Chapter Text
Dove Perrault knows Sorrow by name.
It slips through her veins. Crouches in her muscles. Noses at the nape of her neck–
The day that Dove dies, it calls to her.
Seven wishes. Seven ways a heart can break–
How could she have known?
One for Sorrow.
Dove is bright for eleven.
Her and her twin– but where she meets the world, Drew retreats. It worsens after the divorce. Their father vanishes into silence. Drew grows quiet too– but he fills endless pages with words.
Traces of that detonation cling. The screaming and the tears. French and Australian-tinged English cresting and tangling. Incoherence behind slammed doors. Dove misses the scent of lavender. Misses burying her head in their mother’s absent-minded shoulder.
She even misses getting shrugged off: “Tch–” “–too heavy–” “–gerroff.”
Misses it like breathing freely.
They grow older. Fables bind Drew in thorn and ash. He mouths them, eyes narrowed. Unheeding of who is around. Uncaring of how it looks.
It would have come to a head if not for Dove. Here is the near-breakdown: A perfunctory appearance at a company soirée at their father’s behest. The money is brand-new– their grandparents still warm in the ground. The dust from their mother’s departure barely settled.
Their father is making moves to land a network. Who better to trot out than his put-together, pretty twins? A spectacular debut. Out to attend Wickwood in the tenth state ratified– Yes, how do you do, it truly is an honour…
They make a sleek pair in black, stark against polished marble. Dove traces the lines Drew makes. Moody lighting casts him in shadow. Always one step too far away. Resenting the need to socialise. To make nice. Deadset on his damned stories.
Dove fumes. How can we be twins, if we are as night and day? How can I look to you– look at you– and still love?
But how could she not? She knows she will bloody herself rebuilding him. Piece by piece until Drew works again… His misshapen edges reflecting the light. She pulls him into her side. Shielding him from scrutiny. Inviting it onto herself. Wielding their status and her manners until they are free.
All he can do is curl in once home. Tucked into her bed. Tapping wretched rhythms on his knee. Distant because he is fixated on Mum. And Dad. And how stupid the entire thing was. Is.
There is nothing else. No 'here’s bandages for your heels' or 'I’ll fetch you some water' or 'you looked lovely tonight'. Nothing.
Dove’s mouth tightens. She shoves him into the pillows. He goes down without a word. Finally providing an absent-minded shoulder. Letting her tuck in after they change into pyjamas. Already ages away.
She’s alone even when she is two.
He won’t even thank her.
And why should he?
He doesn’t know his own weight.
It’s hell, fighting those tears. “Tell me a story.”
Drew transforms beside her. Swelling with self-importance. Dove pretends that his sleep-rich husk is soothing. That the creatures he’s evoking cannot get to her… that the one spinning the tale will save her. She’d save him. She would. Always.
She convinces herself he would.
Even if it does not ring true.
Even though it may never.
The truth hits ugly and low. Steals her breath.
It’s the barest wish: “Don’t hurt me like this.”
Sorrow closes her eyes and takes her under.
Thump.
Two for Joy.
Wickwood Manor.
They are twelve-years-old. This will be their lives until seventeen, nearly eighteen– excepting for wintering back home in Australia over the ‘summer’ holidays.
Dove is already planning out how to shepherd Drew through. He suffers still. All soft and quaking… Branded by loss and dizzy from the damage life deals him. It had been hard making friends before because he doesn't do reciprocity or eye contact. Would let facts and personal details about others bleed out his ears. Share only his fables. Dove could see it happening then. Can imagine it here-
No, no, no.
She won't let that happen.
They're both new to this boarding school thing. Both new to- getting an education overseas. To only seeing their father in brief snatches. She almost knows more about his secretary than she does him these days. That's not quite true, but it does feel like it sometimes.
He'd squeezed her shoulder that morning, BlackBerry tucked up against his ear. Had told her she was his very best girl for taking care of Drew.
Because she will.
