Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Marina barely believed it, the first time she realized what was happening. “The planet really is tilted…” she muttered to herself, in that small, sweet, wondrous voice that Pearl loved to hear. It put things into perspective, all the tiny things that she took for granted, like the leaves changing on the trees, the frosted tips of the grass in the morning, the shorter days, the shiver that quivered Marina’s whole body.

Marina didn’t have any of that, where she came from. And she muttered her wonder in a language Pearl could understand, just so Pearl could share in her awe.

It doesn’t change, years later, when they curl up together in bed and watch the rain meander down the windows in large rivulets. It’s not cold enough for the fleece blankets, but it’s getting close, and Marina presses her mouth to the shell of Pearl’s ear and mumbles, “the mornings are darker now...” It’s small, sweet, wondrous, and enough to make Pearl shiver.

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The make up almost makes the argument worth it. Almost. Pearl crawls into bed at close to three in the morning, sullen faced and flushed, cute in her frilly pajamas, and Marina doesn’t look up from her laptop. She doesn’t really remember what they were arguing about—a rhythm, she thinks, maybe, a syncopated triplet that Pearl decided to die for. It’s never really about the rhythm; it’s always something else, and Marina thinks that this time it’s Pearl noticing how late Marina comes to bed, now that she’s got this new project to work on, how exhausted she is in the studio and at the piano.

“Gonna sleep,” Pearl mutters—not an apology, but Marina isn’t ready to apologize yet either, so. “Turn off the light.”

Marina does her one better. She closes her laptop and sinks down into the pillows next to her. Pearl watches her, muted, unreadable, but scoots closer when Marina lays a careful hand on her side. “We’re keeping the triplet,” Pearl grumbles, right into Marina’s face.

“Relationships are full of compromises,” Marina hums in return, an acquiescence that makes Pearl squint. “I’ll come to bed by two.”

Not early enough for Pearl’s liking, but Marina doesn’t like the syncopation in this particular song. Pearl scowls and elevates up onto her elbow. “Fine. Can we kiss now?”

Marina chuckles and pulls Pearl down. 

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“This is where we keep our costumes.” Marina throws open the double doors, deep in the basement, to show Acht the large storage room, resplendent with uplighting that Marina wired herself, glass cases, perfectly pressed and steamed costumes stored on dress forms. A reverse chronological account of their lives in mockups and preserved fabrics, all kept in climate-controlled ease, all with enough memories that Pearl can’t help but smile as she steps past the pinned-up mockup of her world tour jacket.

“Some of them we had to buy back,” Marina continues, ghosting her hand over the glass case that’s protecting their Chaos and Order costumes. “They auction them. For charity. It’s in our contract.”

Acht hums, unreadable, chewing through that. “Okay,” they say, followed closely by a string of language that Pearl doesn’t understand. She doesn’t let it get to her, even though she considers herself fluent in Octarian. Well, in reality, she’s more fluent in Marina, with a little Eight thrown in. Apparently neither one of them likes slang.

Still, Marina laughs and shoves Acht fondly, jostling them enough that their overlarge sweater slips off one shoulder.

“Guess I am a bit of a showgirl,” Marina giggles. “You always said I was too dramatic for the army.”

Acht chuckles and moves to the end of the line to get a better look at their first costumes, from back when they were independent and playing clubs and malls—the ones worth both nothing and more than Pearl could ever say. Marina’s arm lands around Pearl’s middle, tentacle wrapping around her shoulders.

“Showgirl?” Pearl asks, feeling the word out. She thinks she’s got the meaning, compound word, similar enough to its Inkling cousin.

“Performer,” Marina explains, “a little derogatory, unnecessary extravagance, someone who’s voice is worth too much. It was a joke.”

Pearl snorts. “If anything, your voice is worth more—”

Marina giggles, high and chiming, and her tentacle curls possessively around Pearl’s ear. “Yours too.”

She always says that, because Pearl’s voice is what brought them together, but it’s Marina’s music that sealed the deal. “We should raise our rates,” Pearl reasons, a conclusion that makes Marina chortle again. “C’mon, before Acht opens a case and sets off the alarm.”

“Ah!” Marina yelps, and rushes off to stop her friend from doing just that.

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“Huh, so they do keep chickens out here,” Pearl says as she watches Marina bend down to see one up close. It bobs its head at her but can’t get closer because of the chicken wire fencing surrounding the coop. “Guess that’s why the eggs are always so good in the morning.”

“Pearlie…” Marina sighs. “You didn’t know?”

“There’s like a million acres, Rina. Cut me some slack.”

“It’s a couple hundred, at most.”

“Oh sorry, there’s like a couple hundred acres, Rina. Happy?”

Despite herself, Marina smiles. “You’ve lived here your whole life, and you didn’t know you had chickens…” she marvels to herself. It’s such a funny thing to think about, considering where she came from, where the extent of her real estate holdings were a small bunk and a hole in the ceiling where she stashed contraband. To have enough room for… eighteen, nineteen, over twenty chickens was a gift in itself, but in Pearl’s life, that’s just a postage stamp compared to the orchards and fields, tennis courts, swimming pools, go-kart track, golf courses, and bowling alleys.

