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cherryredstars · 8 months

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“I’ve always seen this in you, ever since you were a little girl — this hunger to love other people into their highest selves and it’s what has made me irreversibly and just so forever in love with you.” ― Jennifer Elisabeth

WC: 5K

It’s raining. It always seems to be raining in Great Britain.

Perhaps it is because this small island yearns to be bigger than it actually is. It craves to be all consuming. To trick the eye into believing that past all the rain and bitter cold, there is something greater on the horizon. It wants to claim every corner of the mind, beating rain to the ground so it can echo off of dingy alleyways and broken cobblestone. This island, so powerful despite its size, tries to consume everyone in it through a single action. Hear me, it whistles, See me!

The droplets are fat and heavy, dampening and darkening his linen clothing. It causes ripples to form in the puddle Simon is playing in. The water is murky and dirty, filling a pothole in the street. It fills and fills until it overflows and spreads through the street. It’s in an alleyway next to his broken down house. Fighting through the beating rain, he can hear their yelling through the closed door. He pretends he can’t hear it, instead listening to the sound of hooves on stone as a carriage goes by. It makes him scrunch his nose up at his wavering reflection. His house, not home, is located near the England ports. It’s a gorgeous place, torturous in its beauty. Everyday it calls to him, waves lapping at the rocky shore and beckoning him to follow them as they recede. It taunts him with a freedom that makes his throat hunger for salted water. It taunts him with something he can never have. He pretends not to hear it calling. Instead, he focuses on other things the port can offer. It’s rowdy around the area with all the sailors and merchants loading and unloading merchandise. It’s a good place to steal from crates that aren’t looked after properly.

Today is not one of those days made for stealing. The weather makes sailors uneasy, even on land. It makes merchants irritated. The ground is too slick with water to make a silent and efficient getaway after raiding. There are too many important people on the port today in a bad mood that he doesn’t feel like toying with. On days like this, the punishment for stealing is tenfold. Today is one of those days where you enjoy being a boy. Today is the type of day that you can afford to ignore life. Simon stares down into the water, causing ripples of his own as he swirls his finger through it. His knees hurt slightly from being crouched down for so long, but he prefers it to the sound of his mother and father fighting. He would rather sit out in the pouring rain with creaky knees than sprawled on the floor as his father beats him senseless for walking too loudly. Simon sniffles and he lets out a cough that he muffles with the sleeve of his shirt. Today is one of the only days he can be a boy and ignore life.

Through the port chatter and ruckus, small steps on stone seem to approach. The sound of short heels clicking on cobblestone, muffled only slightly by rain. Simon keeps his head towards the puddle, but his eyes glide to the side. He only sees something blue and puffy fill his view. Full of fabric and lace and embroidery and layers. Simon’s face scrunches up again and his eyes fall back to the puddle. In the reflection, he watches a frilly sleeve extend and hold an overly fancy umbrella over his head. His puddle stops rippling. He looks up as the rain stops falling onto him, turning to look at the girl standing next to him. She’s young, maybe a year or two younger than he is. She looks silly, he thinks. She’s overflowing with layers of fabric until they spill on all sides of her. It makes him slightly furious. His mother can barely afford to buy a new petticoat, repairing the rips and tears with scrap fabric she finds around the house. Most of those scraps were stolen by Simon from the port and planted around the house for his mother to find. But here is this snotty girl, wearing enough fabric to make ten new dresses for his mother. He wants to take her umbrella and break it in front of her face. Her tears can be the rain.

“You shouldn’t play in the rain, you’ll get sick,” the girl says. Her voice is light and sweet. It doesn’t sound hoarse like his mother's yelling. It sounds as smooth as pearls and as calming as waves.

It’s the worst sound ever.

Simon ignores her, rolling his eyes and looking away. They sit in silence and Simon hopes she goes away. Even through the thick scent of rain and ocean, he can smell her perfume. It smells like candy and sea salt. It’s probably more expensive than her dress and umbrella and his house combined. Probably imported from some fancy place in France that he’ll never go to or know how to pronounce. Schooling is expensive and there isn’t any time between stealing from the ports and doing odd jobs around town to help out his parents. Not that she would know what that’s like. She probably owns the bloody ports.

