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Bell knows it's not her place to be here.
Claire's sister is here. Claire's parents. Claire's family. Bell does not belong, no matter how much she wishes otherwise. She had only known Claire for a short time.
So Bell will just say hello, show her face, and that will be enough. Because even if Claire told her not to wait, Bell did anyway. And Claire did not ask her to come today, but of course Bell did. It felt important.
"Claire!" She yells, waving from down the road, when everyone else is in the car.
The black-clad figure looks up, and it's unmistakably Claire. Even after years, it's the same hair and the same stance, the casual hand on the car door and the squint against the sun. And although it's much too far to see, Bell swears there is a smile.
Claire closes the car door without getting in, breaks into a run towards Bell. And it feels like a movie, because Bell is running too, alongside the wall of the prison, except they are on the outside this time. The sun is shining, the breeze lifting their hair. They crash into each other, falling into a hug, and they fit together perfectly. Bell's arms wrap tight around Claire, even tighter than Claire's arms around her. And she tells herself to calm down, but she can't make herself stop. The tears come. "Claire," she whimpers.
"Bell," Claire whispers in her ear, and it's not at all like the last time they spoke. There's no pane of glass between them, Claire's voice mediated through the phone sets of the visiting room. Claire's voice is hesitant, a little bit shaky, full of longing, and it cracks just a little bit. Bell shivers, and when Claire reaches up to pat her head, Bell's hair catches on the ring that Claire is wearing.
There's an intake of breath, Bell pushing back to look at Claire's hand. "You lied," she says, but there's no accusation in her tone. Instead Bell holds up her own hand, where the band that Claire had fashioned sits on her finger too.
Then Claire is moving, stepping closer, cupping Bell's face in her hands. Claire leans down until their noses are almost touching, and she whispers her name again. "Bell?" Claire is scared, holding her breath, asking permission, and when Bell gives a slight nod, Claire's eyes close. But Bell's close too, a single tear rolling down her cheek as Claire presses their lips together. It's soft, and gentle, and not at all like Bell imagined it would be. It's far too short, an exhalation chasing Claire's mouth as it pulls away, and the yearning is exactly like Bell imagined. There's a small whine as they separate, and Bell covers her mouth in embarrassment.
Claire smiles though, her eyes brighter than Bell has ever seen. She reaches for Bell's hand. "Let me introduce you."
Bell stumbles, shakes her head. "No. You should go. Go with them. Your family is waiting." She pushes a slip of paper into Claire's hand. "Call me tomorrow when you can." And Bell turns to run away.
"Bell!" It's Claire's turn to call out, but Bell is not looking. Bell's heart is pounding in her chest, the blood is rushing to her head, and she thinks she heard an "I love you" but she isn't sure if that was real or just wishful imagination.
Bell's phone rings at exactly seven o'clock the next morning, at what would have been prison breakfast time, and she answers without any nervousness. "Hello?"
"Bell?"
But just the voice on the other end is enough to make her blink away tears. "Claire." She doesn't want to sound needy, desperate, but the name rushes out of her. "Claire," she repeats.
And Claire sounds just as needy. "Tell me where you are. I'll come see you. I want to see you."
Somehow, that makes it feel right.
Claire shows up an hour later, cat carrier in hand, and another bag slung over her shoulder. She is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, ordinary clothes, and Bell is suddenly self-conscious.
Bell had paced the house for far too long trying to figure out what to wear, deciding what would be appropriate. She didn't want to underdress, and have Claire think that she didn't care. But she didn't want to overdress either, and make Claire feel uncomfortable. So she had tried several different outfits, posing in front of the mirror with each, before ultimately reconsidering. In the end, she's wearing a dress with a light jacket over it, and she thinks maybe it's too much like what Claire saw her in yesterday. But Claire is walking up to the house right now, and Bell hasn't done her makeup yet, and there's only time to run a quick brush through her hair before there's a knock at the door.
And Bell tells herself not to be anxious, that they had seen each other yesterday, and Claire had kissed her. Claire had been wearing the ring again, and that had to mean things could go back to the way they were supposed to be, even if a few years late.
So she opens the door, and this time there is no yelling, no running, no crashing into a fervent hug. There is only Claire, a sheepish smile on her face, placing her bags on the floor and kicking off her shoes to enter. "Good morning," Claire says, "I brought a friend." And Capybara meows in agreement.
They let the cat out so he can explore the unfamiliar surroundings, and so Bell can pet him after all the time apart. When she scratches behind the cat's ears, and Claire does the same, their fingers touch and they stare at each other again. Claire looks ethereal in the morning light, softer than Bell remembers. Her hair is tied back today, and she is wearing eyeliner and blush.
"You clean up pretty nice," Bell says, smiling.
"My sister helped with the makeup." Claire looks away. "I'm out of practice."
Bell brushes the bangs away from Claire's eyes, compels her to return the gaze. "You are beautiful."
Claire laughs, nervous. "Bell—"
And Bell is the one who moves first this time, grabbing Claire's hand and pulling her up towards the couch. Their fingers interlace, the handhold still familiar despite the intervening years, and Bell smiles wider as she feels Claire's ring against her knuckles.
They sit close, side by side, just like they used to in that abandoned bathroom, with Capybara circling their feet, except there are proper windows here, and blessed daylight, and real furniture. Bell leans her head against Claire's shoulder and breathes in a scent that isn't the prison soap for once, or perhaps the evidence of their carnal activities. She hides her face in Claire's neck.
"I told you not to wait for me, Bell."
Bell nods at the words, tilts her head up to see tears rolling down Claire's face, and she kisses the spot on Claire's chin where the tears are collecting. She points outside the window, to the rose bush blooming in the yard. "I planted a garden for you."
