Work Text:
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
-- Mary Oliver, "In Blackwater Woods"
The funeral fell on a rainy Thursday. Clouds turned the sky a dark grey, thunder clapped and crackled, and lightning blinked at irregular intervals. It did not let up, even after the service ended and guests sprinkled moist dirt atop Cassandra Kiramman’s glistening cherrywood coffin. A perfect backdrop, Caitlyn thought, holding her fistful of dirt aloft; she could not weep. She was glad there was someone else to do it for her, even if the tears came from above.
She could not say any words, either, and so she let the dirt go.
She stood for a while at the hole, gazing down, wondering, not for the first time, how any of this was real. Surely it was a dream. She’ll wake up when she reaches her front door, and she’ll walk inside to see her mother descending the stairs with her teacup in hand, waiting to be refilled, its creamy rim stained with her pink lipstick. They’ll say hello. They’ll see each other at dinner. They’ll say goodnight. And before her mother disappears into the master suite, Caitlyn will hug her, hold onto her. Inhale the scent of her Councillor’s clothes that smell like the Audience Chamber and her plum perfume.
“What’s come over you?” her mother will ask, gentleness and surprise mingling in her voice, not hesitating to hug Caitlyn back.
“I missed you,” Caitlyn will say.
Her mother might chuckle, might smile against Caitlyn’s hair, kiss it, as she’d done when Caitlyn was years younger. “I’ll see you when the sun’s up, darling.”
Caitlyn turned away as the dirt atop the coffin turned into mud, avoiding the gazes of Jayce and Councillor Medarda and the very few others who had managed to escape by a hair’s breadth. She didn’t want their pity. Didn’t want their kindness, either. She only wanted to climb into bed and lay with the decaying flowers.
She caught sight of Vi, who stood stoically beneath an old tree, soaked from the rainwater sliding off green leaves. She was dressed in her undercity clothes, but had added more black to them. Her hood wasn’t drawn over her head, and so her hair was plastered down and dripping, a darker pink. She lifted her head, meeting Caitlyn’s gaze, straightening immediately.
Caitlyn said, “Walk me home?”
“Of course.”
Vi fell in step easily. Her posture, Caitlyn noticed, wasn’t its usual casual confidence; she sagged slightly, her head pointed to the ground rather than upward. She looked as tired as Caitlyn felt.
There were, of course, a few minor events that had happened in the wake of the tragedy: tightened security, a new sheriff whose loyalty to Piltover was absolute, an immediate notice for Jinx’s capture, which was pasted all throughout the city on thick, weatherproof paper. The case was wide open and being investigated, but Caitlyn could take no part. She was ordered to rest, to recuperate. She could say all this to Vi, but she had a feeling Vi already knew. And words were escaping her. It was as if somebody was slowly sewing her mouth shut. Soon, she wouldn’t speak at all, only when she was ready to unthread the strings.
It seemed every surface in the house was covered with flowers and sympathy cards. Sweetness and expensive cardstock permeated the air, a sickly scent that made Caitlyn’s head swim no matter which room she found herself in. Had she the energy, she would’ve thrown everything out a long while ago, but grief was a heavy beast that ate away at her motivation.
Her father locked himself in the drawing room not long after the front doors shut behind them, but he said a quiet and heavy “Thank you for coming” to Vi beforehand.
Now they were alone. Caitlyn unbuckled her boots and left them by the door.
“I’ll make you tea,” Vi said. “You go on upstairs.”
“I don’t want any,” Caitlyn said. “But thank you.” She turned left and into the parlour, where her father had pulled out the remnants of a firelight and her mother had scolded her for her language. Caitlyn walked quickly through it and took the stairs two at a time, Vi following, having nowhere else to go, either.
There was safety in her bedroom, but only just. It wasn’t as haunted a room as the others. Small mercies.
Thunder crackled over the house, rattling Caitlyn’s bedroom window in its frame. The rain came down harder, the drops fat and heavy. It was the serenade as she stepped into her bathroom and started the shower. She brushed out her hair at her vanity, seeing Vi’s reflection in the mirror, hands in her pockets, shifting from foot to foot, uncertain if she should climb out the window or stay. Caitlyn swallowed, finding her throat clogged with a stone, and said, “Vi, will you… Will you help me?”
Wordlessly, Vi strode forward, and with a delicate but business-like demeanour, helped Caitlyn to undress, beginning with her pinned-up hair and ending with her under-things. In the mirror, Caitlyn saw Vi avert her eyes, saw her fiddle with the gold hairpins; they clinked like tapping fingernails.
Vi said, eventually, “Do you want company?”
Caitlyn nodded, and opened the shower door, stepping into its humid interior without waiting for Vi. She heard her shedding her clothes over the falling water, felt a rush of cool air kiss her back and thighs as the shower door opened again.
When Caitlyn reached for her favourite shampoo, she found her hand was trembling.
Vi’s fingers brushed hers. “Here,” she said, “let me.”
The scent of lavender and rosemary, and the feeling of Vi’s fingers in her hair, were some of the gentlest sensations she’d felt in days. Caitlyn’s knees weakened when Vi began rinsing the shampoo; she lurched forward, catching herself against the wall that bore the temperature controls just as Vi caught her hips.
“Cait,” Vi said gently, “hey. Sit down.”
Vi turned her around so that she was behind, and propelled them both to the floor. Water from the showerhead kissed their legs.
