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Cereza's face burns, furiously.
It’s physical, the damage, sure; tens of small cuts and lacerations across her cheek and nose—which she is sure is broken.
She had been thrown against a pillar in the Umbra training dens. Her back hit the concrete slabs first, winding her considerably. She suspects that something else might be broken too, because her ribs hurt and she’s struggling to take in breaths at all. Eyes shuttering, she simply lays there and listens to the nattering and—laughing—of her sisters at the other end of the room as they discuss what they had just seen. A frivolous beat down.
The physical pain is nothing compared to the sheer humiliation she feels at this moment.
She can hear their tutor—Madam Camille—urging the girls to quiet down. She can hear her scolding them for being “too rough”, but in the same breath praises their power and tenacity.
‘The outcast isn’t really a challenge, madam,’ is what she hears one of the girls—Delphine—say. ‘it's almost like target practice’.
That makes the other girls laugh—Madam chuckles too—and Cereza just wonders if she should roll over and die. She almost thinks that would be the preferable fate.
“Is that any way to speak about a fellow witch?” a familiar voice snaps, sharp as a knife and clear as day. It is Jeanne, of course. Her knight in shining armour, always appearing at the opportune moment to save her skin. Again.
Her face just burns in embarrassment.
“She is not a fellow witch,” another witch—Eloise—bites, voice loud and true, accent lilted. “She is a half-breed outcast.”
There are murmurs of agreement.
“I'll have you flayed for that comment,” is Jeanne's venomous retort.
“Ladies, settle down,” Madam Camille claps her hands together, bringing the interaction to a screeching halt. “Some decorum, please.”
“Asking for decorum after allowing cereza to be brutalised, Madam?”
“You have some gall.”
No one speaks and Cereza can feel her heart lodged firmly in her jugular. Jeanne would likely be punished for this later. She absolutely knows that Madam is glaring at Jeanne, probably plotting her demise alongside her own.
“You’re all dismissed,” the tone of the dismissal is fueled with red-hot fury. After a beat, the sound of hasty footprints echo throughout the chamber; the troupe of witches looking to leave as quickly as possible.
“Good day, Lady Jeanne.”
The heavy oak doors slam and Cereza is left to contend with the silence.
She can hear Jeanne approaching quickly; her heels clacking against the stone floor. she can feel the warmth of her as she leans over to roll Cereza onto her back.
She grimaces and coughs, blood splattering on her chin—she knows that she will be reeling from the effectives of these injuries for the next few days.
“Are you alright?” Jeanne asks. its a stupid question, because she is obviously not—but this is not jeanne’s fault, and it would wrong to lash out at her.
“Never felt better,” she replies, craning her head to spit out a wad of blood. It's only now that she realises that her mouth tastes like metal.
“Those girls gave me quite the workout.”
She can feel Jeanne's eyes on her, scanning for any obvious injury.
“I don't think this is the time to be joking, Cereza.”
Her vision is blurry when she looks at Jeanne—she thinks that she could be concussed—but the fact her glasses are missing is not helping in the slightest. Maybe her eyesight was actually that bad.
“No,” she replies demurely, making an attempt to sit upright, a sturdy arm reaching around to get her steady. She heaves a sigh.
“It's not.”
Jeanne hauls her to her feet, to which she stumbles; knees buckling under her own weight. it all just hurts so much; every limb just pulsates with raw, unfettered pain. Maybe she should just lay back down on the stone until she meets her end.
(She briefly ruminates on how her subsequent passing would make for the stuff of excellent ghost stories: the Umbran outcast, haunting the training den after perishing from injury at the hands of her sisters. Oh yes, she thinks, posthumous fame could be the way to go).
“We need to get you to the infirmary, Cereza,” Jeanne says pointedly, no doubt in Cereza’s mind that she’s all too aware that she’s in her own head, contemplating her dramatic demise.
She takes a step with an arm slung over Jeanne's shoulder, only for her to feel a crunch underfoot. Glass and tinny metal. She can practically hear Jeanne grimace next to her.
“Bloody wonderful.”
Jeanne does snort in amusement, but a quick elbow in the ribs prompts a quiet apology. Not only was she in absolute bits, she also couldn’t see a fucking thing.
Jeanne reaches down to pluck them up; resetting the frame with a tap of infernal magic so they can rest back on Cereza’s nose. The lenses however, are cracked.
She still can’t really make out anything besides Jeanne’s face. Which was not bad at all considering how her day was working out.
Before she has a chance to say anything else, she’s up in Jeanne's arms, being carried like a bloody bride—of all things.
“Will you put me down,” she hisses, grabbing at what appears to be her bicep, only for the hold on her to strengthen. She can feel the flex of the muscle under the fine fabric of the uniform as she’s easily settled into her arms. Any other protests die on her lips as Jeanne carries her with significant ease, like a knight or a prince or some bullshit. She might be blushing just a tiny bit.
(She silently reckons however that no knight in shining armour would ever be a match for Jeanne—her Jeanne).
Without a word, she slips an arm over Jeanne’s shoulder; a scuffed glove grazing the back of her neck so as to hold her close, the other just across her chest. Jeanne gives an audible hum, amused at the shift in Cereza’s demeanour
“You’re blushing Cereza,” she observes. “I thought that you wanted to be put down.”
