyes stay on the chopping board, her feet stuck to the floor as the knife rhythmically hits the wooden board. Marisol grabs the onions off the opposite counter, peeling them for Violet to cut. They finish cooking, Violet doing most of the work, and eat in relative silence.
Marisol doesn’t return to her paper that night, tidying her textbooks as Violet washes the dishes. They scroll Netflix when they finish their respective tasks, eventually settling on their usual show. They go through the motions the next few days, less words being exchanged between them than normal, but they’re both still there, at least.
The next time Violet needs a ride home, Marisol’s there a half hour early, drumming the steering wheel and smiling wide as Violet slips in the passenger seat. Her sleeve slides down her arm when she turns that too-sharp corner a block from their building, leaving ‘pick up Vi’ visible on her right wrist, written in thick red ink, a filled-in heart dotting the ‘i’.
She forgets Violet once or twice again when she gets too wrapped up in her work, but at the very least, she has her phone on her. At the very least, she gets there eventually. At the very least, Violet doesn’t walk home in the rain again.