Work Text:
Marcille likes to watch Falin eat. She likes to watch her fingers twist around her spoon, likes to watch her cheeks puff with each chew. Sometimes gravy will smear across her cheek, and Marcille would lean over and wipe it off with her finger. Falin would smile, her eyes pinched shut and her cheeks a warm red, and when Marcille smiles back, nervously putting the thumb in her mouth, Falin would laugh.
Falin read a poem a few days ago about pomegranates, how the seeds tethered a girl to Hell with a man who’d plucked her from Earth, planting her there in his eternal damnation… She’s quite fond of it, something Marcille doesn’t really understand but supports nonetheless. She’s just as curious as her brother whenever food is involved, though it’s more becoming when it’s Falin. In fact, almost everything Falin does is becoming. Marcille has never been picky with her.
They went to the market earlier to find some fresh pomegranates, the air heavy with cooked meat and general chatter. Falin was amazed by their color--a tantalizing red tinted with those shadows from Hell--running her hand over the fruit with delicate rapture. She hand-picked four, placing them sweetly in her wicker basket. Marcille asks her what she plans to do with them and Falin shrugs.
“I might ask the kitchen staff for a few recipes,” she says, a finger to her chin in careful contemplation. “But for now, I just want to see what it tastes like.”
They share a space in the middle tower--it’s got a bedroom, a living area, a kitchen, and a wide balcony overlooking the kingdom. They’ve got a routine going: Marcille unlocks the door, Falin pushes their shoes in the closet with her foot, and Marcille welcomes their old, fluffy cat that always naps on balcony railing. This time, however, Falin wastes no time rushing to the kitchen, pulling out the cutting board, and setting a knife next to the fruit. It’s the plumpest one of the four, and she studies it for a few moments, almost hesitating, before smiling wide and picking up the knife. Marcille takes a seat on the stool next to her, enraptured by the way her hand moves with it. It’s a clean cut, but the juice still sprays across her arm, decorating it with a deep red. She giggles a little, lifting her arm and licking the juice off. She’s got goosebumps.
Marcille leans a little closer, her eyes tracing the inside of the fruit. Seeds slowly spill out of the shell, staining the wood like paint on a canvas or perhaps blood on a white cloth. Either way, they do look quite tasty, though she’s not sure how. People don’t typically praise the seeds of fruit. She wonders why this one in particular is different.
Falin looks a little unsure at first, cautiously holding her hands, wondering how exactly she may go about eating this. Marcille’s just about to grab her a spoon when she finally scoops a few in her hand, the juice pooling in her palm and dripping down her wrist. She tentatively licks them off her hand, her lips glossy and her face inquisitive as she chews and swallows.
“It’s wonderful!” she concludes, scooping more and more into her hand, into her mouth. And Marcille… she can’t help but watch her. Watch how the juice runs down her arms like blood, staining her fingers and chin and lips crimson. She’s got this wild look in her eye that borders on wonder as she digs her hands into the fruit to gather more seeds.
Marcille collects a few in her own hand, lets the juice gather and cling to her palm, before raising her hand to her face and opening her mouth. She accidentally bites her palm a little, but the flavor overrides the sting, sitting on her tongue even after the seeds are gone.
It’s nothing extraordinary. It’s just like any other fruit: a little bit sour and a little bit sweet with a tang to it that lingers. It’s almost like salt in the way that she feels parched, how she can’t help but desire more. She moves to grab some and laughs a little when Falin slaps her hand away. Marcille retaliates by smearing the juice on her cheeks, pressing her fingers to her chin and in her hair and Falin won’t stop giggling and neither would Marcille until suddenly she’s tasting pomegranate again.
And a part of her hopes that the little legend Falin read was true. Because Marcille wouldn’t mind being tethered to this girl--this beautiful, wonderful girl with a pomegranate heart. She’d eat one, one hundred, one thousand crimson-coated seeds if it meant waking up with her arm around her waist every single morning. Heaven or Hell… either would suffice.
(With blood-stained hands and a heart full of love,
I promise myself to you.)
this work is a companion piece to this art done by my wonderful friend jinx. please go check it out!