“Hmm, I’ve had a change of heart.”
“Oh?”
“Oh yes, I’m not used to being treated like a princess.”
“And if I were to drop you right here?”
Cereza smiles. She can feel her cheeks physically ache as she does so. She loves when Jeanne plays along.
“You would never,” she beams—insists—waving a hand away. “Especially since I’m in such a state.”
Jeanne’s small smile falters—and Cereza notices right away. The grip on her tightens up at the mere reference of what just happened. She begins to walk quicker.
“I’m sorry Cereza.”
Bloody this again, she thinks, and It takes everything she has to stop herself from rolling her eyes or telling Jeanne off. She didn’t have her mother’s authority, after all, so none of what had transpired was even her fault.
The blame would never fall at Jeanne’s feet.
Never.
“Stop that,” she admonishes with a quick turn of the head. “What would you have done, hm? Attack them?”
“Yes,” the silver witch blinks, replying without any hesitation. “I absolutely would have.”
“Don’t be a fool,” she snaps, eyes narrowing dangerously and desperately attempting to mask the latent anger in her tone. Not anger at Jeanne, no. Anger at this circumstance. Anger that Jeanne will suffer the consequences.
“I know how your mother feels about us merely interacting. She would have you whipped.”
(And she will have you whipped for interrupting the session, is what goes unsaid).
That’s another barb she throws, and it makes Jeanne stop in her tracks. Cereza can feel the subtle shake of her grip and it almost immediately makes her regret her words. Jeanne needs to know—she needs for her to realise—that Cereza is simply not worth all the suffering.
But Jeanne keeps moving; keeps her head held high and chin proffered, her eyes cast up and away from Cereza in her arms. That hurts. It really hurts.
“Let’s just get you to the infirmary.”
Cereza lies on the infirmary bed.
Eyes skyward, taking in the carved stone dimensions of the ceiling. They were built so long ago—by who, she doesn’t know—perhaps by the hands of long deceased sisters.
Sisters.
The bite of that word makes her close her eyes. Sisters in the world of mortals, were flesh and blood, bound by that physical dimension. When she would see them—sisters—they’d be arm in arm, chatting incessantly, and playing pranks. I’m sickened by it, she tells herself, though she knows that’s an out and out lie.
Her Umbran sisters were nothing like that of course: sisters in name, but not much else. Women who were tied together by beliefs and witchcraft, but who scorned against those who did not fit the mould.
The fabric of the pillow is harsh against her facial wounds, it’s rough linen that catches on the bandaging once she turns over—it’s slightly smeared with her blood, too. Upon looking out further into the infirmary she can see that she’s the only one there. Jeanne had left hours ago, summoned by Elder Isabelle. She had sat at Cereza’s bedside all afternoon, their brief argument earlier in the day had hung over them, but she still stayed to make sure she received the same treatment as any other witch.
She was… Worried.
Gritting her teeth and ignoring the lingering pain in her arms and shoulders, she manages to get herself standing. More strength in her legs now—there was definitely a possibility that she could leave under her own power, get to Jeanne’s quarters, make sure she was fine, and get back to the Infirmary before daybreak.
Not that they’d care much if she didn’t come back, she thinks with a scowl.
On buckled limbs, she hobbles away over the stone floors, slowly but surely finding her footing—crunched knees springing back to life.
She’d make it alright.
Jeanne’s quarter’s are adjoined to her mother’s, Cereza would know of course—there had been many occasions where her mother had nearly barged in on them sitting and chatting, Jeanne showing her summons and spells that she was never supposed to know. Any sort of noise that would allude to her mother walking in would result in Cereza usually jumping out the window.
Because of course it would.
It’s actually a good night for this sort of breaking and entering behaviour, perfect even. The sky is clear and the moon is high and full—absolutely wonderful conditions for a leisurely stroll through the Umbran wards. With relative ease she plants a heeled boot flat against the stone beneath Jeanne’s windows, and with a quick push of her remaining boot, finds herself standing on the side of the building.
Ha, she thinks. This is a piece of cake.
It’s simple enough getting up to Jeanne’s room; she has a small balcony that she can simply step into, and a door that she can easily slip open. She twists the handle—
Easy, Cereza thinks again, absolutely delighted at how painless getting up and in has been.
—and it’s locked.
“Motherfucker,” she hisses, jiggling the handle around in the event that it actually does something. But in a way, it clearly does, because a moment later, it’s swung open and Jeanne is on the other side—eyes narrowed in considerable annoyance.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Much to Cereza’s relief, she looks absolutely fine. She thinks.
“I was on a walk.”
Jeanne’s brow quirks. She is not amused.
“A walk upside the building?”
“I needed to stretch my legs,” she makes a show of shaking out her ankle, from which a ‘crack’ emanates. “You see?”
Jeanne’s eyes flick down to her ankle and back up: their set of gazes meeting. With a sigh, she steps aside and beckons Cereza into the dimly lit room. The bed covers had not yet been pulled over so at least she knew she hadn’t disturbed any sleeping.
