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The trip to Shanghai is long enough, and she truly shouldn’t delay the plan any longer, but Cerise decides that the extra stop at JFK is worth it. She likes New York. A night there will be a nice palate cleanser before she transitions fully back into work mode. Though, most of Cerise’s life revolves around work; this pit stop, too, (should it go well) is also for work. There’s a saying, she thinks, about loving your job and not working a day in your life, meant to placate the common office worker. She’s never believed in anything more.
Parked outside of baggage claim, she sees the worm of the older brother first, then Audrey, and in 3, 2, 1…
“Ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! You promised we’d be at a private airport.”
There she is.
Audrey ignores her, scrolling on her phone, but Noé bends over, playing the role of concierge to inform her, “Well, actually, it cost extra to move the scheduled flights for tonight around so we could get a spot here.” He winks and adds, “You know how strict they are with flights in New York.”
“Well I wanted to stop at the place with the bowl of chocolates and bubbly soap in the bathroom,” Chloé huffs. Their poor manservant follows behind, arms piled high with bags, the topmost one wobbling precariously back and forth as he struggles to maintain balance. They head for the sliding glass doors to the outside, and Cerise catches Audrey scolding, “You have no right to be making demands after the stunt you pulled today, getting caught and getting the mayor involved…”
Cerise slips out after them into the cool New York air, horns blaring in the distance. A driver in a black suit with a little whiteboard reading Bourgeois stands on the sidewalk next to a limousine, and the blond little gaggle beelines for him as Chloé continues to complain. Cerise has to strain her ears past the whining to hear Noé say “the Carlyle” to the driver.
Chloé stops abruptly, looking between her brother and mother in confusion. “A hotel?”
“Your little campaign in Paris went viral for all the wrong reasons after your akumatization,” Noé informs, “There’s a mob outside our penthouse.”
Chloé’s head rocks back with the force of her moan. “But akumas are practically my brand!”
“Oh believe me,” Audrey groans, “I was told that your behavior would benefit us.” She glares at Noé, who shrugs with an unaffected smile. “But your follower count has done nothing but take a hit. You’re completely worthless.”
The driver holds the door open for her and she slides in, Chloé staring after her, mouth agape. Her hands ball into fists at her sides and she turns on her heel to round the car and get in on the other side, grumbling under her breath. As she goes, she shoulder-checks the butler and the suitcases cascade to the ground. Cerise watches Noé chuckle and get into the car, leaving the butler scrambling to start filling the trunk with the scattered bags himself.
She pulls out her phone and finds a rideshare, putting in a request to go straight to the Carlyle.
Chloé demands her own room separate from the rest of her family, refusing even the concept of a suite. No, Chloé will have a suite, actually, just not one she has to share with her family. That would be ridiculous. Utterly so. Cerise doesn’t even have to do any outlandish stalking to discover this, as Chloé complains so loudly that it draws the attention of everyone in the classy hotel lobby. Five minutes after the Bourgeoises leave, Cerise takes the elevator up to the Central Park Suite and knocks on the door.
“Ugh, already?” Chloé huffs from inside, “Leave my bags at the door!”
“It’s not the bellhop,” Cerise calls.
There’s a pause, then footsteps rapidly pattering forward. The peephole goes dark with an eye looking through, and Chloé sneers, “Who are you?”
“Aw, Chloé…” Cerise tilts her head, “Don’t you recognize an old friend?”
There’s a pause, then the door swings open. Chloé’s mouth hangs agape. “Lila?”
How long has it been since she’s been called that name? “Always a pleasure.”
“What are you doing here!? How did you know I’m here!?”
“Well, I’m actually only stopping in New York for one night, sadly. I’m on my way to Shanghai.”
Chloé squints at her. “Does this look like a layover flight to you?”
Cerise rests a hand on her chest and does her best to project a sense of tragedy felt only in the souls of poets, the grieving, and superheroes. “It’s actually so sad. You see, my mother arranged for me to be flown on helicopter the rest of the way, but right before we took off the pilot’s wife started going into labor. I couldn’t possibly ask him to go such a long way for me and risk missing the birth of his firstborn, so I decided to call off the flight so he could be with her.”
She can practically see Chloé’s eyes glazing over with antipathy. She figured it would be a good idea to place herself in a positive light, but she forgot that Chloé has no concept of good graces with anyone. It’s one of the reasons Cerise likes her.
