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“I hadn’t realized that you had let your hair get so long.”
Clorinde, initially, has no response. Talking to Navia is still awkward. She’s still tongue-tied, still bites at her lip, trying to figure out what words even are. She’s better with actions, with showing just how she still wants her, how she’ll pay her penance. Navia has told her that she understands, but it’s a long gap to bridge.
Clorinde is quiet with most, so resolution is harder with words instead of her gun, and with Navia—
Well, even when younger, Clorinde clammed right up around Navia. The distance is still palpable. Everything is hesitant—but a good kind of hesitant, like they’re just trying to figure each other out. It’s a start.
“Clorinde?” Navia’s hands have paused, her fingers caught in the silken strands of her ponytail. She reached out to touch it, curious.
“It isn’t so terrible at this length.”
“I distinctly remember you fantasizing about a chin-length bob in our youth—or, better yet, completely cropped.”
Clorinde swallows. “Yes, well, as a child I didn’t quite understand the value of my appearance.”
Navia’s expression tilts slightly, her mouth curving into a knowing grin. “Oh?”
The unspoken tease there is that Clorinde didn’t care until she wanted to impress someone else—that someone being Navia. But, because Navia can read Clorinde so well, she doesn’t pick at her too much.
“I’m only teasing, Clorinde. You look lovely regardless of the length of your hair.”
That’s—that’s worse. Oh, that’s a thousand times worse, and Clorinde can feel the burn of her cheeks. Navia laughs, tugging her fingers through the ends of her hair, untangling it. A pause. The quiet is comfortable. They’re in Clorinde’s parlor, resting on the couch. Tea cools in cups on the table beside them. Navia is more interested in tactile content than the nice black tea Wriothesley gave Clorinde—
“Clorinde,” says Navia then, cutting through her thoughts. “You have split ends.” She clicks her tongue at this, petting over them. “No conditioner?”
“Navia—”
“You’ve never been the best at caring for yourself. Hair, though—Clorinde, this would take so little effort. Just a little extra attention.”
“It’s not as though I’ve had a reason to…” Clorinde trails off with a sigh. “My work consumes me, Navia. And, frankly, I don’t really care about keeping it well. Function over anything else.”
Navia combs through her hair idly, fingers snagging on another knot. “So let me take care of it for you, then,” she replies.
That makes Clorinde warm. She coughs, tripping up on the thought of it, but oh, that’s sweet. Navia isn’t just trying to repair things, she’s actively participating in it. And she’s right, Clorinde has never been good at keeping herself. There isn’t much of a point. Clean clothes and her hair slicked back, out of the way works well enough. Perfectly functional.
But, but—
Navia’s hands are gentle as she detangles the knots of Clorinde’s ponytail. A tug there, a pull there. Her fingers claw through the strands, coaxing them to separate until smooth. Another click of her tongue as Navia traces over the split, dry ends.
This is nice. Clorinde’s dressed down and spending time with Navia, and gods, this is nice. Her eyes slip closed. She focuses on the pull on her scalp, and the way that Navia sorts through her hair. When was the last time they did something like this? When they were young and barely kissing, just sweet teenagers learning what it was like to come together. Navia had a nice boar bristle brush that worked wonders on Clorinde’s hair.
Clorinde misses it. Those moments, that yank of that brush. The way that Navia would pet over glossy hair, and then giggle when meeting Clorinde’s face.
She looks at Navia then, and Navia, sweet Navia, watches back, smiling. Giggle, her voice rich and full, which has Clorinde falling in love all over again.
Boldly, Clorinde reaches out. Navia’s chin is sharp against Clorinde’s hand. Calluses catch against soft, supple skin. “Navia,” says Clorinde, leaning closer, tilting Navia’s mouth towards hers. “Navia, I…”
The lips brush, a soft butterfly kiss. Navia laughs again, a sweet little chuckle that warms Clorinde’s mouth. Another kiss, another fleeting press of their mouths. And another and another, chaste touches that ground them together.
Fumbling kisses just like their fumbling steps around each other, but things take time, and Clorinde is willing to let nature run its course. Navia laughs against her mouth again. Tells her that she’s over-worried, fingers curling into the ribbon that ties Clorinde’s hair together. It tumbles free, silky and smooth, but beyond that it’s lost; lost to the petting of Navia’s fingers, and her chapped lips pressing against hers.
This, thinks Clorinde, is progress. This, Clorinde wants, and so she takes and takes and takes, Navia’s face warm against her hands.