The balcony door slips closed with a demure click.
“What are you doing here, Cereza?”
“Can’t a girl just drop in on an old friend?”
Jeanne huffs, visibly irritated. She leans back against the door frame and winces. Now, that worries Cereza; she looks over her stance and takes in how she doesn’t rest all her weight on her right leg and that her right shoulder slumps when pressed against the wood.
“You’re hurt,” is what she says before Jeanne can even respond. She lets her eyes rove over the heiress again. “What did they do to you?”
Jeanne clicks her tongue, face turning a mottled red in shame. She looks away into the vanity mirror, and Cereza can see how she’s wringing her hands together before she stares through to her, connecting their gazes once more. Waiting a beat to finally say something.
“You were right earlier,” she sighs defeatedly, clearly at pains to say anything at all. “Madam Camille went right to mother.”
Cereza closes her eyes at the admission. Of course she bloody well did. That woman was a sadist. And not in a fun way.
“Where?”
“Hm?”
“Where did they strike you?”
A grimace befalls Jeanne’s complexion, and it looks as though she wants this conversation to end immediately. Cereza won’t let that happen—not tonight—so approaches Jeanne’s side and separates those wrung, anxious hands of hers, and slips one into her hold.
“Let me help you,” she squeezes it tight and brings her knuckles to her lips, eyes slipping closed and pressing the lightest of kisses. “Just this once.”
It’s deathly quiet suddenly, and Cereza fears that she’s made a grave error.
“My back,” Jeanne mumbles eventually, reaching around herself tentatively, visibly wincing when she does so. “Right side.”
So, she was correct.
“Show me,” it’s not really a request on Cereza’s part, but more of a command. She knows—intimately—what Jeanne is feeling right now, and wants to help more than anything. The feeling of a scorched, quickfire leather on your back was something no one deserved to feel.
Especially Jeanne, she thinks somberly; a friend who loves her and would do anything for her. It physically hurts to just think of Jeanne suffering.
Jeanne turns back towards the mirror and begins to untie her dressing gown, slipping it from her shoulders and setting it aside. She’s wearing a nightdress with flimsy light straps, and Cereza can almost feel her heart stop when she sees the damage.
Her back is a grim gallery of bright reds and purple; it doesn’t look like the skin everywhere has been broken, but there are faint smears of blood from where she has been able to treat herself.
“Jeanne,” Cereza’s voice cracks in a way she’s never heard before. In the moment she can feel an abundance of emotion swirl in her; it’s not a complicated mixture by any means. Anger rears its head viciously, and Cereza almost convinces herself just to simply waltz next door and kill the Elder herself. But that anger, it wanes compared to the despair and sadness she feels. But she won’t cry. Not now. Crying was for babies.
The silver witch’s chin drops at the utterance of her name; eyes now firmly closed in what Cereza thinks—knows—to be shame. With a light thud, she sets herself on her bedside, and Cereza is quick to come around to her. On impulse she nearly touches her back, reaching to lay a hand over the injured flesh—but it’s only when she does so that she realises that her ribs absolutely ache.
She flinches away when the pain strikes suddenly and viciously, forcing her to inhale sharply. That only makes her hurt more. In the end she buckles forward with a grunt—a litany of stars dancing behind her eyelids—as she strains to right herself and take a breath.
Through all of this, Jeanne is watching with a grimace. Trying to make a point, Cereza supposes.
“Please don’t worry about me,” Jeanne casts her eyes over Cereza next to her and sets her face into a frown. “Especially in your current state.”
And right on time, she gives a feeble wheeze and clutches her ribs.
“I’m fine.”
“You nearly keeled over just stretching an arm,” she hisses—again—her eyes flitting over to the door. “You should’ve stayed put.”
“And what? Wallowed in my misery? Those women would sooner let me die off,” she raises her voice, unable to quell the swell of emotions building up. That in itself was quite the statement, and it makes Jeanne’s eyes practically bug out of their sockets.
“You could’ve let them treat you,” her teeth are gritted now in a bid to stop herself from raising her voice. “I told them—”
“They didn’t come by once after you left,” Cereza sniffs—damn it—not now, not when she’s feeling like this. A set of droplets on her hand confirm that not only was she apparently crying, but that her nose was also bleeding.
(It wasn’t broken, the nurses had said. Jeanne made them examine it while she was there—and there was no way they would spoof it to the heiress.)
There’s a faint hint of blood on her lips, too, when she darts a tongue out for the sake of curiosity.
“Have you seen your face lately?”
“I don’t care.”
Jeanne lets out an unhappy laugh. She knows Cereza, and knows that she’s more than happy to leverage her beauty to get around gullible fools.
“Cereza, don’t lie,” she scolds, and all Cereza can think about is how this whole scenario has given her whiplash. She was supposed to come to Jeanne’s aid—but here she was instead, keeled over and breathless, crying with a nosebleed. Useless as always.
They sit there in an impenetrable silence—and it is uncomfortable, too. Cereza cannot remember the last time the pair of them ever experienced an uncomfortable silence. She’s not sure that they have ever.