She quickly adds, blinking fast to summon the tears faster, “But tragically, in my rush to make sure he got on his way to the hospital as fast as possible, I left my luggage in the helicopter and of course, I didn’t have the key, and my phone and wallet’s in there so I have no money or ID and—” She swallows, the closest sensation she can mimic to a tightening throat, “And I have nowhere to stay tonight. I can’t even call my mother and let her know I’m okay...”
Chloé, clearly having met her limit of patience, waves her off. “Go find a women’s shelter or something then.”
Cerise leans close, batting her eyelashes enough to look innocent and get a tear to spill over. “Please, can’t you let me stay with you for just one night? Isn’t that what friends do?”
“Friends!? Ugh, as if!” Chloé turns her nose up. “The last time I let you try and help me, everyone in Paris tried to cancel me and my mother moved me here!”
“I know I’ve done wrong in the past and I want nothing more than to make it up to you, I swear. I’d love to talk it through with you. And regardless, let me just take this opportunity to say I’m so sorry for the hurt you’ve felt I caused you in the past. But please, Chloé, I’m— I’m desperate.” Cerise sniffs and, short of falling to her knees, begs, “I need you.”
That does the trick. Chloé peeks at her out of the corner of her eye, then glances back into the empty hotel room. To Cerise’s surprise, she doesn’t even suggest buying her the cheapest room she can find to throw her a bone. Instead, despite even insisting her own family not share the space with her, she steps aside and rolls her eyes. “Oh whatever. Get in here.”
“Thank you, Chloé, thank you.” Cerise says, hand still on her heart to truly convey the depths of her thankfulness, and steps inside.
It’s spacious and sleek inside, with dark tile, gold walls and olive green furniture overlooking a million dollar skyline. Chloé plops down on a fainting couch with folded arms and a pout.
Cerise takes in the space. “Wow… such a big room… you’re not traveling alone, are you?”
“No. My mother and half of a brother are staying somewhere else.”
“So you have this whole place to yourself?”
“Mmhm,” Chloé hums in a tone that is clearly meant to be nonchalant but cannot help but sound braggadocios.
“You could throw a party in here!” Cerise spreads her arms wide and stands in the middle of the living space, looking directly above to the ringed chandelier and spinning until the interlinked hoops above leave light streaks on her eyelids. “I think I’d feel lonely if I had to stay in here by myself.”
“Well, I like being alone, thank you very much.”
“All the kinder of you to share it then. Where shall I sleep? Is there more than one bedroom?”
“You can stay on the couch.”
Cerise doesn’t put up a fight because she knows that won’t last more than two hours. “Oh, okay.” She looks back to Chloé, who is scrutinizing her through her squint. “What?”
“You look different. Your hair’s shorter.”
She’s forgone the wig tonight. It’s in her suitcase back in her actual hotel. For tonight’s purposes, she’d almost longed for Iolite hair like Kagami’s; she figured Chloé would be most receptive to that. Regardless, she figured the blonde would give off more sisterly vibes, and that wasn’t quite what she was going for. Not this time.
She runs a hand through her hair. “Do you like it?”
“You look like a boy.”
The comment is so blunt it almost offends her, but there are worse things to be than androgynous. “It’s so much easier to maintain like this, though! You should feel how soft it is.”
Chloé does not move to feel how soft it is. Cerise keeps running her fingers through, with both hands, like she cannot get enough of herself, like it is a luxury to have hands that get to caress her own head.
“Yeah, well, I prefer mine like this.” Chloé gives a pointed toss of her hair, ponytail swishing over her shoulder. “I have a brand to maintain, you know.”
“Oh, that reminds me! I heard you were back in Paris to film a movie!” Without waiting for permission, Cerise slides onto the couch next to her, so close their knees bump together. “A partial autobiography, right? I saw your announcement for it on your page but I decided to stop looking because I wanted the final product to be a big surprise.”
Chloé stiffens, either from the proximity or the words. “You follow my page?”
“Ugh, of course! You’re only like, the biggest influencer on ZOO right now! Aren’t you close to two million followers?”
Actually, she’d lost about a hundred thousand since her akumatization today. Cerise has no doubt she’d hunched over her phone on the jet ride over, obsessively refreshing to watch the numbers drop. It seems like a Chloé thing to do.
Chloé’s lips twitch down, but then she lifts her chin proudly. “Yes I am. I never noticed you followed me. You must have a pathetic number of followers if you don’t show up on my radar.”
“Oh, I don’t post. I just lurk, really. But I’m sure you’re much too busy for me and your old Paris flings with all your new friends from New York, right?”