“Yeah, yeah, sheltered little Pearlie, or whatever. Why are we out here again?”

Marina chuckles and gestures at the birds. “You said the splatfest theme was stupid and that you’d never even seen a real chicken before. So. Here you go.” She holds her hand out toward the chickens and almost receives a peck for her trouble. Luckily, she’s got fast reflexes from her time in the military, and she yanks her hand back before the strike can land.

Pearl stares at her for a second, computing, before she snorts and turns on her heel. “Yeah, great, and you almost lost a finger. I’m sticking with team egg. C’mon, I’m hungry.”

Marina rolls her eyes fondly but easily catches up with her long stride.

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And maybe Pearl just really misses Marina now that she’s living in a condo in the city. It doesn’t matter that Pearl spends every other night there because she can’t leave well enough alone; it’s only been two years since she moved out, and another two months since Eight landed in their lives, but, these days, any night that Marina isn’t nearby is one that Pearl considers wasted. She’s just better with Marina there, and the world slows down in a way that it hasn’t before. The hours they spend together sitting up at night feel like years in the best way, spooling out between them in an indulgent slow motion. It only happens after dark though, when they’re stealing a few extra hours to compose or arrange or watch one of Marina’s new favorite movies.

But with Eight, things have changed. They spend more time in the city, meandering between shops while Marina teaches her vocabulary and Pearl tries to pick up Octarian grammar without being too obvious. There’s no more Pearl and Marina time; it’s all Pearl, Marina, and Eight time, which is fine really. It’s not like Marina belongs to her or anything. It’s not like they’re dating, or like Pearl wishes it was her that was making Marina laugh like that, with her head thrown back and her neck all long. Or like she wishes she could just have one night where everything slows down and—

“Eight is going back,” Marina cuts in, as Eight fists all her shopping bags in one hand and turns toward the train, already fluent in the metro system. “Do you want to as well? We have work in the morning—”

“No!” Pearl cries, embarrassing, desperate even, but she doesn’t care. “I, uh, I mean— Don’t’cha wanna go runnin’ around the city just the two of us? Like we used to?”

Marina’s face lights up, and suddenly it really is just the two of them, world narrowed down to Pearl as she looks up at Marina looking down at her, caught in the light of a dim streetlight just turning on. Pearl swears that there’s magic between them, something holy that hasn’t existed before and never will again, once they’re gone, and she knows that it’s at its most potent at night, when all their responsibilities are gone and they’re just Pearl and Marina, smiling at each other expectantly.

“Shall we?” Marina holds a hand out, tentacles curling up to her ears in excitement.

Pearl slaps her hand into Marina’s, laces their fingers together, and leads her into the city.

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“For the record,” Eight says over a lunch of sushi at Marina’s small, two-person table in her kitchen, “I told Pearl about your translator.”

A moment passes, wherein Marina’s eyes slowly widen. She doesn’t respond, so caught up with running through just what that means, how it’ll change Pearl’s opinion of her, even if only slightly, and Eight takes her apprehensive silence as discomfit and plows on.

“You know how we’re helping each other learn Octarian and Inkling, right? Well, she asked for books on Octarian, because…” She pauses to take a breath, and when she speaks again, it’s in a high-pitched facsimile of Pearl’s voice: “Marina read so many books back in the day, Eight. That’s gotta be the best way to learn.”

Marina snorts. Trust Pearlie to gas her up, even three years in the past. It’s charming and makes something warm squish tightly in Marina’s chest. “So you showed her the translator?”

“Well, duh. You only spent a year building it from scratch. I told her, I said, Pearl, listen, there are no Octarian books. And her eyes got super wide, and I said, but Marina spent a year coding a fairly accurate translator for herself. I even told her that it translates grammar with ninety-six percent accuracy.”

Marina resists the urge to cover her face. She’s used to this kind of treatment from Pearl, who takes every opportunity to let everyone know just how amazing she thinks Marina is, but from Eight it’s entirely new and almost embarrassing. This is her straightlaced friend who knew what she used to be, back in the military. She shouldn’t be gushing about a minor accomplishment to Marina’s new… best friend? Partner? Crush? Pearl. Her Pearl.

“What’d she say?” Marina hears her own voice ask, despite all that, because it’s killing her. The translator was one of the things that kept her focused during the first year, when everything was new and exciting and she was making music with Pearl and learning a new language and culture. The translator was simple black and white she could return to at the end of a busy day—coding, grammar, vocabulary, all things that had factual, hard rules. The most ironic part of it was that once she finished coding it, she didn’t need it, because the process of making it had helped her fluency; still, it’s come in handy, now that Eight needs it.

Eight rolls her eyes and scoffs, sending Marina’s heart flipping in her chest. Did Pearl hate it? “She was so impressed she wouldn’t shut up about it. She promised to teach me new curse words, but we never got past the stupid translator and how cool you are!”

