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Drunk in the warmth of your embrace, the last thing Hot Pants expected was getting whiplash from the nickname you gave her.
Her head was on your chest then, your fingers carding through her pink hair and massaging her scalp one evening you both had decided to camp in the Arizona desert. The bonfire crackled softly outside the tent, a pleasant backdrop coupled with the rhythm of your heartbeat. She let out a contented sigh, nuzzling further into your chest, your touch. Hot Pants hadn’t felt this safe in years, much less weeks, since the race began.
Just as she was dozing off, you shifted.
Your lips pressed against her temple, a hand leaving her hair to stroke up and down her back. Her own heart fluttered with an overbearing sense of happiness she thought a sinner like her had long lost the privilege to. Slowly, her breath evened out, and then…
“Good night, my lovely Pansy.”
Hot Pants’ eyes snapped open.
A gasp was ripped out of your throat when she straightened up so fast her head almost hit your chin. Those cold hands, previously loose by her side, then came up to grip your shoulders and yank you towards her until your foreheads collided with an audible Thump!
“...?!”
Your eyes went as wide as hers.
“What did you just call me?”
Hot Pants sounded… puzzled, her voice low but clear in the small, confined space. Lighting here wasn’t the best, but through whatever drop of moonlight that slipped through the opening of your tent when the wind billowed, you could faintly make out the hard set of her jaw.
As if she were contemplating whether to be offended or not.
“I—“
Your breath fanned against her cheeks, panic and embarrassment mingling. The year was 1890. America, 1890. Right at the height of the Gilded Age, this country was transforming into an industrial powerhouse. The frontier had closed; the westward expansion reached the Pacific Ocean, and therefore, no unsettled land remained. Two suffrage associations had been formed before merging into one. Coined by the media as the brave yet radical heroine, here you were in the deadly Steel Ball Run race, trying to prove that women were just as capable as men.
Meeting her was a blessing.
In this patriarchal world, you and Hot Pants moved in different ways. While your soft features made the headlines, hers were concealed, even modified, using a mysterious ability you had yet to grasp. An ability that you also seemed to have developed at some point. Nevertheless, violence spared no one on this gruesome journey: so many fights, so much bloodshed. She stayed with you throughout everything, and there wasn’t a single second when you doubted how admirable your companion was.
But then that little nickname slipped out, and you wanted the earth to open right at that moment to swallow you whole.
Did it sound like an insult?
The woman who had spent all her life repressing her own femininity, who carried the burden of both the living and the dead, whose guilt was a crushing yet driving force that brought her to where the most skillful hunter wouldn’t even go with a shotgun.
How would she feel, being alluded to as something weak and delicate?
“I-I mean—“
“…you meant the flower.”
She eased her hold but didn’t pull away. You had to do it yourself, nodding sheepishly and staring down at your lap to avoid the heat of her gaze.
“Why… ‘pansy’?”
It was her soft, curious tone that undid you. You looked up at her through your lashes and wondered if she had ever seen herself as something along the lines of such: gentle, kind, and worthy of love.
“I thought it sounded nice,” you muttered. “I-I’m sorry. I know that was a bit dumb…”
I hadn’t even gotten to know your real name yet.
She was quiet.
“Does it suit me?”
Unexpectedly, her hands returned to your shoulders. Instead of a firm grip, they traveled a slow path down your body. Past the length of your arms, along your ribcage, settling on the curve of your waist. Hot Pants pulled you closer until you were on top of her, straddling her lap.
“Mhm,” a hum was the only thing you could manage. Cheeks flushed, your arms encircled her neck. “The violet ones… they reminded me of your eyes.”
I am thinking of you.
She let out a small, airy laugh. It felt warmer all of a sudden with her nose against yours.
“Say it again.”
"Pansy.”
You tested the nickname again on your tongue, sounding braver.
“Am I,” her voice grew husky, “pretty to you?”
Without hesitation, you nodded.
Of course she is.
“Prettiest girl in the whole wide world…”
Against the skin of your jawline, you felt the impression of a smile. It was cold that night, but when her lips met yours in the darkness shrouded around the tent, you thought to yourself.
There was no better feeling than coming home.