Chloé’s hands curl into fists in her lap. She’s silent. Cerise tilts her head quizzically, deliberately, and runs her fingers through her hair again.
“Um, yeah, obviously,” Chloé says at last.
“I wish I was in town long enough for you to introduce me to some of them.”
“As if I’d want them around you. You’d just embarrass me.”
“I promise I’d be on my best behavior.”
Chloé’s cheeks tint pink. She huffs, “You’re lucky I’m even letting you sit next to me after what you did.”
“As I said before, I am truly sorry things didn’t go according to plan in Paris.” Cerise rests a hand on Chloé’s arm. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”
Chloé tenses up and glances at her. “What?”
“I think your vision for Paris was truly brilliant and you would’ve made a great mayor, but even so… the way they went about removing you from office was so intense. It can’t have been easy to have gone from being in charge of the people to everyone turning on you. The citizens, your classmates, even Ladybug…”
“Ugh, don’t bring her up. What does she know? She hasn’t even caught the holder of the butterfly miraculous even after defeating Hawkmoth. She’s doing a worse job of taking Paris than I did.”
“I totally agree. The hypocrisy is insane… and it doesn’t help that she feels the need to replace her teammates the first time they get into a little squabble.”
Chloé’s hands clench tighter and she sticks her nose in the air. “It’s utterly ridiculous. Vespiri-airhead barely even does anything. When I was Queen Bee, I was proactive. I called Ladybug when something was wrong. I was a great superhero.”
Cerise squeezes her arm. “The best.”
Chloé pauses and looks at her, guarded and definitely with traces of suspicion.
She brings it home with her humility. “And on top of everyone else failing you, I couldn’t even be there for you. I misled you and wasn’t there to help afterwards. That must’ve been so lonely.”
Chloé’s eyes dart aside. “Well—” She doesn’t finish, cutting herself off.
“I’m sorry, Chloé. I feel terrible for hurting you.” Cerise blinks quickly, trying to choke herself up. “Could you ever forgive me?”
Chloé looks at her a long minute, then turns away, almost smacking her in the face with her ponytail. “Whatever.”
That’s as close to forgiveness as it gets with Chloé. When Cerise sees her look back, she runs a hand through her hair as though in relief.
Before she can even ask how she could make it up to her, Chloé snaps, “Your hair cannot be that soft. Cut it out.”
Cerise tilts her head forward and looks up through her eyelashes, abandoning sadness for seduction with the ease of slipping on a new wig. “Feel for yourself.”
Chloé’s manicured hand hovers a minute before resting on Cerise’s head. Nobody’s touched her, really, in a long time, and an involuntary shiver sparks down her spine as Chloé’s fingers move through her hair.
Ultimately, Chloé harrumphs, pulling back. “What-ever. It’s nothing special.”
“Of course not. I mean, yours is so pretty.” Without waiting for permission, Cerise reaches forward and brushes Chloé’s bangs behind her ear, to which Chloé reflexively scrunches up her nose. “I’d imagine those splitting ends are from stress, not your routine.”
“Split ends!?” Chloé gasps, hand flying to her ponytail, thumbing over the tip. There are no split ends. Not that anyone can tell the difference, really.
“I never get those anymore since I perfected my routine. If you’d like, I could show you!” Cerise stands as though it’s already decided, figuring actual motion will push Chloé over the edge instead of waiting for a decision that may or may not come. ”Yours are so small I bet we could repair them tonight, even.” Cerise is fairly sure that’s not how split-ends work, but it’s not like Chloé knows better.
Chloé does hike up a suspicious eyebrow, however, to ask, “I thought you don’t have any of your stuff with you.”
“Oh, I don’t. But doesn’t this hotel have like, everything as a part of room service? I could make you the hair mask I do super fast. We want you to look perfect for the big screen, don’t we?”
The movie is clearly still an open wound, but to admit to its pause in production would be an admission of her own failure. Chloé hesitates, leaned forward on the couch like she’s primed to spring up and shove Cerise out of the room altogether. But then Cerise tilts her head, and either the promise of perfect hair or her own cowardice makes Chloé groan and stand, shoving past her towards the wired phone. She tosses a notepad and pen left on the countertop by the hotel towards her as she punches in the number to the desk. “Just make it quick.”
Cerise suppresses the excitement that bubbles in her chest and writes down the ingredients she Googled on the car ride over.
She implores Chloé to get her standard conditioner from her luggage and squirts some into a small bowl over the breakfast bar. When she adds the olive oil, Chloé grimaces.