Marina covers her laugh with her hand, pleased beyond words.

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Their first kiss gets a little out of hand. It’s both of their faults, really, and Pearl is not going to fall on the sword or anything, but she also knows that she’s not helping matters, nipping at Marina’s lip like that and humming a little groan into her mouth. However, Marina makes it worse by sinking her fingers around the back of Pearl neck and squeezing, a little tight, and running her other hand up along Pearl’s face, palm big enough to cup her whole cheek with her fingertips ghosting around the base of her ear.

Hence the groan, right into Marina’s mouth, when those same fingers slid up and around said ear and under her hair, leaving a trail of white-hot fire in its wake. And this is just the first kiss—well, maybe the third or fourth, but they’re all chained together, and Pearl can’t do math at the best of times, let alone when her groan opens her mouth enough for Marina to get her lip between her teeth for a return bite.

All of Pearl’s air leaves her in a rush and she has to pull away. Marina allows it with a small, unhelpful keen, low in the back of her throat, and Pearl has one lucid thought as her brain is flooded with oxygen—contract, breach, no dating clause—before she hooks her hands in Marina’s shirt and yanks her back in for another kiss.

Marina laughs, sending it thrumming through both of them, and that’s it for any lucidity.

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So maybe Pearl overdid it with Tartar, but it’s not like she had a choice. The fate of the world was on the line, which meant that the fate of her voice would have to take a backseat. At the time, the scream ripped out of her and she felt her throat blister and tear, but she couldn’t do anything about it. It’s only after it’s all over, after Marina’s tackled her to the ground and she can’t get a word past the burning, bleeding pain, squirming there on the ground unable to complain, that she lets some of the fear eek in.

Her voice is her money maker, and, more than anything, it’s her happiness maker. She just got this whole idol thing locked down, just settled into the perfect little routine with Marina and the news and concerts and splatfests, just found meaning in the middle of a directionless life. It can’t be over; her voice can’t be ruined—

Marina doesn’t say anything as Pearl sits there with her legs dangling over the edge of the platform and they fly back to the city, but she watches Pearl with furrowed brows and a thin mouth. It’s only after they’re back in the house, Eight passed out in bed upstairs and Three and Cuttlefish sent off in a car, that Marina sits down across from Pearl in the breakfast nook and slides her a cup of warm honey tea.

“How bad does it hurt?”

Pearl swallows the tea, grimaces, and holds up nine fingers.

Marina frowns and breathes out, small and hesitant. “Okay. We’ll handle it, okay?”

Pearl looks up, struck for a moment, as Marina holds a squirming tentacle in one hand and allows it to wind itself anxiously around her fingers. She sniffs, chest peeling open, because there goes Marina, doing that thing she does where she stands stall behind Pearl and says stuff like we’ll handle it. Together, a partner that Pearl still isn’t used to having. She doesn’t have to do it alone.

The same Marina that had her whole life blown wide open a few days ago, sitting there and giving Pearl something more precious than money.

Pearl leans forward and grabs her hand so she can lace their fingers together. Marina looks up, smile as wide as the sunrise over the city.

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Marina is just eighteen the first time she asks. They’re out on the mountain, having a picnic like they do every first Saturday of the month. Pearl calls it a change of scenery to keep them fresh, but Marina likes to think that she wants alone time just as much as Marina does. They can only really find it up here.

The spot they chose this time is a narrow grouping of trees, ground dappled by sunlight through the leaves, and it opens up to a beautiful lookout at the city. The perfect spot to have a wedding, Marina thinks, unbidden, and she doesn’t know where the thought came from, but that’s the thing about thoughts. They come and go and she gets to decide what to do with them.

This time, her mouth decides for her: “Have you thought about getting married?”

“Huh?”

She should be embarrassed, but her curiosity is winning out. “I was thinking this would be the perfect spot.”

Pearl snorts and lays back with her hands laced behind her head. “Suppose not. Guy like me? She’s not made for marriage. Too much baggage.”

It’s Marina’s turn to snort and she crawls toward her so that she can look down into her face. “What baggage? Oh no, you like mayo in your ramen.”

Pearl grins up her, suave and teasing, which really isn’t fair because Marina’s small kitten crush has been growing claws and shredding her insides into pieces. Not that Pearl knows—and Marina wants to keep it that way. “Y’know me,” Pearl mutters, closing her eyes again, “spoiled little rich girl, maladjusted, leaving a trail of broken hearts in my wake.”

“You were just lonely, Pearlie. Not maladjusted. I think your mom would be offended if I told her you said that.”

Pearl’s grin rolls out even wider. “Fine, fine.” She props herself up on her elbows. “Real answer? I guess it’d take someone real special for me to start thinking about crap like marriage. Until then, I’m a free agent.”

And then, seven years pass, and Marina asks again when she’s twenty-five, in the same spot, in that passage of trees, different picnic blanket, with Pearl pressing stray kisses into her throat: “Have you thought about getting married?”

Pearl laughs, buzzing it against Marina’s skin.