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"It smells like spring," Helena's chin turns up to the clouds, brown curls fluttering gently against her cheek. Martha thinks of many mornings spent at Helena's, the same breeze brushing against their arms as they laze in the sun's glow. How many times they've awoken in a familiar embrace, one that leaves Martha wishing for something more defined. Helena tips her chin toward Martha then, and Martha resists the urge to run her fingertips daringly beneath it as Helena speaks again. "The breeze is quite soothing. Thank you."
"Of course," Martha hums, her fingers slipping between Helena's just slightly in the heat. It's a welcome feeling between the two of them, a reminder that the only thing separating them is a thin layer of formality - propriety in its most daring form.
There aren't many things Helena enjoys more than the feeling of Martha's hand in her own, their palms pressed together with only a hint of passion between them. They're still too far removed from each other for their fingers to entwine the way Helena would like them to, Martha's grip not quite firm enough against the back of her hand. It reminds Helena of the first time she'd felt sunflower petals against her own palm - a delicate curiosity, searching for something more.
“Just a few more steps.” Martha’s hands find the small of Helena’s back, guiding her toward a checkered picnic blanket. William and Vera did a good job setting up - the blanket is nestled inside a gap in the myrtle bushes, white and pink petals spread dutifully across throw pillows, between dishes and a pitcher of lemonade. There’s a delicate vase seated in the center of the blanket, a lone sunflower adding a splash of color to the picnic.
It’s not the way Martha would have done it, had she the opportunity - no, it’s much better.
“Here, there are some pillows if you’d like to sit,” Martha says, slipping her fingers from between Helena’s to take her arm instead. With Martha’s assistance she finds cushy velvet, then a coarser fabric at her fingertips, and settles there with her knees nestled against one of many cushions. Martha finds her own seat, attempting to sit delicately so she doesn’t disturb the contents of their picnic. She searches for something to occupy her hands, and her fingers wrap around the handle of the pitcher of lemonade without a second thought.
Helena familiarizes herself with the pillows piled at her side as Martha describes the spread before them. Sandwiches, fruit…even macarons. Helena wonders if Martha made them herself - so many times have they baked together, pastry batter and powdered sugar making a mess of the kitchen and finding its way into their hair, their eyelashes, between their lips. Though neither of them have ever had a natural talent for it, the experience alone is enough.
“Lemonade?” Martha offers, the back of her hand brushing softly against Helena’s. Helena reaches for the drink, wrapping her hands around the cup, and runs her thumbs fondly over the faceted glass at its base. Glasses from her parents’ own cupboards. Many things are familiar to her here - the picnics her parents organized when she was a child come to mind, the same dishware, the same countryside breeze.
“Thank you,” Helena says after a brief silence, holding the glass of lemonade close to her chest as her lips curl into a gentle smile. “We haven't snuck away from lessons like this…it's been a long time."
Martha shifts in her seat as her thoughts swirl, fiddling with one lone myrtle branch that reaches out to her hip. Pink flora comes away at her fingertips, fluttering to her palm and the blanket below. A few star-shaped petals rest against the cotton of her dress, and Martha brushes them away with a gentle swipe as her lips part again, this time with a curious tilt. "Did you miss me? The academy…it was lonely without you."
Helena ducks her head to hide the goofy smile that tugs at her cheeks. She can never quite maintain her composure beside Martha, and this time is no different.
"Of course I did. Nothing is the same without you," Helena sips nervously at her lemonade, working herself up to saying something daring. "Perhaps…we could convince my parents to let me attend next semester."
Martha's shifts in her seat, her arm brushing against Helena's. She links their hands together with a firm grip and squeezes, thumb rubbing gentle circles against the back of Helena's hand. "I would love that, but…do you think we can change their minds?"
Helena nods, resting her head against Martha's shoulder. "I think it's worth a try."
Martha sweeps myrtle petals from the blanket, gathering them in a delicate handful before pressing them gently into Helena's hand. She closes Helena's fingers around the cluster of white and pink, her own palm closing the gap, and holds them both there for a moment as she gathers the bravery required to speak her mind. Martha has never felt so short of courage before; fortunately she has never backed down from a challenge, and she doesn't intend to start now.
"There is nothing I want more than to see you happy; if the academy is your next step, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to help you succeed. I just want to stay by your side."
Helena's chin tips down to their linked hands, and for a painstaking moment she says nothing. Martha's lips part to fill the silence, to apologize, to say anything, but Helena clears her throat and Martha knows better than to interrupt.
"I've written something for you," Helena says in a near whisper, and Martha leans in to hear her more clearly. "I know you're not one much for poetry…I hope you don't mind."