“Trust me, it makes your hair so shiny people are gonna go blind looking at you.”
“If this makes all my hair fall out I swear I’ll have my eighteen Jean-Regises beat you to a pulp.”
“And you’d be well within your right.” Cerise dumps in a spoonful of coconut oil, then opens the dainty glass jar and pulls out the honey dipper, drizzling a generous dollop into the bowl. She swipes a blob of honey from the wand with the tip of her finger and licks it off, the overwhelming sugariness practically making her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. “I love honey, don’t you?”
Chloé rolls her eyes. “Are you done?”
“Almost.” She sets all the various jars and bottles aside and stirs the concoction with a small spoon. “Why don’t you get changed?”
“Changed?”
“Well, you’re gonna need to wash it off. I was thinking a bath. I’d help you.”
Chloé’s face screws up. “Bath? Ew, I am not getting naked in front of you.”
“Of course not. I figured you’d have a swimsuit.” The mixture starts to turn a light yellow, and if not for the very inedible conditioner, it could almost pass as a syrup for dessert. “I’m sorry, I just figured you could use something to unwind after your exhausting day of filming.” When Chloé doesn’t respond, she pushes harder: “How did it go, by the way? There’s no way you finished all the filming in one day. When do you go back?”
Chloé continues to stay quiet. Cerise looks up to see her cheeks flushed and puffed out.
“Chloé?” She prompts.
“There is no movie yet,” Chloé snaps at last, “The mayor kicked me out of the filming space and I decided to leave. I’m too good for Paris anyway so I’ve decided we’ll film here instead.”
“Oh no! Why would she do such a thing?”
Chloé purses her lips. “Something or other with the contract. I was going to turn that sorry school into a place fitting for the silver screen and she wanted nothing to do with it.”
“What a creep. Maybe she should focus on the city’s overcrowding and public sanitation before she harps on a single school she used to teach at. Honestly, if you’re the mayor and you peaked in your career as a high school teacher, I can’t possibly imagine that would mean great things for your approval rating.”
“Right!? It’s like she waited until I did one little thing wrong before sending the cavalry on me!”
Finally. “What did you do wrong?”
Chloé stiffens, but after a moment’s deliberation, lifts her head with pride and says, “I got akumatized.”
Cerise gasps with as much authenticity as she can muster. “Seriously? Why? What went wrong?”
“Everyone underestimated me is what went wrong.” She gives a nonchalant shrug, as if her negative emotions weren’t some of the most potent Cerise has ever felt, “So I decided to show them something they should really fear.”
Somewhere in her heart, Cerise does pity the girl. She herself has always viewed evil as a tool, when used productively. But to lash out against the world constantly, blindly, sounds exhausting.
It must come across on her face, because Chloé looks to her and growls, “What!? What’s with that look!?”
Cerise stands decisively, picking up the bowl and, like before, moves before Chloé can give input. “We’re getting you that bath,” She says decisively, “As someone who was akumatized myself, I know how exhausting it is. I think a little relaxation is just what you need.”
“But—“
“I’ll get it ready. Go change.” And with that, she heads through the master bedroom and into the bath. As she turns the water on, she hears the sound of a suitcase unzipping outside.
The hotel is luxurious enough to be stocked with some more expensive bath supplies. As Cerise pours in a spoonful of bath salts, Chloé enters the bathroom in her swimsuit. It’s a two piece with a halter top and high waisted bottoms, covered in warm yellow and dark brown alternating stripes. On brand even to the end. It’s cute on her.
Cerise has taken the initiative to take the two complimentary bathrobes from the closet, one hung and ready for when Chloé’s finished, and the other on her own body. Chloé has her arms folded over herself, apparently self-conscious or at the very least defensive. As she shuffles past and towards the tub, Cerise asks, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” and taps her own head.
Chloé hesitates, then reaches up and pulls out her hair tie. Her hair falls down to her mid-back in a wave before ending in little ringlets. It honestly is beautiful hair; if her personality were even slightly different, she’d have the perfect look for Hollywood. Though, given the little Cerise knows about Hollywood, maybe she has the perfect personality after all.
As she steps into the bathtub, Cerise pulls up the poof that goes with the nearby vanity to sit beside it. “You look good with your hair down! You should wear it like that more often!”
“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Chloé sighs as she sinks down in the hot water, shoulders slumping. She lays down a moment to wet her hair before sitting back up and reluctantly scooting back so Cerise can apply the mask.