She, in fact, does not leave. Instead, she crouches down beside him. The fabric bunches and bloats around her, the ends falling into the puddle. The light blue of her dress turns into a deep cyan, and the lace at the very tips grow heavy and turn a brownish gray from the dirt in the water. Later, when she goes home, her mother will punish her for soiling such a nice dress. She will throw it out and have another one made. The two of them will forget the dress existed in the first place. But for now, she doesn't care. He can see it on her face more clearly through the puddle, even with the slight distortion. She’s pretty. Face round with childhood and soft from easy living. Her eyes are doe-like, and they shine even in the dreary weather. There is a flush to her cheeks from fulfilling meals and there is a sense of maturity in her that is of the taught variety. She looks like a living doll. How ugly.

“You shouldn’t kneel on the ground, it’s dirty and my father says it's improper.”

“But you’re kneeling on the ground, aren’t you?” Simon shoots back.

At that, the girl scrunches her button nose. She shifts her hold on the umbrella, looking at her reflection in thought before nodding, “I suppose so.”

It’s quiet again between the two, and they stare at the unmoving water. Simon is overly aware of the smudge of dirt on the apple of his cheek, and his hand twitches to rub at it. His face is thinner than most, a sign of slight malnourishment. Where she is soft and round, he is bony and sharp. He does not look unhealthy, but it is obvious that he lives off a few pence. He can feel his cheeks warm and he’s tempted to push her into the puddle so they both look silly.

Simon begins to get up, finding it about time to go back inside to hide away. He is quickly reminded of his reasons for staying outside when shattering glass sounds from his house and the screaming gets louder. He’s quick to drop back to his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. The girl tries to copy him as best as she can, her free arm trying to press her dress to her and she rests the side of her cheek on the fabric.

“Are those your parents? They’re quite loud,” she comments.

Simon shrugs, turning his head to rest his cheek on his knee too and stares at her. “And you’re quite nosy.”

The girl slowly smiles like it's an inside joke, and Simon thinks it's simultaneously the most prettiest and ugliest thing he has ever seen. “Your dress makes you look like a doll.”

The girl looks down at her dress, her hand smoothing out the fabric. “Thank you.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh.”

The girl blinks down at her dress, looking back at the reflections. Simon continues to watch her, and a sort of panic seizes his chest when she begins to get up. Simon gets up too, an apology on the tip of his tongue as she looks back towards the opening of the alley. But before he can say anything, a masculine voice calls. The girl sighs heavily from her nose as she huffs with a scrunched face. Her hand goes back to straightening out her dress and Simon watches silently. Once she is sorted out, she begins to turn, the man’s voice calling once again. But before she fully leaves, she turns back to Simon. Her smile is gentle as she hands him her umbrella, rain flattening her hair and water melting into her dress.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be taking what you said earlier as a compliment.”

Simon’s throat is dry as he watches her, his hand tightening on the end of the umbrella. She waits for a response, her smile dimming slightly when he doesn’t say anything. She finally turns away again when an angry shout of, what he assumes is her name, is shouted by the same man. She turns to look again after squeezing his wrist.

“It was very nice to meet you!” She calls back to him as she rushes out of the alley, turning the corner and disappearing.

Simon continues to stand there, his thumb stroking the handle in a daze. The sounds of hooves start again, rushing down the road. The carriage passes the alleyway again, and Simon’s eyes track the vehicle. Through the window, the girl and him make eye contact for a brief moment and then she is gone.

When Simon finally goes back inside, he cuts up the girl’s umbrella and hides the scraps of fabric around the house. The next day, he takes the whalebones to the market in exchange for a single shilling.

____________________

This time, the dress is lavender. There are still too many layers and too much lace. She still looks pretty and she still looks like a doll. She has brought the sun with her.

She’s taller now, but Simon has grown in the past year too. Now he stands a foot, and then some, above her. He will continue to grow in the next few days as he hits his growth spurt. Though, her height is not the only thing that has changed. She’s more refined too. Her dress layers are straightened to stack neatly over each other. Her corset is set tight and she stands with her shoulders pulled back. A shiny pendant sits between her collarbones and jewels hang from her ears. A high class lady who knows she is money itself. A stark contrast to the working boy appearance that Simon holds. His skin is always covered in a bit of dirt and rough calluses are beginning to cover the pad of his fingers. His shins are teased with cool air and his shirt is too tight under his arms.

The coachman helps her down from the carriage, and she looks around the port until her eyes land on Simon. Her face lights in recognition, and she stares at him even as her father speaks to her. She nods along to what he has to say numbly, and she rushes to Simon the minute her father turns his back to her. Simon sits on the crumbling steps to his house silently, his eyes staring as intently at her as she is at him. She stops before him, a wide smile on her face. Simon can feel his face twitch slightly, but he looks indifferent for the most part.

“Your parents are quiet today.”

