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The first time is as much an accident as it is intentional. It's an odd mixture of feelings and thoughts, countless colours that blur together into a thick gray haze clouding her mind and vision. She tries to remember but her memory stutters and stops.
“Idiot.” She hears the voice, is immediately receptive to it like a dog to a whistle. It's ingrained into her head, part of her very essence, a red thick string that pulls at her day and night. Her head rolls to the side and she squints at bright hair, pale skin, and dark eyes. She can't make out the specifics but the combination is one she could forever pinpoint to the person it belongs to.
“...s'na'e...” she slurs as her eyes flutter shut and the lights begin to dance and spin, glittering like rainbows. She's floating or maybe not, she can't tell, not exactly, where she is or how she got there. She feels weightless and much like she imagines clouds must feel. Like cotton, soft and fluffy, maybe a bit wet or cold but she's neither so it doesn't count.
“This is why we have dodge training. Perhaps next time you will remember to actually dodge.” The words cut through the haze like bright orange signal flares or like knives or even like the glowing fists she wields. Hands that can unmake the earth, destroy worlds, repaint the universe in their creator's image. Her mouth moves, mutters incomprehensibly, something about explosions and mint, red nails and vanilla, she's not entirely sure.
“Shit kid, they really hit you with the good stuff.” Her eyes flutter open and she stares at her as she is bowed over her, so close that soft hair tickles the skin of her cheeks. Her lips part and she reaches for her, cups her face in between her smaller, weaker hands and stares. She loses part of herself whenever she stares at her, fragments of green that delve into honey wastes to linger and rest, forever lost to her own person.
“...l've u...” she mutters just before her arms give in and her eyes roll into the back of her head as she is dragged down, down and down, back into the abyss, accompanied by the sharp fragrance of alcohol and enough honey to drown in.
The second time is nothing but an accident. Panic clouds her mind and guides her thoughts, sheer desperation that rests around her throat, squeezes all life and colour out of her until the world is dark and grey. She's been teetering on the edge of insanity for weeks, shaky fingers, shaky mind, a jumbled and disorganised mess.
She remembers people's concern, the odd looks she drew, their calm assurances that she would be fine and would soon wake from her coma and there was nothing to worry about. Remembers relying on instinct and muscle memory to complete her tasks, do her duty, while her mind was stuck on the thick locked door that not even she was allowed through.
And now she is here. In front of the door, staring at the wood, too terrified to step inside and face what lies behind.
“Stop lingering and come inside already!” Her hands shake as her mind shuts down, the echo of a voice she dreamt of for weeks, one she had been so terrified of having lost, feels like water to her starving being. She opens the door, peeks inside, sees yellow, white and red, always red, red lips, red nails, redredred-
She's in front of her before she knows it, throws her arms around her and cries like a child even as she feels her throat close up until she struggles to breathe, think, do anything beyond cling to her as if she was drowning. Hands move to her shoulders, accept her, draw her in as she feels like she's dying all over again. The whisper escapes her throat, unprompted, uncaring of the consequences, of releasing a truth she keeps ever so close to her chest.
“I love you,” she sobs, quietly, as she burrows her face in her neck and cries until she's too tired to continue and surrenders to the void instead.
The third time is a curious combination of intent and drunken honesty. She's had too much to drink, could never hold her liquor quite as well as the other party in the room. Everyone else has already left, midnight has long since passed and they're mere moments away from dawn. Empty bottles are strewn across the table between them and they don't talk, do little more than drink and drink and drink. She doesn't mind, is too gone to have much of an opinion on anything at all.
The party itself had been nice, one last hurrah before holy matrimony. She's the second out of their entire group to get married, a single year after her closest friends. Nobody had been surprised, seen their engagement coming from a thousand miles away. They're perfect for each other, and ever so in love. She can't help but snort quietly.
“wha's funny?” Her head swivels to the side and she almost loses her balance, is held upright by a single strong arm accompanied by a roll of her eyes. She stares at the limb, follows it to deceptively narrow shoulders, to a face that to her, represents both dreams and nightmares.
“...nuthin,” she replies and closes her eyes as her head lolls to the side. Her cheek meets warm skin, hardened muscle and she uses it as cushion, halfway draped over the table as she is.
“Don't'cha dare fall 'sleep on me, brat.” She doesn't heed the warning, instead blearily opens her eyes and searches until she finds honey. It stares back and she holds the gaze, loses herself in the warm and rich color that, depending on the light, can go from chocolate to honey to delicious molten gold. Strands of straw enter her vision and the way they glint and shimmer remind her of everything she holds so incredibly dear.
