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The house is quiet when Clea returns from the city—chill air still clinging to her coat, cheeks flushed from the wind, the faintest ache in her temple from skipping lunch. She’s just set her gloves down on the sideboard and begun unfastening the second button of her coat when she hears a strange, muffled noise from the parlor.
A giggle.
Light, slurred, bubbling. Familiar—and yet, not.
Clea freezes.
That couldn’t be—
Another giggle. Then the distinct clink of glass against wood. And a slow, off-key humming sound that sends a strange shiver down her back.
She moves quickly.
Rounds the corner into the parlor and—
Stops dead.
In the grand living room, Alicia is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hair a little wild, sweater sleeves pushed up like she’d gotten too warm. Her cheeks are flushed pink. She’s swaying side to side, cradling a half-empty crystal glass in both hands like it’s something sacred.
The bottle beside her is open.
Half gone.
Clea’s blood turns to ice.
“Alicia—” she says sharply, and then cuts herself off because Alicia startles so hard she almost spills—and, worse, breaks—the glass. She blinks up at Clea, dazed and dreamy, and offers the widest, sloppiest grin Clea has ever seen on her.
There’s a little pink mustache above her lip. Wine.
“Non…” Clea breathes, striding forward and kneeling down. “No, no, no. What did you drink?”
Alicia fumbles for her slate, takes a few seconds too long to write, then flips it around with great ceremony.
The grape juice was in the glass bottle!
Clea stares.
Her expression flickers. Strains. She lifts the black bottle and reads the label—her father’s wine, from the wine cellar, likely brought up for some occasion weeks ago and forgotten. Definitely not grape juice.
And it’s not just any wine. This is Romanée-Conti, an extremely high quality, extremely exclusive, and extremely expensive wine that Renoir only brings out for ‘special occasions’ due to its scarcity and luxury. More than that, that’s not just any glass she’s drinking out of, that’s Renoir and Aline’s wedding crystal glasses. It’s like Alicia is trying to get beaten with a whip, and if their parents were to emerge from the Canvas right now, Clea is sure they would enact such punishment upon her until she was squealing like a pig.
“My God,” Clea mutters. “You absolute fool.”
Alicia bursts into laughter. It’s hoarse, raspy from her damaged vocal cords.
Clea grabs the glass from her before she can knock it over (and, for forbid, smash it) and sets it firmly on the table. “How much did you drink?”
Alicia shrugs. Grins again. She tries to sign something but her fingers keep fumbling the gestures. She switches back to the slate.
Not sure. It tasted funny but it was so pretty!!
Clea stares at the little chalk hearts drawn next to the sentence.
There’s a moment where she considers simply walking away. Going upstairs. Maybe screaming into a pillow. Letting Alicia sleep it off in her embarrassment.
But then the girl hiccups, sways dangerously, and lets out the tiniest whimper as her head lolls sideways against the table leg.
And something in Clea cracks.
“Oh, Alicia…”
She lifts her sister under the arms and coaxes her to her feet. Alicia giggles again and nestles into Clea’s shoulder like she hasn’t done since she was tiny.
Clea sighs through her nose. Holds her upright. “You’re insufferable when you’re sober,” she mutters. “Now you’re insufferable and idiotic.”
Alicia just hums.
Drunkenly writes on the slate one more time.
Are you mad?
Clea looks at the words. At the eyes blinking up at her—wet with wine and too much softness.
She exhales.
“…No,” she says.
She brushes Alicia’s curls from her face and presses a kiss to her forehead. “But you’re going to have a horrible headache in the morning.”
Alicia snorts.
Clea helps her up the stairs.
They go slowly. Alicia keeps stopping to lean on her, clingy and warm, insisting on silly messages like “you are pretty” and “grape juice betrayal” to communicate her drunken thoughts until Clea’s threatening to throw the whole slate out the window.
But when they reach Alicia’s room and Clea tucks her into bed—gently, without comment—Alicia grabs her wrist.
And won’t let go.
Her eyes are heavy but desperate.
Clea sits down beside her.
Watches her sister fight the pull of sleep just to write one final message, slow and crooked:
Please stay. Just tonight.
Clea doesn't answer aloud.
She simply kicks off her shoes and climbs under the blanket.
And when Alicia falls asleep on her shoulder not five minutes later, Clea stays.
All night.
Alicia wakes to the sound of birds and the feeling of her own heartbeat pounding in her skull like it’s trying to escape.
The light filtering through the curtains is too bright. Her tongue feels like it’s been coated in wool. And her stomach is doing this sickly little slow-roll, like it’s trying to decide whether it’s going to rebel or not.
She groans.
Softly.
Then more loudly when the groan makes her head hurt worse.
She tries to sit up.
Big mistake.
The entire room tips to the left like a sinking ship. Alicia collapses sideways onto the pillow and buries her face in it, mumbling a string of garbled nonsense she doesn't have the strength to write down.
A voice drifts in, chipper and deadly:
“Well, well, well. Look who’s alive.”
Alicia peeks out from the blanket.
Clea is standing in the doorway, fully dressed, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain mug. She looks infuriatingly smug. Infuriatingly awake.
Alicia scowls. Slowly. Carefully. As if even expressions hurt.
Clea crosses the room with a skip in her step.
“Oh no, don’t give me that look,” she says. “You did this to yourself. Grape juice, was it?” She actually snorts. “Who raised you, some vineyard ghosts with a death wish?”
Alicia fumbles for the slate on her nightstand, chalk already clipped to the top. It takes her a moment, but she manages to write:
I hate you.
Clea reads it, grins broadly, and plops down on the edge of the bed. “You loved me last night. You were hugging me like a little octopus and calling me ‘soft.’”