“Lean back,” Vi murmured, her breath tickling Caitlyn’s hair. “I’ve got you.”
Caitlyn sank back against Vi, into soft and muscled warmth, into a strong embrace. “Is this what it felt like?” Caitlyn asked after a lengthy silence passed, voice shy of a whisper. She knew Vi knew what she meant; she felt Vi’s nod.
“Yeah,” Vi replied quietly.
The cries she could not manage earlier bubbled up inside her chest, and hot tears stung her eyes, made her lower lip tremble. “Does it get better?”
Vi’s embrace tightened. Soft lips pressed against Caitlyn’s temple. “Not for a while. You’ll feel trapped, inside and out. The days and months will seem endless and slip away at the same time. You won’t notice the seasons change, won’t notice the weather, or… the people talking to you. You’ll feel like you’re floating rather than walking, and all the love you held for the person who’s gone won’t know where to go.” Vi’s voice dropped in volume. “But one day you’ll get up out of bed, and you’ll notice the sun shining in your window, or that you can stand to make tea and sit to breakfast, that you want to walk down the street with a friend.” She kissed Caitlyn’s head again. “It’ll happen in your own good time.”
The first sob broke through, and Caitlyn could not stop the rest.
Gently, Vi turned her round, and Caitlyn sank into her arms, weeping heavily, openly, against Vi’s naked chest.
After a sombre supper, Caitlyn went straight to bed. When next she woke, it was in the middle of the night, the rain pounding on the house like a thousand angry, wet fists, and with the warm weight of Vi behind her. She turned and rolled into it, burying her nose against Vi’s exposed neck, hardly hearing her name spoken in a whisper laden with drowsiness. Vi was warm, and alive; something she needed. Something she wanted to claw into herself, even if that warmth faded after seconds.
She kissed Vi’s neck. Her jaw.
“Cait…”
She took Vi’s hand and pressed it into her breast, aware there was only the thin covering of her silk top between Vi’s palm and her bare skin, aware, more, that Vi could feel her nipple.
Vi rolled them over, pinning Caitlyn beneath her, taking her hand away from Caitlyn’s breast and cupping her face. She was already short of breath, and her eyes, from what Caitlyn could see in the faint, golden lamplight bleeding through her window, were clouded with sudden lust and worry.
“This won’t help,” Vi said. The heaviness in her voice told Caitlyn she had tried this method many times, with the same results. But she did not care. She wanted to feel. Needed to.
“You want me,” Caitlyn said.
Vi swallowed. Said, “I do. But—”
“Then fuck me.” She kissed Vi gently on the mouth. “Please,” Caitlyn whispered, “just fuck me.”
“Okay,” Vi murmured, nodding with finality, stroking Caitlyn’s cheek with her thumb. “Whatever you want.”
Vi’s kiss, though gentle, was consuming. It sent shivers through Caitlyn’s limbs; sent heat where she hoped she’d feel it. She slid her hands over Vi’s back, beneath her shirt; Vi broke the kiss to peel it off. She wore nothing underneath.
Vi slid Caitlyn’s sleep shirt up and off, setting it at the foot of the bed; Caitlyn pushed her down, sighing as their bare skin met, as Vi’s hand wasted no time before trailing south.
Caitlyn moaned at the touch of Vi’s fingers against her, clutching at Vi’s shoulders, spreading her knees wider to allow Vi to situate herself comfortably between them.
“Hold onto me,” Vi said.
Two fingers slid gently inside and crooked in the opposite direction; a palm settled and brushed against her throbbing clitoris; and Caitlyn held on, as tightly as she dared, clinging to the little sliver of life they were creating—every moan that slipped from either of their mouths, every open-mouthed kiss Vi pressed to her chin, her jaw, her neck, the curve of her shoulder; every thrust and brush that brought her close to climax. And this, Caitlyn realised, studying the lines and curves of Vi against her, crying out as Vi adjusted the angle, was where her love ought to go. To her father, sleeping alone down the hall; to the house that still bore pieces of her mother at every turn; to the woman atop her who could have left for good that day in the rain, but chose to stay.
“Don’t go,” Caitlyn whispered breathlessly, suddenly.
Vi’s fingers stilled inside her, and Vi pulled back a little, panting, gazing down at Caitlyn with pale eyes awash with hurt, and empathy, and an emotion Caitlyn could name but couldn’t say aloud.
Vi’s free hand cupped her face, warm and gentle. “I’m right here,” she said softly. “I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.” Her lips were soft against Caitlyn’s forehead. She began the rhythm again, albeit slower, curling and pressing her fingers in a such a way that sent full tremors through Caitlyn’s body. “Do you feel me?” Vi said.
Caitlyn could only nod. Could only pull Vi down again and kiss her firmly, could only gasp and moan Vi’s name—helplessly—against her soft mouth, could only claw at her back as she came. She felt pleasure—an intense, white wave—and felt Vi carrying her through it, until the very end, when Caitlyn stilled and there was nothing but thick air between them.
She held Vi’s face between her hands, while Vi’s fingertips moved still-damp strands of hair from her eyes.
Somewhere, in another life, she’s leaning over the balcony at the back of the house, watching the sun sink into the west, her mother’s heeled footsteps retreating behind her.
“Caitlyn,” she’ll say; and Caitlyn will turn, looking over her shoulder to see her mother standing in the balcony’s doorframe, awash in warm, golden light, her face tender with love and proudness. “She’s a good woman.”
In this life, she said, I know.