“...don't love 'im,” she murmurs and doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't expect one. They're not good with stuff like this, neither of them is, but as long as she can sit and stare and burn every inch and every square into her memory so she will never, ever forget, she will be alright.
“...love you,” she adds just before the lights go out and she takes the memory with her, an image so firmly lodged into the darkest and deepest corner of her brain because she knows that after tonight, it will move firmly out of reach.
The fourth time is deliberate, a whispered admission when she's safe and sheltered, can afford to drop the mask and let her heart run free, if only for a single moment. She's tired and overwhelmed, stressed beyond compare and ever so close to losing her mind and giving up. She has friends and family, both of which help when and where they can but sometimes even that isn't enough.
Marriage and motherhood are both terribly overrated she finds, is too tired to chide herself the instant the thought enters her mind. Heavens know she loves her daughter but taking care of an infant, a household and a career all at the same time takes its toll.
“Just an hour. Or two. I... please,” she begs, feels guilty and ashamed all at once. Her inner turmoil, exhaustion and desperation all must show on her face for she receives an eye roll and a few muttered complaints before strong arms open up in a clear invitation.
She doesn't cry, doesn't sob, but places her daughter into those arms with such palpable relief she might as well be. Her mouth starts moving then, goes on and on about what her daughter eats and what she doesn't, what makes her cry, how to calm her down, how to-
“I've babysat before. Just go and take a nap. I'll be here.” This time, she cannot stop the tears as she surges forwards and throws her arms around her, hugs her as if her life depends on it. (It does.)
“Thank you, thank you so much,” she whispers and takes a single deep breath, catches the familiar note of everything she loves so very much, then reluctantly lets go. She turns around then and walks away, falls asleep the second her body hits the bed.
By the time she wakes it's already past midnight and when she stumbles down the stairs, harried and frantic, she is met by a sight that threatens to rip her heart in two. They're on the couch, her daughter resting on her chest, both dead to the world. She sneaks closer, doesn't dare interrupt the utter peace and serenity of what lies in front of her and goes to her knees.
She moves a strand of hair out of her daughter's mouth, then looks at her, hand frozen in mid-air. She wants to touch her so badly, but reins herself in, would never dare tarnish the trust and faith the other placed in her oh so many years ago. Instead, she leans closer, keeps her lips a mere inch away from her ear and breathes:
“I love you.”
The fifth time is the last.
The night is warm and quiet, the very image of the peace they fought so hard to get, so many years ago. Everyone is here, even her estranged husband who finally returned to his birthplace to meet his wife, his daughter, his friends, all those he left behind for a decade. She smiles and celebrates with the best of them but is, at heart, a solitary creature. When she leaves the house and wanders into the gardens where the moon shines the brightest, she expects to be alone and is surprised when she isn't.
“Not enjoying yourself?” she asks and joins her. Her head doesn't turn, muscles don't twitch, body gives no sign that she heard the words or even acknowledges her presence. She's beautiful like this, bathed in the bright white glow of the moon, all pale and perfect and ethereal. If she didn't already love her, had loved her for countless years, she'd certainly start doing so now.
“I'm getting too old for those parties.” Her eyes soften at that before she too, stares straight ahead at the trees that mark the border of the gardens.
“Not with your husband?” She chuckles quietly, then shakes her head. Doesn't elaborate. Doesn't need to. She's never been able to keep a secret from her, no matter how deep or dark or precious. This one woman she has never been a mystery to, from the day they met until tonight. This one, who can take a single look at her and read her like a book, stare straight into her soul and gaze upon the very essence of her being. The question is redundant. They both know he's her husband in name only.
“Is this really what you fought for?” She blinks twice, wonders what brought this on, is just about to ask when something stops her. Instead she simply shrugs and faces her when she replies:
“Yes.” Life is not perfect, her reality one of lies, pretense and denial but she has found peace with it. Knows what she can expect and what will never happen and she thinks that, at last, she is alright with it. It is with that thought in mind, that she looks at her and without smiling or stuttering, with nothing on her face at all, says:
“I love you.” A single moment passes in which nothing happens, then a head turns, their eyes meet and what she sees in them is what she expected to see all along. They both are blank slates, empty and void, drained of all the color they possess during the day, as they stare at each other without pretending for the first time in years.
“I know.”