All of England seems quiet today. But that isn’t without reason. Simon leans back on his hands, looking over his shoulder at the door. “They’re both at work right now.”

She nods in understanding, hands fisting the sides of her dress as she rocks back on her heels. She does not really understand, but she will pretend to. “May I sit with you?”

Simon hums dismissively, moving over for her. She walks up the steps slowly, lifting the ends of her dress so she doesn't trip on it. Even for her age, she carries a sort of grace that is fascinating to watch. As she sits, she fans out her dress in a way that still covers her legs, but is strategically placed to show off the abstract embroidery that announces its wealth. It’s a practiced stance. Simon scoots over a little more, scared to touch it and dirty it with his hands. She smells like flowers and salt. He smells like dirt and factory smoke. She smells like Nature and he smells like Industrialization. They do not belong in the same world.

She startles him slightly when she starts pawing at her dress. Her face is scrunched up, patting at the fabric until her eyes light up. Her hand digs into its layers, rustling as the under coats crinkle. When her hands appear, she produces a simple cloth bag tied in a knot at the top. Her slim fingers undo it with minimum struggle, laying it across her lap until it spreads open. Inside there are biscuits. The fancy kind with sticky jams and sweet creams in indented centers. They’re nothing like the hard, cracker-like type that his mother brings home on rare occasions or he steals at the market. She moves her knees, bringing the biscuits closer to him. The soft, shiny silk of her dress skims his shins and Simon wants to run away. Instead, he fists the material of his trousers.

She picks one up for herself, humming when the soft custard melts in her mouth. She looks at Simon expectedly, watching him through her chewing. Her head tilts at him, widening as she apologizes. It makes Simon’s head spin, watching her place the biscuit down and swipe her hands together to clear it of the soft dust coating her fingertips. Her finger hovers over the selection of treats, picking one up with utmost care.

“I’m so sorry, that was very rude of me,” She mumbles, looking back up at Simon sheepishly. “It didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t want to pick them up with the condition of your hands. It’s very considerate of you.”

He has no idea what she’s talking about. Considerate is not a word that blankets Simon. He should ask her to leave. Fancy treats and expensive dresses and sweet smelling perfume in tow. But he should know by now that she never leaves when he wants her too. Simon’s breath hitches when she leans in close, holding the biscuit to his mouth. He gulps down the saliva forming on his tongue, the hairs on his arm rising. Her eyelashes are long, the same colour as her hair if not darker. With her so close, he can see now that the natural flush of her cheeks are made brighter with a light dusting of powdered pink. The shine in her eyes is the most natural thing he has ever seen. He wonders if his eyes shine as bright, or if they are dark and muted. He wonders if she can see how pink his own cheeks are.

He is hesitant, looking down at the treat in her hand with contemplation. He can feel his stomach grumble, and his ears glow red when he opens his mouth slightly. The corner of his lip brushes against her fingers, and he keeps his eyes downcast even as he pulls away. His tongue licks over his lip, trying to feel the ghosting of her touch. The sweetness of the jam coats his tongue, and his eyes finally snap up to her. Her hand is still hovering next to his face, the remaining end of the biscuit waiting patiently in her hold. He leans in again, mesmerized by her eyes as she places the rest into his mouth.

“That one was orange,” She tells him, picking up another one, this time with a creme. “This one has chantilly cream. It’s from France, I believe.”

He hums dismissively, letting her feed him biscuits of various flavors. They all taste good, and Simon’s mouth feels thick from all the sweets. They smell and taste like he’d imagine her too. Like melted butter and something sweet and fruity and soft. With each new biscuit, she explains what it is he’s tasting and if it’s from somewhere foreign. He feels slightly guilty, watching her pick biscuit after biscuit without having a single one. Instead, she gives them all to him in her excitement. But then again, somewhere within Simon thinks bitterly, she probably has the money to buy crate fulls. His guilt dies fast.

When she has finished feeding him the last of the sweets, she turns to the side and dusts the crumbs to the floor. She folds the cloth into a neat and packed square, putting it back into her pocket for safe keeping. As she finishes, the calling of her name in rough syllables catches both of their attentions. Her father stands next to the carriage, a frown on his face as he looks between his daughter and a pocket watch in his hand. She gets up, brushing her dress off again and deleting any signs of improperness. If his hands were not dirty and holding onto his pants for dear life, Simon would have helped her up and walked her down the stairs. He finds himself wishing he had washed them before she came.

She turns to Simon one last time, hand coming up to brush the side of his lip again. He can feel crumbs falling, but he says nothing and watches her. He can’t even be embarrassed. Her touch is feather-like. It melts into his skin and warms it more than a raging fire could. She gives him a soft smile as she pulls away, taking a step back and in the direction of her father.