But still, her stubbornness persists; she wants Jeanne to speak first and admit that she was wrong. Or something.
(Even though she knows deep down that Jeanne did nothing wrong and nothing to deserve what happened, and that she did it because she’s one of the few people in this blasted world that actually gives a damn about her).
Fine, she thinks, finally about to toss her pride aside and apologise for lashing out and being a brat about this whole thing. Maybe they could just help each other and put this mess behind them.
“Jeanne.”
“Cereza.”
Oh, the pair of them just blink at each other, Cereza quickly gesturing to herself before Jeanne has a chance to even think about continuing. All that gets her is a quick nod.
“I’m sorry,” she begins and wow she cannot remember the last time that she apologised for anything and wonders—just briefly—of how many apologies she owes Jeanne. She swallows that thought, puts it away for later on when she’s turned over in bed.
“You—you go out of your way to help me and,” she sighs—she really is so useless. She can’t even apologise properly. “I really don’t deserve your kindness, and your time—”
Ah, she can feel the tears well again. This really was so pathetic.
“And you got hurt because of me—you always do and—I’m sorry,” she sobs it out, miserably. She just sobs and sobs. She can’t remember the last time she cried like this, allowing herself to be this vulnerable and pitiful in front of one of the only people that cared.
Her vision becomes blurrier—already hampered by broken lenses—tears obscuring what she can just about see: the vague outline of Jeanne’s form.
“Cereza,” oh, Jeanne’s voice is so gentle to her ears—so much better than the wild thumping of her heart and the rush of blood that accompanies it. She lets out one more wet sob, feeling Jeanne’s hands coming to curl around her elbows. “Oh Cereza, don’t cry.”
Jeanne practically wraps herself around her, tucks her chin onto Cereza’s shoulder and soothes her with a comforting hand on her back. All that does is make her cry more—and it hurts to cry, too. Every single whimper causes a strain in her chest and ribs, but she can’t help it; besides, she thinks that she might need this more than any infirmary visit.
“Jeanne—,” she whimpers, she too burying her face in the free flowing strands of Jeanne’s apple scented platinum hair. “Jeanne, I’m sorry.”
“Ssh,” a deft hand slides up and down her spine with sure, comforting strokes. Cereza never wants to leave Jeanne’s arms, not when she’s being held like this. Not when Jeanne makes her feel so safe. “You’re alright.”
With a shuddering sigh, Cereza thinks that she may have just finally quelled the tears. She exhales heavily through her nose, but turns to rest her cheek on Jeanne’s shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she can still see those angry red lashes strewn all over Jeanne’s back.
They stay like that—waiting on one another to make a move or just say something—but then again, it’s not the worst thing in the world to be in the arms of someone who cares about you, Cereza thinks.
“For what it’s worth,” Jeanne removes herself from Cereza’s space as she begins speaking, hands looking for Cereza’s wrists. “I’m sorry, too.”
Cereza bites her tongue—“For what?”—threatening to spill free.
“For the Umbra,” her eyes look down to where she’s holding Cereza’s wrists, then over to the closed balcony door. “For Madam Camille, my mother,” she visibly swallows and lets her eyes divert back to Cereza’s gaze. “For all our sisters.”
Don’t say it, Cereza, is what immediately thrums through her skull; but that’s so bloody hard—none of this was her fau—
“And I know that what happened—that I had no control over it,” she takes an exasperated huff, and Cereza feels an ounce of relief. “But once I’m in charge, I’ll have things changed.”
The grip on Cereza’s wrists tighten as Jeanne continues on.
“I won’t allow them to treat you like that, you may have to wait a while but,” she drops her head again, just like earlier. Eyes shut tight. “I’ll make them see—you—will make them see.”
Her chin lifts with defiance—a fire practically alight in her eyes. It is a promise.
In that moment, Cereza thinks that she would very much like to kiss Jeanne; all well spoken and defiant, someone that believes in her. She blushes, and she can only hope that in the dim candlelight that her companion does not notice.
“Thank you, Jeanne,” she slips her hands into Jeanne’s; squeezing thrice, preparing herself to say the most sickenly sweet and sincere thing that she has possibly ever said. “You’re my best friend.”
It has the desired effect though, Jeanne smiles, and looks back down at her hands. On impulse, the silver witch pulls her close again, and Cereza chooses to willingly revel in it, allowing herself to be held and to savour the rhythmic beat of Jeanne’s heart.
Safe once again.
“I love you Cereza,” is what Jeanne blurts suddenly, squeezing as gently as she possibly can. An affirmation that Cereza never realised she needed.
She squeezes back, unable to help herself, and closes her eyes, content at the warmth of Jeanne’s form.
“I love you, too.”
“Is that too much?”
Cereza squints as she looks at herself in the vanity mirror, then gives a shake of her head.
“It’s fine, the more salve the better.”
Jeanne nods. The salve she kept really did the trick for just about every injury under the moon; it was cold to the touch and smelled like mint but according to Jeanne it had a litany of forbidden herbs in it. It does wonders for the cuts and bruises on her face, and is even easing the pain in her ribs. She was even able to remove the bandage from her cheek.
“Will I do your back?”