She already knows Drew will leave it to her to figure out his schedule. To set alarms and reminders on his phone… to bully him into studying. Use notecards and colorcoded binders. Write out summaries, ripped from loose-leaf notebooks. She'll have to scout out meals that he will eat… safe places that he can rest in. Ply him with bribes to get him to budge.
To emerge from his inner world, blinking… and dazed…
This school is far cry from the last. That one had had flourescent lights that buzzed and flickered. Linoleum that squeaked beneath their ratty sneakers. They'd gotten placed in separate classrooms more often than not. Both had had to contend with ancient textbooks. The unforgiving sun during recess. Drew had always tucked himself into the far corner of the fence, fingers hooked through hot wire. Staring out as far as he could.
Too preoccupied to take it all in.
Dove is the same.
Too preoccupied. Wickwood calls to her, breaking through for a bare instant. She blinks. Storied halls and unending rumours. Verdant… and lush… and filled to the brim with…
Competition.
She's scouting them out now, eyes narrowed against the morning light. Will she be my rival? What about her? Will that one be my roommate? Or maybe she'll have to room with two others. And what about Drew? Dove fights the urge to dig out the welcome pamphlet again. She sees others clutching theirs like shields.
That won't be her.
Her tummy whines. She tucks her arm across it, annoyed. Thinking back.
They'd had a rushed meal for breakfast, a Continental. Dove had filled up on pastries and yogurt and dreamed of the big fry they'd be getting if they were back home. Meaty mushrooms and bacon. Tomato for acidity. Egg to finish it all off- and she'd wondered what Wickwood had in store.
It better be good. That's what she kept telling herself. It had better be good.
The drive in was filled with wavering radio stations and their father's highstrung chatter. Normally he was collected, but she understood. She'd reached over to tap at the back of his hand as it shifted gears, and he'd flashed a quick smile. A wink: "Turtledove."
She'd gagged for his benefit, and he'd checked for Drew in the rear view: "Andalusian."
At the appearance of his childhood nickname, Drew had shrunk his neck, shoulders brushing his ears. And it was so funny to Dove, that something so steadfast, so regal, so- ancient, could be tied to him. Face-to-face with one of those steeds or mares, and Drew would faint.
The nickname mention must haunt him. Dove is still stuck on her sudden hunger. How sad their dad had looked, driving away. She's not paying attention again, so now it's Drew who is steering her, palm warm on the back of her blazer.
Dove finally catches onto his noises. They assemble into words. He wants to be ‘Andrew’ now. ‘Drew’ is too juvenile. Too short. Too close to me-and-you, four-letter names, we’ll make waves…
Dove is filled with a swell of pleasure. If he’s to disentangle himself, this is the perfect start. She mouths his full name. Turning to look. Her brother is pale and golden and lovely– honey-tinted hair shading to umber. Eyes that glow deep-dark like molasses. Anybody he graces with that soul-stripping stare of his gets pinned.
Anybody but her. Dove lights up and cries: “Andrew Églantier Perrault!”
It is too loud. Everybody turns to stare. Dove goes scarlet– but Andrew laughs.
Dove follows suit. How could she not? It’s a full-throated gasp: “Don’t stop laughing.”
Thu-thump.
Three for Girls.
They're teenagers now.
Dove’s roommate is Lana Lang.
They’ve been rooming together for a year.
Lana is brilliant and incisive and all-knowing. Drawing Dove in with her creativity and her no-pain-without-point, no-holds-barred, ruthless dismantling. Of social mores. Of stuffy rules. Of Dove herself. She can hold her own against anybody.
Dove loves it. And Lana has proven willing to adapt to Andrew. To take her time. To really listen. Another plus in Dove’s book, for–
F-for friendship. Pure and simple.
Lana has bottomless black eyes. They push Dove to be greater. Better. Someone wonderful. They slice her world into inside-the-classroom and out– because without Lana, the whole world would vanish with bare exception to Dr- to Andrew. Lana knows.