Helena's enthusiasm for her writing has always been infectious, finding inspiration in bird calls and the feeling of sand between her fingers, words uttered by chapped lips, even the gentle silence that hangs between herself and Martha on a daily basis. She's never been the sharing kind, opting instead to keep her writing private. When they were children, it led to foolish arguments and pointless debate; in the end, Helena's privacy remained intact, and Martha hadn't been bitter about it for long. There weren't many things Helena stood firm against - her setting of that boundary had demanded respect then, but now, as she leaves a new avenue open for Martha to take, the answer seems obvious.
"Please," Martha murmurs reverently.
Helena had begun writing poetry as a child, often telling tales of a fantasy world. Martha had starred in many a poem, playing the role of a hero, and though Helena was not the most eloquent back then the message had still been clear - she had admired Martha's strength, her utility and goodwill equally impressive. As they'd grown older Helena's admiration had evolved into something more along the lines of desire; she’s entertained the idea on a few occasions of expressing to Martha her aspiration for something more, but never more than in this moment has she feared rejection.
Perhaps that's why it feels so appropriate to harness the feeling of their fingers slipping past each other. Helena feels bold for only a moment, just long enough to thread her fingers between Martha's, take a deep breath, and find the proper place to begin.
"I don't remember the day we met. It seems to me like one of a thousand pages in a book written before my memory began, our childhoods entwined together like branches of willow."
Helena begins her recitation with a shallow breath and a steady hand. Martha has never been one for poetry, nuance at times wasted on her, but when it comes from Helena's lips she finds herself unable to turn away. They share a moment, fingers squeezed against each other's hands, before Helena continues.
"I do remember the first time you called me by name. Before then we had simply been cut from the same cloth, no need for titles nor formality. We became colleagues in a space meant for classmates, and as we grew, so did my fondness for you.
"If we were to find ourselves lost, I wouldn't soon forget our mornings at the lakeside or our late nights in the greenhouse. You breathe spirit into a life that feels often dull; beside your passion I see nothing more beautiful."
Martha's breath is held captive in her chest, her mind racing as Helena's hand trembles against her palm. So many times she'd longed for Helena's affection, and now it seems to dangle before her, teasing in its honesty. How much clearer can Helena's intention be? Still, to act at risk of ending their friendship…it's quite the hurdle to overcome.
Even worse, to overthink into inaction when the time feels so right would be a sore loss. The fleeting glances between them, gentle touches and teasing thoughts spoken aloud - it had to count for something. It was a worthy risk, but just as Martha found herself prepared to speak, Helena had already begun again.
They were words passed between the two of them before many times, and for much less than this. The first time they'd shared such a sentiment they'd been half-asleep in the window seat of Helena's room, the evening sun casting their shadows on the floor below. Martha had long given up on brushing Helena's hair, opting instead to finger-comb through, and relished in the comfortable silence between them. She'd thought Helena was already asleep, her head resting against Martha's chest, when she spoke.
"I love you, Martha," she'd said firmly, but this time, as her hair rustles in the breeze and myrtle flowers drift between them, Martha finally understands what it means. She's shocked for one neverending moment, Helena's heart on the verge of collapse until Martha finds her voice again.
"I've always wondered if you meant it the same way I did." Martha takes Helena's lemonade and sets them both to the side. She leans forward, her fingers finding Helena's cheek and running slowly across her jaw. She tilts Helena's chin up, kissing first the hollow of her neck before moving to her cheek, then again at the corner of her lips. The sweetest sigh escapes Helena's chest as Martha's hand slides from her jaw to her neck, and Martha hums as their foreheads meet. "I love you too, Helena."
Helena's hand finds Martha's cheek, this canvas familiar to her. Her hands have been here before, her thumb rubbing gentle circles over old scars and little bumps. The pull Helena feels toward Martha has grown stronger somehow, and though there is a quiet fear of that attachment, she wants nothing more than to erase the space between them. She shifts, her nose bumping against Martha's, and they both can't help the quiet laugh that brings them together again.
Martha's voice has always been like a rainstorm, gentle and steady until the need for thunder arises. The comfort found in the sound of a thousand droplets of water on a hundred rooftops could not compare to the fondness that pervades Helena's chest the moment Martha's lips part for her.
They forget about the picnic for more than a few moments, consumed by the urge to understand each other. Their breaths mingle, sweet with the scent of lemonade, until the breeze blows strong and petals of myrtle fall between them once again. Helena finds herself unsatisfied as they pull apart, ducking to press her forehead against Martha's neck. There are so many questions she wants to ask, if only she knew where to start. She settles for something simple.
"Lay here with me?" Helena murmurs against Martha's neck, squeezing their palms together.
Martha hums in contentment, her jaw pressed against Helena's temple, and squeezes back.
"Of course."