Jeanne’s eyes bulge out of their sockets at the suggestion, but she very quickly reins it in, much to Cereza’s amusement.
“Uh, yes. Sure.”
“Alright, sit then.”
Jeanne slowly takes a seat on one of the vanity’s stools. Turning her back to Cereza and letting down the shoulder straps of her nightdress.
It’s like a gaudy canvas; the lashes are bright and apparent, but there are scars, too. Raised ones, ones that dig out sections of skin; she thinks about asking how many of them come from training, and how many of them are the result of punishment.
Cereza applies the salve and watches how the muscles of Jeanne’s back tense up everytime her hand glides over a segment of flesh.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No,” Jeanne gives her head a jerk. “It’s just sensitive, that’s all.”
She’s lying, but Cereza doesn’t say anything as she continues to apply the salve. After everything that has been discussed this evening, she’d rather not bring it up at all. For another time, perhaps.
When the cap goes back on the salve Jeanne gets to her feet, and Cereza can only spot a sliver of her back as she puts her dress and robes back on.
“Do you want to stay?” she asks, tying off her robe, back still to Cereza as she poses the question.
The bed does look comfortable—certainly more so than the one in the infirmary—and it’s certainly big enough for the two of them. Not to mention the fact it was already late enough.
She gives a shrug.
“Sure,” then a hint of a smile. “I need my beauty sleep, and the infirmary is not where I’m going to get it.”
Jeanne merely hums in reply, sauntering over to the wardrobe with relative ease now that the salve is applied.
“Would you like something to sleep in?”
“I—,” Cereza casts her eyes down and takes her current attire in; the usual black uniform, only ripped at the knee and stained with dried blood. Probably not good to be sleeping in. “Please.”
Jeanne looks over her shoulder with a smile, and the brief sight of it ties Cereza’s stomach in knots. That was a new feeling entirely.
Jeanne hands over a white nightgown—it’s made of nice linen and has fine stitching throughout—and she begins to shed her uniform. It is significantly more comfortable.
She sets her barely functional glasses aside, and the pair of them crawl under Jeanne’s heavy duvet; Cereza turning to face away from her, closing her eyes til the dim light of the room eventually fades into nothingness. It’s just dark now, pitch black much like the night sky. Eventually she rolls over and senses Jeanne’s eyes on her; then comes a bodily shift as she settles herself again. She’s still looking: Cereza can feel her gaze.
“Is something the matter?”
Jeanne doesn’t answer right away—instead she heaves a sigh and shimmies forward so that they’re close. She can feel her body heat now, and once again, Cereza is so glad that it’s dark.
“I’m cold,” is Jeanne’s excuse; she perches her chin on Cereza’s chest and Cereza can feel how her hair tickles the side of her face, how her soft breaths ghost the skin of her neckline; a straying hand slipping over her abdomen.
That again, was another lie. Jeanne always ran hot, like some kind of human furnace. Regardless, she decides not to bring it up, instead anticipating that Jeanne may say something. Jeanne shifts again after a moment, once again rearranging herself so that she rests above Cereza’s heart. Listening.
“We could run away,” is what she says aloud, and it genuinely startles Cereza, because the thought of Jeanne running away is… Nonsense.
“No, we wouldn’t,” Cereza swallows, then corrects herself, reaching for Jeanne’s hand on her stomach. “You wouldn’t. Our sisters need you.”
There’s no reply then, either. Just the sounds of Jeanne shifting ever so slightly, followed by an exasperated sigh.
“I’m tired of stupid rules and doctrine,” she admits, the tremble in her voice that belies her frustration. “I just want them to realise that you’re just like any of us.”
“That’s not strictly true.”
“Stop,” she’s firm in her reply, but her voice still rattles, wrought with emotion. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Fine, she’ll leave it at that then. Obviously Jeanne didn’t want to—
“What I mean is—you are an Umbra witch,” she laughs sardonically at the statement, as if it couldn’t be more obvious. “You dress like one, you know the magic—you have a pact!—and no amount of Lumen genetics will undo all that.”
—push the issue…
“Anyway, fuck them.”
That makes Cereza snort, quirking her head to look down at Jeanne. Up close she can see her better alright, mostly those pristine sets of lashes and her plump set of lips. She’s looking at her already, and for some vague, unknown reason, it leaves her feeling speechless. It also makes her want to pose a question.
“Why is it that you go out your way for me?”
Jeanne shifts again and Cereza can tell she feels as though she has been put on the spot.
“You’re my friend,” she answers, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, choosing to echo what she had been told earlier in the evening. “My best friend.”
“Well, do you have any other friends?”
Cereza concedes that may be a low blow, but she knows it to be mostly true. The girls looked up to her, but seldom saw her as more than a mentor or guardian. There had been occasional dates too, other girls trying to get in her pocket, see what strings could be pulled for them. But to Jeanne, they were all suck ups.
She hated suck ups.
“You know the answer to that,” comes the reply with the wave of a hand. Still, Jeanne doesn’t shift this time, and lets her answer hang in the air between them for a few moments.
“I never liked anyone as much as you.”