She gathers the formula in her hands, rubbing them together before taking sections of Chloé’s hair and gliding her hands from scalp to ends, evenly applying it bit by bit. “So… when do you think you’ll start filming for real?” She asks, soft.
“I don’t know. We were all set for Paris so now mother says we have to adjust everything. Probably sometime next month.”
She thumbs over the ends of Chloé’s hair, smoothing out the curls at the end with her thumb until they lay flat. “That sounds really frustrating.”
“It sucks, but it’s like, whatever. Scheduling isn’t that hard because I’m homeschooled.”
Cerise did not know this. It suddenly explains a lot. “You’re homeschooled?”
“Yeah, and thank goodness for that. No more dealing with stupid little baker girls and nonsense teachers and annoying classmates.”
Cerise lets her sit with that a moment before saying, “If it were me, I think I’d get lonely.”
“You weren’t even in school half the time. You were always traveling.”
“Well, yes, but… it was nice to know I always had people to come back to that would care for me.”
“You lied to them constantly.”
“I did what I had to. Just like you did.” Her hands graze up and she lets her nails glide over Chloé’s scalp on her next pass. Chloé shivers. “… I’m glad you got out of Paris, though. If today was anything to go by, it sounds like that place really wasn’t good for you.”
“Well, I was worse for it,” Chloé says, the pride in her voice undermining all the self awareness those words require.
“Still… living in an environment filled with so much negativity sounds really draining.” Cerise covers the last bit of Chloé’s hair, fingers grazing down over her nape and settling on her bare shoulders, which stiffen under her palms. “Has New York been better?”
“Much,” Chloé says icily.
“How did you meet your new friends then if not through school? I feel like I always have a hard time getting close to people without an in like that.”
“With my family’s connections it was easy,” Chloé says, barbed, and Cerise gets the hint to back off. It’s a delicate push with Chloé, like playing a particularly finicky instrument.
Instead, she sinks the pads of her thumbs into Chloé’s back on either side of her neck and rubs small circles. She feels Chloé gradually slump, as though against her own will. “It must be nice to have a chance to get close to your mother after spending so much time living with your father, too.”
Chloé’s head dips slightly. Cerise presses her palms between her shoulder blades and it dips further.
“I always miss my mom when I’m away for too long,” Cerise adds, which isn’t even a total lie.
“She’s busy a lot,” Is what Chloé says.
“So then… what do you do during the day if she’s not around?”
“School.”
“And what’s that like?”
“You ask so many questions,” Chloé huffs, which is surprisingly observant for her.
“I’m just curious about you. Your life is so unique… I mean, I could talk about myself if you want but it’s boring, honestly. I wish my life looked like yours.”
She’s fairly sure it is only the fact that Chloé loves to talk about herself that makes her agreeable. “It is pretty great,” She agrees, “My life, that is. School is boring.”
“My mother,” Cerise says, “always helps me with my homework whenever I have to be away from school. I know a lot of parents do homeschooling because they like to teach their kids themselves. And I mean, obviously I’m not homeschooled, but I really do enjoy spending that time with her when I can. Sometimes I feel like I learn better when it’s with her.”
If it’s laying it on thick, Chloé doesn’t see it as such. “Well, mine’s busy being one of the most famous fashion designers in the world, so, yeah no.”
“Mine always makes it fun, though. Like, on days where I’m really behind, she’ll sit with me and help me through it and then we get ice cream.”
She hears Chloé swallow.
Pausing her massage, she rests her hands firmly on Chloé’s shoulders to say, “After how your father treated you before you left, I’m really, honestly glad you’re with your mother. It must be a lot better. I mean, last I heard, Mr. Bourgeois was asking Zoé to help be the camerawoman on his low-budget films, and she’s not even his daughter. Meanwhile, your mother flies you to Paris and rents out a school for you so you can be the star.” Her thumbnails swipe up the sides of Chloé’s neck. “As you should be. Sounds like an upgrade to me.”
Chloé doesn’t reply for a minute. She draws her knees up to her chest in the water. At last she says, flat, “Totally an upgrade.”
Cerise observes the sharp way she’s holding her shoulders up, the curl of her back, and her firm refusal to turn her head, and decides to release pressure. Ebb and flow. Gabriel always went full speed ahead, expecting every Akuma, every desperate final plan to be the final he would ever need. He never could appreciate the art of slow movement and great progress among smaller steps. It’s why, even without grief to fuel her, she’s come so much further than he ever did.