“It was nice to see you again.”

“Simon.”

“Simon,” She says with a nod, like she’s agreeing with him.

He stands up as she turns her back to him, walking to her father. Even with the distance, he can see the way her father helps her up into the carriage and leans in. Can hear even from a distance how he hisses to her, What did I tell you about feeding stray dogs? Simon’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and he turns away when her father looks at him. Simon misses the way she leans towards her father, whispering something defiant that surprises even him. Simon only turns back in time to watch as the carriage drives off and past him. When it disappears, he walks down the steps and into the alleyway next to his house.

For the first time in a while, his stomach feels full. It hurts and he feels sick to his stomach. He spends the next minutes throwing up thick, foreign creme and dry heaving. A stray dog sick in an alleyway, how fitting.

____________________

“Who's that rich girl you're always… galvaring with? The one that looks like a fancy tent.”

Simon pauses, icy cold water spilling from the outside faucet and hitting the ground. It splatters as it hits the cobble, and droplets stain his shoes a dark brown. Sometime after her visit to the docks, Simon has found that he tends to scrub himself clean. He rubs at his face until the water drips down his chin and wets the hair closest to his forehead. His hands are red and numb from his vigorous cleaning with cold water. The pad of his fingers are wrinkled, and his pants have dark streaks from where he wipes his hands dry. The nail beds of his fingers are slightly irritated from the amount of times he picks under them to rid of nonexistent dirt. He gets rewarded for his efforts to be presentable for her when she smiles at him, pushing his wet hair away from his face and commenting on how pretty the water makes his lashes look.

Simon turns to his younger brother Tommy who stares at him from the entrance of the alley. He has a make-shift kite in his hands. It’s been ripped from trees and as punishment from their father, but just like his mother’s petticoats, it has been repaired with stray fabrics. One piece of fabric is a baby blue that used to be part of an umbrella. He got the kite from Simon, as a gift for his birthday. He had made it from his own hands, grabbing twine and sticks and cloth and interlacing them to make it for Tommy. All of it was stolen from the ports.

“There is no such girl, and the word you’re looking for is galavanting, I believe.” Simon says, going back to his cleaning.

Tommy makes a face, one that clearly shows he doesn’t believe his brother and that he isn’t too happy with his brother correcting him. “You even speak like her.”

Simon sighs, turning off the faucet and wiping his hands. He turns to his brother again, walking over with a small smile. He’s quick as he grabs his brother, looping an arm around his neck to get him into a loose chokehold. Tommy instantly cries out, dropping his kite so he can grip onto his brother’s arm. He protests as Simon’s knuckles rub into his hair, creating a slight burning sensation. Simon only pauses as a carriage goes past the two of them and comes to a halt a few feet away. Tommy’s face is bloated with a pout, grumbling at his older brother as he fixes his hair. But Simon isn't paying attention to him anymore. His eyes are focused on the girl who is walking towards them.

Simon’s arm is loose around his brother’s shoulder, and Tommy takes it as a chance to shove him. Simon stumbles from the unexpected force, turning to scowl at his brother. He opens his mouth to scold him, but he stops when she reaches them. She bends down, grabbing Tommy’s kite off of the ground. The two brothers seem to pause as they watch her. She dusts the kite off gently, like it’s something precious. Her hands brush over the baby blue fabric before holding it out for his brother.

“I assume this must be yours. You have a very nice kite. Are you… Tommy… by any chance? Simon speaks very highly of you.” She asks him in that honeyed voice. Simon can see how enchanted Tommy is with her already. He assumes that she has that effect on everyone she meets.

Tommy takes the kite tentatively. It’s almost as if he’s scared she will steal it back at the last minute to destroy it infront of his face. His eyes are wide as he stares at her, and his hands clench around the sides of the kite tightly. Simon is about to nudge him to reply, but Tommy beats him to it. “Your dress looks like a big tent.”

Simon wants her carriage to run him over. Simon’s eyes widen the same time her’s do, his lips parting in disbelief. Dread fills his stomach as he stares at Tommy, but Tommy even looks shocked that he said it. Simon turns to her with a furrowed brow, face burning from Tommy’s brashness. For a second, he fears that she’ll be offended and leave. Maybe complain to her father about his brother. But then, her mouth twitches. Her shoulders rise as she tries to fight off her smile, failing as she begins to laugh. Her eyes crinkle as her hand flies to her mouth, covering the wide smile she sports. Her other arm wraps around her waist, holding her stomach. Her eyes gleam and Simon’s breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Oh my, really? On the contrary, I’ve been told my attire resembles a doll,” She replies, eyes quickly darting to Simon at her cheeky comment. Simon can feel his face burn again at the tease, and he’s quick to look away and rub the back of his neck.