And for the second time in an evening, Cereza finds herself a bit startled at Jeanne’s words. She briefly thinks about concluding the conversation there and moving on so that it will all be forgotten about tomorrow.
(It was a pity that would never be the case, because not only was she terribly impatient, but also incredibly nosey).
“Now, what on earth do you mean by that dearest Jeanne?”
“Why are you asking so many questions, Cereza?”
“Don’t change the topic.”
Jeanne hums to herself in contemplation, as if trying to conjure up a thoughtful reply, or maybe something that would further bruise her ego after the battering she had received earlier.
“Do you remember when we met?”
Cereza snorts because, well, does she ever. She had been playing in the nearby woods with Cheshire—away from the main complex and wards, away from witches who would chase her and frighten her—only for some of them to “accidentally” happen upon her. They tore off Cheshire’s head and pulled out his eyes… But then, Jeanne had entered into the clearing, chased the girls off, and had taken her hand, pulling her upright from where she had been knocked over. Clothes soiled and Cheshire—for lack of a better term—injured.
The pair had scuttled back to Jeanne’s home in search of a first aid kit that would help a kitty in need: some tape, a sewing needle, and a spool of suitable thread.
The memory, so clear and visceral, makes her beam.
“You helped me fix Cheshire.”
Jeanne laughs a little, it almost sounds shy to her ears. What she would give to hear Jeanne laugh like that all the time. But the moment passes as quickly as it came, and she finds herself hanging on to every word Jeanne says.
“And you,” she raises herself up on an elbow to look at Cereza in the dim, then reaches across to poke her nose. “You made me feel like I was normal. Just another girl. Not the heiress.”
“And you still do,” she smiles at her, letting the sentiment linger. Cereza moves to sit upright and finds herself surprised when Jeanne sidles up next to her, their faces mere inches apart.
“That’s why I like you the most.”
She traces Cereza’s jaw with her fingers, thumb gliding over her chin, then leans in to kiss her on the cheek. She blinks in surprise, then lets her eyes slip closed, savouring how effortlessly Jeanne slides her arms around her, and how she’s guided back to the comfort of the mattress. The plush pillow is wonderful against her aching neck, and enables her to tilt her chin to see Jeanne better.
Even in the darkness, even without her glasses, she knows how Jeanne is looking down at her. Knows how that smile creases and how her eyes crinkle in the corners.
“I like you, too.”
Another quiet huff of a laugh escapes Jeanne; the puff of breath ghosts just short of Cereza’s chin.
“I’m so glad it’s mutual.”
Jeanne kisses her then, properly. Not on the cheek or nose or forehead, not her trembling fingers and bruised knuckles.
It’s deliberately chaste, as if it were merely a taster. But the press of that sumptuous mouth to hers was everything, and now that she finally has a taste, she’s sure that she’ll just want more.
Jeanne draws back—longing to gauge Cereza’s response—only for the woman in question to cuff her by the neck and draw her back down to her mouth for more. She wants and wants, periods of intense desire finally coming to a boil—and now Jeanne’s mouth is on hers, their hands are fisted in each other’s hair. It’s like finding a missing piece to a puzzle.
Cereza sighs breathlessly into Jeanne’s mouth; keenly aware of how hard she’s blushing. It’s like she’s burning, already able to feel the pinch of warmth in her toes when Jeanne’s cups her face and bites at her lips, but when she presses a hand to the base of her throat, she practically shudders. A moan escapes her suddenly, slipping out when Jeanne swipes a tongue over her bottom lip. It stops her in her tracks and makes Cereza crack an eye open.
“Are you alright?”
Jeanne is happy. She can tell by the tone of her voice. All Cereza can do is smile wordlessly and nod. Jeanne laughs again, that small shy one from earlier, and Cereza wishes she could bottle the sound and store it away for the moments she may need it.
“I feel like I’ve been waiting to do that my whole life.”
“Well,” Cereza smiles and playfully bats her eyelids as she reaches for the scruff of Jeanne’s neck so as to pull her back to her. “If you would like to do it again, I certainly wouldn’t be opposed.”
Jeanne smiles again for her. She’s absolutely radiant.
“Good,” she slides a hand beneath Cereza’s jaw and leans in again to kiss her. “Because I’m not opposed, either.”
Bayonetta wakes with a gasp, practically drenched in her own sweat. The weather had been hot for days now, and even the heat in the night was intense—so intense that lately she had just gone without any night clothes, and slept nude instead. Jeanne was the only one who was going to see her in all of her splendour anyway.
She thinks then, ruminates for a minute, about that dream—no it couldn’t be. She shakes her head and stares at her palms, flexing her fingers, unclenching them. It was a memory, she decides in the end. It had been far too clear and visceral; the minutiae of everything—the names of the witches, the infirmary hall and all of its gaudy decor.
Jeanne’s back. She clenches her eyes shut when an unruly, unwanted, shiver seizes her. The traces of those lashes still remain—it was only last night after they had gone to bed that she found her eyes wandering over the scarred musculature. She was immediately drawn to dim, red marks, and couldn't force her eyes away.
She remembers asking about them as she let her fingers linger on them, only for Jeanne to reply ‘don’t worry about it.’
She cringes.