One minute until four on the dot every afternoon, and Lana is already closing up shop. Snatching Dove’s wrist and hauling her out of the dorm-the library-the classroom. Taking her around to see the sights– 'fresh air, remember that?' or, 'hey, maybe if we get you out here enough you won’t blind us all with your damn complexion. How are you an Aussie again?…' –and dodging Dove’s retaliatory pinches. Sticking out her pierced tongue.
The piercing is a miniature skull. It matches her earrings and her bellybutton stud– daring, at their age! Not that Dove noticed. But she does notice the rest of Lana's wardrobe. Her manner of walking. Of speaking. Yeah, she's into girls, that much is clear. It becomes totally confirmed when Dove finds the GSA pamphlet. And Lana drives Dove crazy with every smirk. With every indulgent, fond mutter about silly boys…
Silly boys like Thomas Rye. Andrew’s roommate.
Dove lets the digs pass uncontested. If she were more honest, she’d face what Lana is asking. Is it just boys? For Dove trails her to the tends-towards-queer spaces. Like the green room-the art room-and, yeah, the GSA.
Gay-Straight Alliance, tsk.
On her second visit there, Dove takes down all the flags and irons them. Straightens them, too– and as Lana gets busy teasing her for that, Dove suggests they change it to ‘Gender-Sexuality Association’. Lana lights up and immediately submits a petition to rename it. Tells anybody who listens that it was Dove’s idea. Miss Poppy is thrilled. She's in charge of both the middle school and the high school chapters of the GSA.
Dove does not mind. After all, she is straight. Or, that's all she needs to be.
It’s already been decided: her beau will be a well-meaning incompatible man with impeccable tastes and a robust network. They will have a long courtship, and even longer honeymoon. They will own a manor set on the outskirts of some shining city that acts as an international hub. A separate wing for Andrew because of course they will live together forever and ever.
Goes without saying, doesn’t it?…
It does.
Dove must get everything sorted on her end. Accolades and honours, that's her future. A strong player in her own right. No relegation to arm candy, to trophy wife status, to utter nonsense. She throws herself into her and Lana’s class ranking competition. They’ve got half a decade to go, but a headstart never hurt anybody.
Lana is damn pleased.
Their lives dovetail. She owns the corner desk and Lana owns the window and they fit into each other so well it’s astonishing. Part and parcel. She throws her arms around Lana, gives her grace throughout her girl dramas, and falls asleep to Lana’s snores every night.
It’s a lovely friendship.
She could not ask for anything more.
It’s a quiet sigh: “Don’t stop being my friend.”
Thu-thump. Thu-
Four for Boys.
They’re in high school.
Well. In as much as the school differentiates, Dove supposes. There's separate wings and scheduling. The freshmen cluster together across vast swathes of gold-green. Hanging out with any middle-schoolers they're especially bonded to. Taking their electives and dodging the upperclassmen.
Andrew calls them vultures.
They’ve got carrion crows of their own. Bryce Kane with that ravening leer. Spearheading his murder of pretty-boy lackeys. They fixate on Andrew, but Thomas always comes crashing in.
He is the perfect guard dog. The perfect foil to her, too.
They bicker and snipe and war. He refuses to let her barbs land. Giving back just as good as he gets. Dove lets her twin languish in favour of Thomas. This distresses Andrew, she knows. But she needs him to be strong. Resilient.
They grew up with their parents, so bouts of inattention should be old news. It really should.
And, anyway– it is fun goading Thomas. Trading forays. Sharp and sweet. He means none of it cruelly. Or– he does. But not towards them. They're safe– an odd thought. Thomas Rye: a safe landing.
Andrew has caught him kissing trees. Dove thinks that's cute, not weird. So Thomas takes them out past the school boundary. Introduces them to the prettiest, tallest tree there is.
They dub it the Wickwood Tree.
It's a nice escape, especially from…
…Bryce Kane.
Unfortunately, he memorises her schedule. Keeps track of where she goes during her free time. She’s well-protected by Lana and her cohort of motley creatives some places; she is well-protected by Thomas in others. Bruiser by moonlight and pain-in-her-ass during the day.