Tommy looks shy as he nods, and he takes the quickest exit when one of the neighbors’ boys calls for him to join them. Tommy whispers a quick goodbye before running off. She and Simon watch as he goes, a fond smile on her face. When they’re finally alone, Simon turns to her with a bashful smile and an apology on the tip of his tongue. But she holds her hand up and smiles slightly at him, shaking her head gently as if she already knows what he was going to say. Instead, she holds her hand out, and Simon is quick to step forward. He bends his arm, and she slips hers through. It’s a routine the two of you have started to pick up. Her other hand comes to rest on the side of his arm, and the two of you walk to the port.

“He’s very funny, your brother. I can see the resemblance,” She starts nudging him slightly with a cheeky smile before adding, “in appearance and mannerisms. Very blunt the Riley family seems to be.”

Simon sighs, hanging his head as he rolls his eyes. When he looks back at her, she has a bright smile and crinkling eyes. Her hold on him tightens reassuringly for a minute, relaxing again as they reach the port. The smell of salt air is strong, and she lets go of his hand slightly to grab onto the hat she’s wearing, holding it in place as a gust of wind passes by. Simon can’t help but watch. Her hair flows behind her, playing with the wind. The front of her skirt is plastered to her legs, delicate lace and silk swaying. And her eyes- god her eyes- sparkle as she looks ahead, reflecting the waves and ships and sun. The ocean seems to be bowing before her. The waves rise to glimpse at her, before falling in a form of respect. She is enchanting.

He has never felt his heart pound so heavily.

When the wind dies down, and everything floats back to their place, she turns to him. Her hand leaves her hat, gravitating to his hair as she fixes it for him. Her touch is gentle, raking through and breaking knots painlessly as she shapes it. She hums when she’s satisfied, smiling at her handiwork before tugging him to the right where her father’s ships are anchored. She begins talking to him about a new shipment of treats her father has ordered for the manor. She makes sure to mention that his favorite biscuits, the ones with chantilly cream, were included in the shipment. She fails to mention that she specifically asked her father to order them with the intent to give them to Simon. He half-listens as she speaks, entranced by the way her tongue moves and forms the vowels in her speech. Tommy had said that he was starting to sound like her. He thinks Tommy is wrong. No one can replicate the perfect tone of her voice, but he wishes his voice sounded as soothing as hers. He hopes that she finds it to be.

By the time she steers them back to the awaiting carriage, she has the sack of biscuits in her hands and she is speaking of a slight decrease in exports to the English colonies but does not mention why. She stops them at the carriage entrance, the coachman already waiting at the door. Her father is not there yet, tidying up conversation with his head merchant. She sighs as she turns to him, handing him the bag of treats so she can fix his shirt and shoo away nonexistent dust. She gives him a soft smile as her hands rest on his chest, and he’s scared she can feel the rapid beating of his heart. He clutches the bag tighter.

“It was very nice to meet your brother today. I hope to see more of him on my future visits.” She says quietly, as if it is a secret for them to share. Simon nods wordlessly, helping her up the carriage steps. He tries to give her back the bag but she only smiles and tells him to keep it.

“I’ll see you next time, Simon.”

“Til’ next time, Doll.” He whispers back.

Simon takes a step back when he hears footsteps approaching, turning his head to see her displeased father. Simon steps further back so he can enter the carriage, but he doesn’t miss the way her father looks down his nose at him. He doesn’t miss the way her father’s eyes fall to the bag in his hands that they both know he could never afford. Nonetheless, Simon holds his stare until her father looks away, entering the carriage and sitting across from her. The coachman closes the door, turning to nod a farewell to Simon that he returns. Simon stands and watches as the carriage begins to leave, flinching slightly in surprise when Tommy comes beside him.

“Her father seems like a twat.” He comments. Tommy has never been fond of people who looked down at his admirable big brother, and Simon has never been peaceful with those who mess with his little brother.

Simon’s mouth twitches at Tommy’s words, snorting as he throws an arm around his little brother’s shoulders. “Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?”

Simon’s eyes wander to the bag in his hands, and he fumbles to open it with the awkward angle his other arm is in. But when he does get it open, he offers it down for Tommy to take one.

“Want a biscuit? They have this thing in the center called chantilly cream from France, I believe.”

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