Then blinks herself awake.
Their room is bright, lavishly decorated to both of their tastes. The majority of the furnishings had been from Bayonetta’s old apartment—and she certainly wouldn’t deny having expensive tastes. Who knew that being a nun and—most certainly not doing hits for Enzo—would rake in the cash.
(Jeanne, however, did insist on hanging a bespoke piece from Picasso above their headboard, which Bayonetta found irksome at the best of times).
Speaking of…
She turns her head to the side and quickly notes Jeanne’s absence—which was incredibly unusual for 9am on a Saturday. Their bedroom door is open and she can smell freshly brewed coffee, and what is likely burning bacon. Which was fine, for her anyway; she always did enjoy the crunchy bits. She can also hear what appears to be a Madonna megamix of some sort, blaring from the kitchen radio.
She gets out of bed, finds something ill-fitting to wear, and heads to the kitchen. When she arrives she finds Jeanne spinning on her toes in one of her robes, singing along to ‘Material Girl’ whilst using a spatula as a microphone. There is also a smell of burning—which is to be expected… Because it’s Jeanne.
And regardless, she will eat it… Because Jeanne made it.
“Cereza!”
That name is sometimes so strange to her ears—yes—it was her name, and only recently had it become her name once again.
In a way, she would only ever be Cereza for Jeanne—because reconciling the fact that she wasn't always the most powerful, bullet wielding witch during her youth, was hard. She wonders sometimes, if she’s a let down, a disappointment.
She wonders if Jeanne had been waiting all this time for someone different.
But Bayonetta… She knew who Bayonetta was; she had been Bayonetta for 20 something years now. Bayonetta was tough—brave—she was the bullet wielding witch. Not even the bravest motherfuckers would try her.
She isn’t so sure if Bayonetta and Cereza are that similar. But Jeanne doesn’t seem to care, and if there is one thing in this world that she knows for sure, it’s that she loves Jeanne.
That will have to be enough.
“You’re up,” she observes, hands on hips and looking awfully proud of herself. She couldn’t have been awake for more than 45 minutes at the maximum. “You’d usually be awake by now.”
“You do know it’s a Saturday, right?” Bayonetta chides as gets up on one of the tall chairs surrounding the kitchen island, watching as Jeanne pirouettes and turns back to the stove. She’s plating the food now, and much to her surprise, it all looks edible.
Jeanne shrugs—mouth full of sausage—and sets their plates down. It’s a bit of a smorgasbord; omelettes, grilled tomato, fried mushrooms, amongst many things. Bayonetta pops a bit of not-quite-burnt bacon in her mouth and hums in delight due to the fact it actually tastes good.
“I know you were expecting a disaster when you woke up,” says Jeanne as she makes a firm stab at the eggs that are plated up for herself. “I think it all turned out quite well.”
Bayonetta eyes her smile as she chews on a piece of toast.
“It did,” she agrees, crunching through mouthfuls. “It all tastes wonderful, darling. Thank you.”
Jeanne smiles again for her, the faintest of blushes smattering her cheeks at the compliment.
The pair eat in a comfortable silence: Jeanne is still listening to the Madonna megamix that reverberates around the kitchen whilst Bayonetta catches up on some text messages from Rodin. He doesn’t want anything in particular—just lets her know that Enzo has been adding to her tab.
(She makes a mental note to pop by Enzo’s later in the afternoon—to see Ed and Edna, of course).
She looks at Jeanne again—who is now belting ‘Like A Virgin’ as if she were the only person in the room—and lets the fondness she feels for her build in her chest, to the point where it blooms into love.
She thinks that she would do just about anything for her. Anything at all. She has never felt devotion like this before. Jeanne’s joy was healing—an everlasting light of her life—and she would do everything possible to cultivate it for as long as possible.
It’s then that her reverie is suddenly broken; Jeanne hops up from the stool, hands flailing—her favourite Madonna track had just come on.
“Cereza!” she calls again with a hand outstretched, an elegant brow quirked dramatically. “Care to dance?”
The open chords of ‘Like A Prayer’ ring out around them, the chopped guitar reverberating as it descends into a choral haze, Madonna’s voice joining the fold. She takes Jeanne’s hand and lets herself be spun and whirled around, unable to stop the laughter that spills from her. Jeanne is singing to her now, getting onto her knees in mock prayer, wearing a smile so big that it enshrines a warmth in her heart that she thinks will never fade.
And it continues like that too; the lyrics are supposedly blasphemous according to Jeanne and the song’s wikipedia entry. Bayonetta thinks that they are hilariously romantic.
The sound of Bayonetta’s voice being reminiscent to that of an angel’s is a funny thought, as is Jeanne being on her knees, feeling Bayonetta’s power—she presumes that part is sheer innuendo, and if that is indeed the case, then the song is indeed blasphemous. Just wonderful.
—And, Jeanne, relishing in the fact that Bayonetta can say her name now, after hundreds and hundreds of years of being alone and touch starved—that Bayonetta can fashion her mouth around her name in the most reverent of tones, at any time. It was home.
Home.