Alicia writes, Lie.
“Not a lie,” Clea says. “You also said I was the most beautiful creature on this earth and tried to draw a crown on my head with chalk. While I was sleeping.”
Alicia lets her face fall back into the pillow with a miserable squeak.
“Ohhh no,” Clea coos. “Don’t hide. This is justice. You kept trying to cheers the dog with a wine glass.”
Alicia makes a low, inhuman noise of protest.
“You serenaded the coat rack.”
Alicia flails the pillow at her weakly.
Clea dodges it, laughing. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop. But. You’ll want to drink this.” She holds out a tall glass of water and a small plate with dry toast.
Alicia stares at it like it might bite her. But she takes it. Sips. Grimaces.
“Good girl,” Clea says, ruffling her hair.
Alicia doesn’t even fight her.
She just sets the glass down and writes, Will I die.
“Only a little,” Clea says sweetly. “You’ll be fine by tomorrow. But if you ever drink something without asking again, I’m going to turn your bones to chalk and use them for notes.”
Alicia writes, Deal.
It isn’t until an hour later, when the silence has settled into a peaceful mist through the manor and Alicia has sipped on a full glass of water, that Alicia confesses.
She writes the words on her slate and leaves it out for Clea to see. She doesn’t show her, doesn’t get her attention so she’ll read it immediately. She simply writes and then puts it down.
Five minutes later, Clea finally sees. And she reads the message.
I knew it wasn’t grape juice.
Clea stares for a long moment.
Then, she simply says, “I see.”
She doesn’t sound angry. Not yet. But her tone is the kind that demands honesty.
After a long moment, Alicia gives a small, jerky nod, as if trying to confirm any thoughts Clea may have about the situation. Her lips press together, eyes filling with tears. She reaches for her slate on the table, but Clea stops her gently, her voice softening.
“Tell me why you did it,” Clea says. “You can try.”
Alicia swallows hard, her throat working. She opens her mouth—and for a moment, nothing comes out but a thin rasp of air. The words scrape and catch against the old damage, a sound more breath than voice.
But she forces it anyway.
A whisper. Cracked and faint but real.
“Hurts,” she croaks.
Clea’s expression changes. The subtle irritation falls away like a mask. She sits back slightly, stunned by the sound of her sister’s voice—raw and fragile but there.
Alicia presses a hand against her chest, trying to combat the pain that flares between her ribs, trembling. Her eyes are glassy with tears. “It…it hurts,” she manages again, quieter. Then she shakes her head, unable to keep going. She grabs her slate and scrawls the rest with shaking hands.
My arms. My throat. My heart.
It never stops hurting.
I just wanted it to stop for just one night.
Her handwriting is jagged, the chalk breaking halfway through the last word. She stares down at it, then hides her face in her hands, shoulders curling inward.
Even still, she mouths, I’m sorry. Over and over and over again.
Clea sits there, watching her. Her jaw tightens.
She could scold her. She wants to scold her, part of her—the part that hates weakness, that has learned to survive by pretending she doesn’t bleed. But another part of her, the quieter one she never lets speak, sees the trembling in Alicia’s hands, the thin scar tissue winding up her neck like ivy, the faint bruise where the glass bottle must have slipped and hit the counter.
So Clea exhales slowly and reaches out, resting a hand on the back of Alicia’s head.
“You’re a fool,” she murmurs, voice low. “But I understand.”
Alicia hiccups softly, her tears wetting her fingers.
Clea shifts onto the couch beside her and pulls her close, guiding her until her head rests against her shoulder. Alicia resists for a second, then melts into the embrace, small and shaking.
They sit like that for a long time. The clock ticks in the corner. The wind rattles faintly at the windowpanes.
“I used to do the same,” Clea says after a while. Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “After the fire, after they went into the Canvas. I used wine, work, sculpting, anything that would keep me from stopping long enough to think.”
Alicia looks up at her, eyes wide and red-rimmed.
Clea gives a faint, humorless smile. “It doesn’t help. Not for long.”
Alicia looks down again. She knows that. She knew it, even last night. But for those few minutes before her head started spinning, she had felt light. She had felt free.
Her chalk trembles as she writes on the slate again.
I just wanted to forget.
“I know,” Clea murmurs. “And that’s what scares me.”
Alicia blinks at her, confused.
Clea looks away, toward the window. “Because I know that feeling too well. And I know what it leads to.”
There’s no accusation in her tone—just exhaustion. The kind that comes from loving someone who keeps hurting themself without meaning to.
She leans forward and takes the empty water glass from Alicia’s hands, setting it aside. Then she presses a cool, folded cloth to her forehead. “You’ll drink some more water, eat something mild, and sleep. I’ll stay here, so don’t even think about sneaking off.”
Alicia manages a small nod.
But when Clea rises to go to the kitchen, Alicia catches her sleeve weakly. Clea pauses, glancing down.
Alicia’s slate wobbles as she writes one last line.
Thank you.
Clea doesn’t respond right away. She just studies the words—chalk smudged, crooked—and then her expression softens in a way that makes Alicia’s chest ache.
She leans down and brushes a stray lock of hair from her sister’s face. “Don’t thank me,” she says quietly. “Just…try to stay, hm?”
Alicia nods again. Her eyes sting, but this time, the tears don’t fall.
“Good,” Clea says. She kisses Alicia’s forehead, gently, feather-light.
When Clea disappears into the kitchen, Alicia presses the damp cloth tighter to her forehead and closes her eyes. Her stomach still twists. Her head still pounds. But for the first time in a long while, she feels like maybe—just maybe—she doesn’t have to carry the pain alone.