Work Text:
There are a total of three people who know both where Horla lives and her occupation as Cité’s favourite new poet. The first is her publisher, who mostly communicates by mail for anything that isn’t urgent and phone for anything that is. The second is Mythag’s Keeper, who visits monthly on Saturdays for tea (and, Horla presumes, to check up on her). The third is Daffodil, whose sharp knock currently sounds against the townhouse’s door.
She breezes into the apartment carried by her sweet perfume that causes flowers to bloom in Horla’s imagination and her own confidence that Horla admires but can never hope to emulate. She strands straight-backed, as always, and her arms are full of a rose-and-babybreath bouquet. Her purple lipstick is curved into a soft smile.
Horla excluded, as she hardly goes outside, Awakeners who deal with the human world prefer to appear entirely human lest they attract the attention of the Mist Committee. Usually Daffodil’s dress has a midsection of dull silver colour, formed of the grey roiling that makes up what Horla presumes is her interior. Here, though, around only Horla, she relaxes.
“This is for you,” Daffodil says, and passes over the roses. “I saw it along the walk here and thought your apartment might need some flowers if you’re to be stuck inside all the time.” Horla takes it, her attention still somewhat distracted by the glittering quicksilver that replaces Daffodil’s abdomen. There is empty space as invisible as Horla’s own, and then when flesh resumes it’s a beautiful glittering, the faint hints of faces appearing in the ebb and tide like a forgotten sea.
Those who Daffodil has met, those she hunted or those she liked, all in this sea is mercurial silver that comprises her body. If Horla looks up, she gets first Daffodil’s breasts, which are ample and exaggerated by the corset of her dress and Horla understands it’s terribly rude to stare. Then Daffodil’s face, which is beautiful and looking directly at her, and the eye contact makes Horla flush and look down instinctively.
So, midsection it is for a little bit. The silver has a faint purple sheen, the tint of extradimensional space that Horla herself also knows well. The infinity that is Daffodil, a woman who can take and value and cherish without ever losing herself in the process. Horla, who finds invisibility easiest and who disappears into the feelings of her writing and even the poems of others, envies the ability somewhat.
There are roses in her arms, and she’s been staring at Daffodil the whole time silently after greeting her. “Ah. Thank you. Let me… find a vase for them.”
“Of course, little rose.”
There’s a lilting tease in Daffodil’s voice, amusement in the pet name that makes Horla flush darkly and hope Daffodil doesn’t notice. She really would be a rose. (Now, though, how would one define ‘blooming’?) The flowers themselves are just close to opening, a bouquet that will bloom tomorrow so Horla can enjoy them in the sunlight. She procures a vase of thick glass from her cupboards, fills it, and sets he flowers within.
There is a bit of the practiced handling of bouquets in the way Horla arranges them to assure the flowers have space, movements practiced from back when she was alive. The fondness of childhood love, the sweet burning tang of forgiven betrayal still in the smell of roses for her. Beyond that, hope and idyll. She’s lost in the feeling for a moment as she fluffs the flowers, fingers running over the delicate petals still mostly furled.
The last bit of evening light catches the cuts in the glass vase, casting rainbow reflections to the wall. Some of Daffodil’s mercury catches it and reflects it back into fractals. Daffodil has been watching Horla lost in thought petting the roses.
Good, a gift offered well.
Daffodil does not particularly do gifts. All things must be done with the understanding of equal exchange. Something given, something taken, scales pleasantly balanced. There are rare exceptions (even Keeper does not get to be completely free of expectations and balances owed), but overall Daffodil’s unfamiliarity with gifts makes her uncertain they’ll be done properly.
Horla, at least, is easy. She likes flowers and she likes words, flowering words all the better. (Though, Daffodil is not so confident as to attempt to bring words to a poet with hopes of impressing her. Roses are simple.) The smile she gets when she sees something enjoyable enough that there’s not enough space in her mind for anxiety is reward enough for Daffodil.
Once satisfied with her arrangement of the flowers, Horla turns back to Daffodil with a curious mein, face partially obscured by rose petals and a sprig of baby-breath. “Did you come only to deliver these?” she asks in a voice soft.
“Not quite,” Daffodil replies. Horla is only stopped from having pricked ears by virtue of being mostly human in anatomy. “A new film has come to the matinee in Cité, and the bus would be able to take us there in perfect time for a light dinner and viewing. While I enjoy film plenty on its own, I do find it more satisfying when I’ve company to discuss it with after.”
“I’m hardly a film critic,” Horla protests quietly, glancing down again.
“Nor am I,” Daffodil counters pleasantly. “But you’re a poet and well familiar with emotion, neither of which I am naturally. Your perspective will be no doubt interesting, and it won’t be bad for you to have a night out of the apartment. One must gain inspiration for new works by going outside the home, is that not true? Miss ‘Cité’s most applauded new publication in years’.”
Horla squeaks quietly at the reminder of the newspaper’s praise, flushing again in a way that makes Daffodil chuckle quietly. She’s reminiscent of a flustered mouse; it’s cute. “If you put it that way,” Horla near-whispers, floundering. “Well, if you’re sure it’s my company you’d like,”
“It is.”
“Then, ah, alright.” It confounds Horla that her presence would be wanted for things other than providing thoughts in verse or perhaps a favour of Mythag, but here Daffodil comes, certain of everything she does. Horla fiddles with a stem.
She comes with flowers and a request for dinner and a movie does that… make this a date? Oh, dear, she’s certainly undressed for that. Where are her pages, something she can circle around herself and hide beneath, inked words protecting and expressing her when voiced fail her. But it’s too late to get much lost in her self-consciousness, for Daffodil takes the initiative to take one of Horla’s shawls from a coat rack and whisk it around her shoulders.
(Daffodil steps close to do this, and the heady scent of her namesake perfume comes close to Horla, poet’s ducked head almost pressed to the woman’s chest for a moment. A face in Daffodil’s abdomen blinks out of view as the faux midsection reforms to seem passably human.)
“We should be off soon, then.” The bus does have a schedule. Confidence helps guide Horla from her home, and she isn’t sure if Daffodil takes her hand in order to guide her the steps not often enough taken down to the nearby bus stop or simply because Daffodil feels like it. Maybe it’s not a date and Horla’s just overthinking. Perhaps Daffodil’s clearly pleased mood as her pace forces a bit of spring and confidence into Horla’s step simply to keep up is simply a product of getting anyone’s company for a movie. But there is the chance which Horla turns over in her mind as her fingers tighten just a little bit around Daffodil’s palm.