That… Brings something out of her, uncouples something from deep inside of her. A thought she had never had before, and it was a song of all things that had helpfully supplied such a thought. Home was with Jeanne and wherever she was. Maybe it had always been this way; that even though the Umbra lived and worked and trained together, she seldom felt like being with them was home. But Jeanne—
Being with Jeanne made her feel like she was home.
Bayonetta was the one she had been waiting for—she was Cereza. She was the one that Jeanne was waiting for.
She doesn’t know what occurs in the next few moments: but Jeanne is firmly lodged in her arms singing still. Swinging and twirling Cereza around as she grooves and shakes,, the choral moments indicating that the song is reaching its climax. Once it does, Jeanne doubles over; clearly worn out from over-exerting herself so early in the morning.
“You’re supposed to be younger than me,” Cereza taunts as she takes in a lungful of air herself; the supposedly younger witch eyeing her with a scowl. “Should I consider getting you a personal trainer? Or perhaps you’re better suited to one of those homes for the elderly.”
“You’re unbearable.”
Cereza tries to think of some quick witted snarky reply, but ultimately, she doesn’t get the chance to think it up nor say it in time.
Jeanne kisses her suddenly; mouth still tasting of bacon, mouths melding together pleasantly til Jeanne takes a step back, eyes glistening, all whilst wearing a smile that makes Cereza’s heart shudder.
She can’t help the way a shaky smile begins to cross her lips. She doesn’t even bother fighting it, and before too long, it’s a grin.
“What was that for?”
Jeanne twirls away from her, legs kicking as she hums some other Madonna song that she can’t identify—she doesn’t even know if it was Madonna she was humming—until she's resting back against the countertop, a long brewing cup of tea now in her hands.
Jeanne shrugs, still smiling as she takes a sip of the steaming concoction.
“I just wanted to,” is the simple, yet reasonable answer. Cereza saunters over to her, pyjama bottoms gliding against the tiled floor, planting her arms on either side of Jeanne so she’s boxed it. She blushes then and begins to finish her thought, “I like kissing you so much.”
“Oh? You do?”
Jeanne hums and puts the tea aside, raising her palms to glide them up over the curve of Cereza’s biceps before lacing her fingers around the nape of her neck before giving her the most demure smile. It takes Cereza just a moment to realise that this moment is incredibly familiar, and she can remember why exactly, too. She doesn’t mean to but she snorts as the memory comes to her; it seems that this was a morning of remembering firsts. Jeanne squints at her conspiratorially in response, hands then tightening further around the nape.
“What?”
Cereza leans to kiss her in response instead of dignifying her with a reply; noses elegantly slotted against one another as she brings her hands up to cup those lovely soft cheeks. It’s delightfully chaste, but does just wonders in communicating perfectly what Cereza feels.
“I’ve always liked you the most,” Cereza kisses her again, pulling away just as quickly in order to see her response. Jeanne just blinks at her, mouth suddenly ajar and moving but saying absolutely nothing; the realisation suddenly comes to her, and her eyes begin to shine in earnest.
“Did you… Remember something?”
“Yes,” Cereza breathes, almost anxious to communicate the fact, moving a hand from her face so she can slip it along the column of her spine and over her shoulders, instead. The move makes Jeanne’s eyes widen in an instant. “Yes, I remember.”
“Cereza,” Jeanne slips her hands back down to rest on the top of her chest, just above her breasts. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” that same hand that had been trailing along Jeanne’s back comes up again to smooth a tear from her cheek, she leans in again to kiss her on the cheek, the taste of salt slightly wetting her lip.
“None of what happened was fair,” she says. “None of those rules were ours.”
“I know, I know,” Jeanne shakes her head and laughs—and much to Cereza’s surprise, it’s proper; full, warm and hearty.
In the end, her hands find Cereza’s and guides them into her familiar hold; she lets her thumbs stroke over her knuckles; old scars present on soft skin. Cereza knows how much the Umbra meant to Jeanne; and despite everything that had been done to punish them for their friendship, their heritage was still important to them.
Jeanne never said it aloud, but Cereza knew that she was thinking it: about the possible resurgence of the Umbra, about potential new witches, who could be taught under a creed that wouldn’t impose harsh rules and doctrine on them; a new collective of witches that were allowed to love. She thinks of how much she and Jeanne would have flourished.
They would have been such the most powerful set of witches.
“Don’t think too hard,” Jeanne teases after a moment, suddenly sounding so much lighter, something of an unspoken promise between them. She strokes the curve of Jeanne’s cheek again, ignoring the teasing comment, before speaking.
“Thank you, for everything,” she says quietly, the amount of sincerity would be painful to communicate to someone else, but never Jeanne. She catches her in an eager kiss before continuing again. “For watching out for me when no one else would, or could. For being a friend.”
Jeanne looks at her, eyes sparkling and lips quirked upwards with amusement.
“What has brought this on?” there’s humour colouring her tone; and Cereza can suddenly hear Madonna’s music encasing them where they stand, she can smell the aroma of food wafting through the air. Jeanne is now in her arms, a set of words on her lips:
“I never liked anyone as much as you.”
Jeanne’s face lights up; alight with love and joy. The final piece of the puzzle, found.
She was home.