He refuses to let Bryce Kane get close to any of them.
So Kane gets creative. He corners her after practice. Rugby-for-him-lacrosse-for-her. She’s sweaty, aching, annoyed. She tells him no without flattery or flowery language. He takes it on the chin, genuinely surprised. She points out what a right shit he’s been to her-brother-and-his-roommate. Kane barks out a laugh, shocked at the defence of Thomas of all people.
He’s been crushing hopes ever since he landed two years ago. Too wrapped up in her twin, yeah?
What a weird implication, Dove thinks, annoyed. She points out that breaking a heart has got nothing on breaking a will. And Kane relents, twirling a wisp of her hair around his pointer. He is usually about as easy to shift as the walls surrounding them– but for one shining moment he’s pliable. Easygoing. Almost gentle. So she idly pictures him as her incompatible man.
The thought makes her laugh. It’s a testament to how much goodwill she must have built up, just by virtue of being herself… that he does not take it personally. That he lets it be.
That he asks, just one more time.
Still single. Just how she prefers it.
The near-miss does draw Lana into their orbit. They share mealtimes. Halting quips. Bits of each other's food- and Lana forces Andrew to eat his veggies. Means Thomas takes a huge shining to Lana. And she weathers it. Comes to indulge in his snappy banter. Giving back as good as she gets. Oh!… Something in Dove shifts. She'll ask Lana later, if this could be… a more permanent state.
She'd like that.
She really would.
Lana tells her she enjoys Andrew and she adores Dove and- she pulls a hilarious face- she actually has gone from merely tolerating Thomas to kind of… liking him?… Don't tell anyone, her cred needs to remain intact-
Dove throws her arms around her and scatters kisses all over her temple and cheek. Lana snorts and shoves her off.
She's going to see how it works. The four of them. A co-ed quad. Lana and her. Her and Andrew. Andrew and Thomas. Her and Thomas– Lana and…
Little by little, Lana shifts her schedule so their group can gel. She pulls Chloe Nyugen along on the days Andrew needs a quiet presence. She's in year eight. A literal sunbeam too. Arms all done up with colorful bracelets shouting encouraging mottos. Thomas does his best to get Chloe laughing and engaging-
It solidifies.
Muffled laughter in the library. Lana and Thomas, shoving at each other during impromptu races. Ones that Dove absolutely wins, whenever she deigns to– and she does. Leaving Andrew in the dust for the time it takes to prove herself queen of speed. Circling back around to take his hand and bring him along. Everybody sitting shoulder-to-shoulder a few mealtimes a week, bitching about meatloaf under their breath. Trading fond looks.
It crystalises into a state that carries– strong enough to withstand high school drama. They take it even further: Start floating how they can meet up outside of Wickwood. Chloe and Lana live near enough to each other- they're from the same state. Turns out they've had week-long slumber parties during the holiday breaks before. Thomas has already begun making noises about wanting to visit the twins. Chloe and Lana too.
Everybody wants to see where the rest are from- and Thomas even offers up his parents' studio. He's off-kilter, distressed- and Lana tells him don't sweat it. They'll always have room for him. Also, Skype exists. Say the connection is too laggy for video… well! Picture albums, anybody?…
He relaxes, sending her a lovely smile.
It hits Dove with true weight.
All of them are friends.
She's never had that before. She'd blamed Andrew for it, but she's to blame too. She let her anxiety take the lead, turn her cold and conceited. Choosing to disappear into pure fact rather than face the fact that- everyone has difficulties. Maybe it's due to having tough home lives, or in making friends, or getting along with a heavy schoolwork load.
It took getting their world blown wide open by moneyed assholes to find the good. To cultivate these people.
Dove's breath catches.
Let it withstand graduation and a rough passage across the burning sea.
She wants the five of them forever.
Old and grey, sitting in rockers. Happy.
It’s a murmur: “Don’t drift away from me.”
Thu-thump. Thu-thump.