It has never been easy to listen to her.
Navia tilts her head, catching the lilt of Clorinde's voice. Quiet. Solemn. Once she thought it steadfast but now that she knows the truth, Navia detects a waver at the end, the tip of Clorinde's tongue hesitating just before every word she says.
They've always been drawn to each other, even during those strained years when their closeness turned bitter. A killer, Navia would think. It should be no surprise. Champion Duelists have but one job and one job alone. Rationally she's always known that it wasn't a personal matter, but Navia is not a person who takes action with thought.
Clorinde, by contrast, is calculating calm, the gears of her mind turning like clockwork. She knows that she is a tool, a pawn, a sword used by their childish Archon. Even here, now, when things have shifted, there is little that Clorinde can do in the grand scheme of things.
"I promised him," she says. Too close, Clorinde's nose near Navia's cheek as she considers sweeping closer.
"I am not a child."
A soft laugh and the flutter of Clorinde's eyes. "I never said that," she murmurs, dipping close until she is but inches away, and Navia can feel the warmth of Clorinde's breath puff against her ear. "I would never say that."
In light of the trial, things have shifted. Navia should have known. The signs were there. Clorinde, even as a pawn, is a woman of honor, which Navia's father knew. A true duel, Navia muses. It freezes her heart, chilling it. Only Clorinde would have taken him seriously, both his request and the fight. And only Clorinde would cling to that weighty responsibility in the aftermath, her work be damned.
Navia reaches out and grips her chin tightly and pulls back. Clorinde doesn't so much as wince underneath her fingers. Navia considers her, taking in that serious expression, those stoic, violet eyes. "We were friends, once."
"Are we still not?"
Laughter falls from Navia's lips. Absurd. And yet, not incorrect. For all the strangeness that has settled between them, it has never been hatred. Navia felt betrayed, yes, but Clorinde was patient, is still patient, letting her parse out these complicated feelings.
Navia's throat is dry. She licks her lips. Clorinde is too close and not close enough. Navia drags her thumb across wwClorinde's bottom lip, considering her next actions.
"I've missed you," says Clorinde.
And so has she. The lunches they now share are not enough. Neither are the quiet walks along the waterways or the shared coffee in the square; these are all middling things that shadow what they could be. Soft and reverent. Navia sighs as her thumb just travels the same path over Clorinde's lip.
Gone are the times when she can find excuses to ignore this burning pleasure that bleeds through her breast. Gone are those dark nights when Navia lay in her bed and hated Clorinde for killing her father. It's easier, she thinks. Loving a person is harder because loving a person means loving their flaws too.
Navia is imperfect; certainly undeserving of Clorinde's closeness. She has been cruel. She is unfit, and yet—
Clorinde's mouth parts ever so slightly, tongue peeking out, flicking against the pad of Navia's thumb.
And suddenly, they are no longer just in a quiet part of the city. The Court of Fontaine melts away as Navia surges forward until their mouths meet. It's a needy kiss. Clorinde curls her hand around Navia's waist and pulls her close, fingers tracing her ribcage to the too-stiff, starched fabric of Navia's bodice.
Navia nips at her mouth, childish, playful, which delights Clorinde. She huffs, amused, teasing her lips with the tip of her tongue. Navia holds control; she drives the force of their movements with her tight grip on Clorinde's chin, and how she squeezes her mouth open for better access.
Clorinde moans, soft and hush. And oh, the things it does to her. Navia has envisioned this moment a thousand different ways, most of them with Clorinde below her in the sheets. Wandering hands. Fingers dragging over smooth skin. Heated kisses more tongues than teeth—
Navia's flavor of love is sharp, like the Iron Sting that hangs at Clorinde's waist.
When they part, Clorinde is flushed pink. "They—others are staring."
A few. Nothing that would constitute a crowd, just nosey folk out on their evening walks. Navia tilts her head. "Embarrassed?"
Probably. Clorinde is the picture of propriety and the Court of Fontaine is the sort of place that has eyes and ears everywhere. Still, she says nothing, just licks her lips, eyes half-lidded as she thinks about the kiss they just shared. Savoring it. How Navia wants Clorinde to submit to her again.
Navia lets go of her chin and cups her cheek again. "Clorinde—" Her voice is a whisper. She leans forward again until their foreheads are pressed together, and they are sharing breaths. "I did not think this is how this evening would go."
"There are…" Clorinde seems to shrink back as she speaks, wilting in on herself. "I can apologize a thousand times and it still would not be enough."
Navia smooths a thumb over the rise of Clorinde's cheek. "My father wouldn't want you to apologize. He died as he wished—fighting until the bitter end. And he chose you because he trusted you."
Clorinde waits for a beat. "And do you?" And then quietly, she adds, "Trust me?"
"You've done so well. You've kept that promise and I'm thankful."
"He knew, you know. Your father knew that I—" Clorinde's eyes flutter closed. "It doesn't matter. I just… wish to keep trying… this. Whatever it may be."
It can be anything; a passing fancy, pining of years, trial and error. Navia knows the sting of rejection, the pain of loss, and the way the heart skips a beat when it thinks it may have found something new. They have shared the same ups and downs, and though he was not her father, Clorinde deeply respected Callas as a person.
Navia tilts her face up and smiles. "It will take effort," she says. "Practice. Dedication. And no, nothing can be perfectly mended—but that's the point of mending; it patches the problem and makes it stronger. I find myself flustered at the thought of you and have so for a long time. So, I wish to try as well."
Clorinde is the type to rarely smile, but when she does—Navia's heart skitters to a stop at the way the skin around her eyes crinkles, and the curve of her lips as a subtle grin spreads across her face.
She kisses Clorinde again, this time slowly and sweetly, searching as they just stand there in the lantern glow. No longer teeth and claws, but fingers against elbows to steady each other, and laughter against lips as they just sink into it as time crawls to a standstill, leaving only them behind.