“I think that’s been long enough for the mask to soak in,” She chirps, lightening up, “Why don’t you lie back so we can wash it off?”
After a beat, Chloé does, sinking down in the tub until her hair flows and balloons out around her head. Her face, however, is tight with a genuine distress that is rare to see on her in lieu of her usual tantrums; the first tear tracks stain her cheeks and her eyes well with more to come, and she stares up at Cerise with something close to unbearable desperation born from true loneliness— Ophelia in the water.
Frankly, Cerise thought it would be harder than this.
She reaches down and cups Chloé’s cheek, stroking away the next tear that falls. Chloé’s eyes flutter and she turns her head into her hand. “Oh Chloé,” Cerise says, soft, and nothing more.
Cerise is not banished to sleep on the couch as was originally threatened. Chloé doesn’t make an effort to close the bedroom curtains, keeping it open to reveal the New York skyline that fills the room with manmade starlight. In fact, Chloé has seemingly made no effort to settle into the private suite at all, save for the swimsuit now hanging to dry in the shower and the suitcase open on the floor.
Her wet hair clings to the pillow, covers pulled up to her neck. Without the makeup, she looks even younger as she stares at Cerise in poorly masked exhaustion. Cerise slips under the covers beside her, her back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and sinks into the luxurious mattress. Her hand coasts over the fitted sheet until it bumps into Chloé’s, and she takes her hand. Chloé’s sits limp in hers, like it cant bear the concession of receiving comfort but can’t stand the effort of pulling away.
For a minute they stare at each other in silence and darkness. Chloé’s reddened eyes are much less noticeable in the dark.
Finally, Cerise squeezes her hand. She keeps her voice at a whisper, despite the fact that nobody could possibly overhear them, as though the words are sacred and for Chloé alone. She supposes they are. “I know what it’s like to feel like the world is against you. I know how exhausting it is to go to that school day after day when it feels like nobody wants you there. And I know what it’s like to deal with Marinette—”
At the mention of the girl’s name, Chloé’s nostrils flare and she instantly pulls away, turning on her opposite side so Cerise can only see her back. Cerise sees it as an opportunity rather than rejection and slides past the bed’s equator onto her side, wrapping an arm around her middle and resting her forehead to the back of Chloé’s neck like she can speak into her very soul. Under her arm, Chloé starts shaking slightly, probably on the verge of more tears, but again makes no effort to separate.
“I know what it’s like to deal with Marinette,” She starts again, “who gets everything she wants, and who everyone loves, and who could never, ever understand what our lives look like.”
The callout would be bizarre to an outsider, if Cerise didn’t have good reason to suspect that Chloé’s feelings towards the girl are a bit more complex than singular hate.
“She acted like nothing I did mattered. She laughed at me,” Chloé croaks out, which is an insane thing to be humiliated about when ‘what she did’ was make that girl’s life a living hell. But it does make sense as a point of embarrassment if born from infatuation.
Cerise strokes her fingers over her ribs, lips brushing over wet hair, picking up the faintest traces of coconut and honey. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry that happened. I would never laugh at you.”
Chloé’s chest deflates under her arm. Her leg shifts back and brushes against Cerise’s ankle.
“I want you to know,” Cerise continues, “that I would never abandon you. If you ever need someone to listen, or a shoulder to cry on, I’ll always be here. I would drop anything to help. I feel terrible for not coming to you sooner now that I know just how much you’ve been suffering…” She plucks a wet strand away and tucks it carefully behind Chloé’s ear. “I’m your friend, Chloé. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re a jerk,” Chloé huffs, choked, “You lie to everyone. You’re probably lying to me.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. But think about it…” Her lips brush against the shell of Chloé’s ear, “when it was us in Paris, it was me in your earpiece. Nobody else’s. It’s because you’re special Chloé. You’re irreplaceable to me.”
And she really is.
Finally, Chloé’s arms circle over hers, fingers resting hesitant over the back of her hand. Her shoulders tremble and she goes well and truly silent.
“I promise I will always be here for you, even if nobody else will. Okay? Like a true friend.”
A car blares its horn outside. Chloé’s skin, between layers of soft robes, is warm and soft. Finally, she nods.
“True friends are always there for each other, right?” Cerise presses.
Chloé nods again, far more confidently and quickly.
Excellent.
“Then, if it’s not too much trouble— because you’re such a dear friend to me…” Cerise says, breath over wet neck, “There’s a favor I need to ask.”