Work Text:
The gold is too heavy for my pockets, so Eileen makes a nest of it in her dress. She stands in the center of her bedroom, the air thick with the scent of vanilla frosting and the oppressive heat of a summer afternoon. She is a whirlwind of pink tulle and manic energy, her chest heaving with a frantic, rhythmic desperation. Her small hands tremble as she clutches a string of stolen pearls, the cold calcium of the beads pressing hard against her palms. This is not for her. Nothing is ever just for her.
Every thrum of her heart beats out a single name: Victowia.
The obsession is a physical weight, a raw ache in the pit of her stomach that feels like a hunger no cake can satisfy. She imagines Victoria’s face—that poised, aristocratic mask—and feels a surge of heat travel upward, a visceral prickle that moves cranial, settling as a feverish flush across her cheeks. To Eileen, Victoria is not just a peer; she is a sun, and Eileen is merely a satellite orbiting a gravity she cannot escape.
She moves to the mirror, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She presses the stolen jewelry against her skin, imagining the moment of offering. She wants to see Victoria’s eyes widen, to feel the static electricity of their proximity. The desire is a tactile thing, a sharp edge that cuts through the childishness of her speech.
She doesn't just want a friend; she wants to be consumed by the other girl's brilliance. Eileen clutches the pearls so tightly they bruise her fingertips, the heat of her skin clashing with the frozen sterility of the jewelry. She is shaking now, a vibration of pure, unadulterated longing that makes her knees weak. She will give it all away—every shimmering, stolen piece—just to feel Victoria look at her and see something other than a nuisance.