And maybe that isn't strictly true. Maybe Bell planted the garden for herself, because tending to the rose bush reminded her of Claire. Maybe watching the flowers bloom let her hope that Claire would come back some day. The same way Bell kept buying that silly white bread in the red plastic packaging. There's a loaf on the coffee table right now, a half-eaten one that Bell has been gnawing on one slice at a time over the last few days knowing that Claire was being released soon. Because it's not even that Bell likes this particular bread, or the squishy texture of its soft interior, it's just that the taste reminds her of love. "Tell me you love me," she whispers.
Claire looks down then, and Claire smiles through her tears. She doesn't say anything at first, just blinks and reaches for her bag on the floor. A notebook is pulled out, a small one that Bell still recognizes from the prison shop, and Claire opens it to show her. It's sketches of Bell, of the two of them together, the lines are rough, shaky in places, the pages smudged with clear liquid that's since dried. When Claire speaks, she doesn't say I love you. Saying that would make it Claire's fault. Saying that would justify Bell's waiting. "I practiced drawing. I read books about it. I tried to copy the ones that you gave me, the ones you drew of us. Mine weren't as good as yours, but it made me feel like you were nearby."
Bell turns the pages of the notebook, past the sketches of hands and roses and bramble rings, the almost comic strips of two girls sitting together with a cat. She pauses at a larger drawing, covering a full two pages of the open notebook, and it's undeniably them, in what can only be wedding dresses, standing under a tent, roses blooming in the background, hands reaching out to each other but lost in that crease between the pages. This drawing is smudged in many places.
Claire sits up straighter, avoiding Bell's eyes as she continues. "I asked for extra egg yolks at every meal, and sometimes they gave them to me, but they never tasted as good as the ones from you. I kept those shoes with your name on them, cried myself to sleep holding onto them, pretending you were still in them. I don't know what I ever did to deserve you, Bell, but please don't think I'm nice just because I didn't kill that man. If Cream hadn't done it then, I would have done it later. That's who I am. That's what I did to that guard who ruined the roses. That's what I did to Kae. You deserve so much better than that. Especially out here. I'm the one who needs you. You don't need me."
Bell sniffles. "That's not true," she protests, reaching under the couch to retrieve her old pair of prison shoes, the ones with Claire's names scrawled across them. "I still have these. I cried myself to sleep too." She holds out her hand to show the ring Claire had given her. "I wear this every day and fix it every time time it starts to fall apart." She rubs at her eyes. "I burned down Top's house."
Claire cackles in that unique way of hers, somewhere between a horse and a bird, and the sound takes Bell right back to those days in jail, when it felt like maybe they could be happy somehow even if only a little. But Claire deflates that just as quickly. "See, you really don't need me anymore."
"I want you though." Bell is undeterred. "I'm here. You don't have to be the strong one all the time."
"I never felt like the strong one. If I were strong enough, I wouldn't even be here."
Bell pulls her into a hug then, and this time Claire breaks. Her body shakes with sobs, her face wet against Bell's neck. "I love you, Bell. I missed you so much."
Bell squeezes even tighter, crushing their bodies together. She can hear Claire's pulse pounding where her ear meets Claire's temple. "I missed you too," Bell echoes.
"I love you." Claire relents.
"I love you." Bell affirms.
"I love you." "I love you." They both repeat.
They say it over and over, a mantra against doubt. Because even though they had held each other under the stars and whispered promises years ago, somehow parts of them both still believe prison promises don't count.
Bell is the one who kisses her this time, paying no heed to the tears streaming down their faces. She pushes hair out of the way, holds Claire's face and covers Claire's mouth with her own. It's wet and messy and loud in the empty house. And although Bell is the one who starts, Claire quickly becomes frantic. Claire kisses back, mumbles something unintelligible into Bell, sucks on Bell's lower lip. Bell lurches, straddles Claire on the couch, shrugs off her jacket.
Her hands are on either side of Claire's neck, trying to pull closer, but Claire stops her with a finger on her chin, pushes just a little so they are looking at each other nose to nose. Their breaths are heavy between them. Claire's tongue pokes out and touches the middle of her upper lip. "If I could go back in time," Claire says, "and make it so that you had never gone to prison, so that you never had to live through that, I would. Even if it means we never meet each other."
Bell nods, solemn. "You know I would do the same for you, right? All I ever wanted was for you to be free."
And maybe Bell is the one who set her free, in a roundabout sort of way. It was Bell that Claire had opened up to, after all. It was Bell that Kae had been spying on, and Bell's arrival that had instigated the whole chain of events. But if Claire could have been free without the pain, without the violence and anger and heartbreak, Bell would have chosen that for her instead. Even if it's not Bell's place to choose.
Love is sacrifice. Love is the willingness to endure, to persist. Love is in the giving, and Claire has always been giving.
So Bell gives something too. The mood has changed, the urgency gone. For the first time, Bell feels like they might actually have the rest of their lives before them. So she asks a question. "Have you eaten breakfast? Let me cook you something."
Claire smiles, eyes light and watery. "I'd like that very much."
And as Bell stands to head for the kitchen, Claire surprises her one more time. Claire takes her own prison loafers out of her bag, and she places them next to Bell's, swapping the left shoes so the two pairs read ClaireBell and BellClaire. "We should have done this before you left, so we'd each have had a pair. Claire and Bell. Bell and Claire. Just like it was meant to be."
Bell smiles back, her heart feeling as though it will burst. And she hopes never to wear those shoes again, but the sight of them warms her—the script written in black marker, the four digits that will forever be burned in her memory. She sees the face looking up at her, and to Bell it's hopeful, angelic. She reaches out to touch a cheek, run her knuckles along it.
"I'll make some eggs," Bell says, "with extra yolks for you."