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Nothing had ever fit so perfectly in her hand. Nothing else could. She had never felt so at home in someone else's arms; and home was the right word for it.
It felt good to be held; so good that she could sleep, even if it was not her natural state. With that perfect, round, petal-soft hand in her own thin one, she felt like she could do anything. Even relax and stop caring about the war and the fight and the asymmetry of life.
Nothing had ever felt so perfect. And nothing ever would again.
She sits in Garnet's arms, interlacing their fingers because Garnet understands how weak Pearl is in this moment.
It is not perfect.
In one hand, she feels the warmth of Ruby; in the other, she feels the calm of Sapphire.
They are symmetry, coming together to form rounds in the palms of their hands. But it -- this hold, the lacking togetherness formed by a gem fused too long and a defective gem -- is not perfect, and she feels emptier because of it.
She clings to Garnet, even if the taller gem's broad darkness made of passion and patience cannot (and should not) block out and shield her from the harsh, imperfect world.
Amethyst's hand is eager and rough, and she is small and always seems so immature.
It is not perfect.
When when the wild, purple gem interlaces their fingers together, it is because Amethyst too is seeking to fill that emptiness left behind after loss. They're both just a little too desperate for something they don't understand.
Her hands hold a little too tightly, and she tugs too hard sometimes. Sometimes, she forces distance, and fingers which are not perfect together unravel.
Both parties separate, bitter because they could not fulfill what they knew they could, and cold because neither are courageous enough to warm the tight silence between them.
She buries her face in Amethyst's hair because Amethyst is braver and her wild spirit can sometimes change the world to give it back some of its proper fight and life. She holds her close because she wants to return some of that old stability to the smaller gem's world in return.
It is not perfect.
Nothing could ever fit so perfectly inside. The puzzle piece is gone; lost to a new form of life that laughed and cried and loved more fiercely that she had ever seen...or perhaps just the same?
And he was not to be her shield, no. She was to be his, precious life that he was.
His hands were sometimes sticky, and his fingers were stubby and chubby and not hers.
But he was him, not her. He was who he was, and it was beautiful. He was full of life and warm mercy and love; so like his mother that it could bring tears untapped back to the unbearable surface.
And Pearl might watch him sleep only to make sure that he returns to her every morning, much unlike his mother did that day. She wanted him to feel like his home was here; she wanted him to sleep peacefully, without fear or anxiety. She wanted him to feel safe. She wanted him to feel...
Loved, was the correct word for it.
No, it was not perfect. Neither was she. They would never be, and she would not be either.
But they were enough to make a family; enough to carry on and continue to protect what they valued, what he valued; what she valued.
And in the end which never came, that was all that mattered.