Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Navia Caspar exhales through her mouth with a practiced, controlled pace. Her cold breath hits the top of her bare knee, the one that shakes up and down, up and down, up and down. Her finger taps on the armrest next to her, an imaginary beat to a half-produced song stuck in her head. She can’t wait to ask Melus to take her to the studio tonight to record it. 

She exhales again. She hears the push of her breath in her ears. 

“Miss Caspar?” 

Navia looks up, a smile on her lips as she takes an earpiece out of her ear to hear her better. Archenoul, an assistant from the Spina di Rosula and who had brought Navia her cookies to her hotel room just that morning, bows her head slightly to her in mild reverence. 

Navia waves her hand at her with a small laugh to get her to continue, without the hoity-toity pleasantries. 

“Please,” Navia says with a light giggle, standing straighter in her chair, “it’s just Navia. Remember?”

“Of course,” Archenoul replies, twirling a pen in her hand. “Miss Navia,” she tacks on to the end. 

Navia takes it as a win, regardless. She looks at Archenoul expectantly. She already predicts the words before it even comes out of her mouth. She knows from the way the Spina members around her are running up and down, barking orders down a chain of other people like a game of middle school telephone, and how everyone seems to be glancing at her from the corners of their eyes as they pass. 

“You’re on in five, Miss Navia,” Archenoul says. 

Navia gives her a warm smile and stands from her chair. “Thank you,” she says lightly, and Archenoul’s eyes dart away from her as if afraid to be blinded by her bright blue, starry eyes. It’s something that most people in her life tend to do nowadays. 

Her five minutes allot her many things to do. It’s no longer overwhelming, at least. Back then, it had been a nightmare. 

Everything is practiced, a muscle memory deep and stuck to her bones: two people help her put on a coat (nights in Fontaine, especially up on a stage, are especially chilly, after all), her mic is checked, a makeup artist fusses over the tint of her lip gloss, someone speaks in her earpiece to check its volume, Navia stretches her wrists as her team forms a huddle and Florent leads a pep talk, and a stage manager directs her to the entrance and gives final cues to her crew. 

With thirty seconds left, Navia looks around backstage one last time. Everyone is much too busy with their own jobs to pay her any mind, and Navia is left there, standing and waiting for instructions. Navia shrugs off the poking feeling of loneliness. She pats herself on the back with twenty seconds left to her mental timer. 

When Navia enters the stage and the lights focus on her, all she sees and hears is a thunderous ocean. 

Thousands upon thousands of people are standing right in front of her, many close to the stage, but just as many far back into the balconies, people who are there to find even just a small glimpse of her from up above. Of course, Navia makes sure to wave up there first. She knows from experience that fans in those balconies are more likely to be those who have traveled abroad to see her concerts, those who have traveled from Mondstadt or even Inazuma just to experience a night like this. 

It makes Navia happy. It makes her happy to know that she can make people happy, even if it’s just for a few hours during a Saturday night in one of the biggest venues in Fontaine. 

She closes her eyes and soaks in the moment. It’s something she does for every concert, for every place she comes across, for every morning that she wakes in a life full of love. She’s a fortunate soul to carry this much love around her, and she hopes that her smile as she looks around can convey that. 

Navia raises her mic to her lips, and it’s like the entire ocean hushes, not even the sound of water breaking the hull. 

“Fontaine!” she shouts, and her voice echoes around the stage like a siren calling to the sirens. It clearly has the desired effect as a siren too. The stadium roars. “It’s nice to meet you all again!” 

As if she thought they could get any louder, the ocean in front of her heightens to the yell of a tsunami. 

Navia grins. Her heart is pounding so hard in her chest, and once her drummer behind her counts the band in, it also begins to pound to the beat of her intro song. She starts to jump around the stage, giggling into her mic and walking closer to the fans in front of her, and Navia Caspar feels like she’s on top of the entire world, built on stairs by people who love her and people she loves back. 

It’s hard to reach Celestia like this, though. She knows it, deep in her soul. 

Not when she knows that there’s a missing step in that staircase.

At 9 P.M. on the dot, Navia finishes her final song for the night and bows to the audience with an exhausted grin before making her last remarks, then slips off into the shadows of the curtains. 

She can hear and feel the stomps on the ground as people rally to get her to come out again for an encore, though Navia only shakes her head fondly at their antics. She’d already performed two encore songs for them, and an acoustic version of an upcoming song on her new album— but then again, she should know by now that Fontanians can be quite the rowdy bunch when it comes to the dramatics of being in an opera house. 

Someone silently hands her a clean cloth to wipe her forehead with. She thanks them with a smile, then hands him her microphone for him to take away. Another assistant comes by her side, wearing wired headphones with a tablet in her hands as she talks Navia’s ear off about the rest of her day. Navia walks to her dressing room while she listens, bobbing her head along.

Navia chews on some gummy bears after she’s helped out of her dress and put into more relaxed clothing. When she finishes her handful of gummy bears, she’s led outside to a small group of people who scream her name and hold out notebooks and sharpies and phones. Diligently, Navia makes sure to sign every single item presented in front of her, as well as smiling beautifully towards any lens of a camera pointed her way. 

She’s led into a chaperoned car next, where she’s taken to a photography studio to do some reshoots for an advertisement for a perfume line. Emilie shakes her hand and smiles at her, and her company is very welcome to the hecticness of being posed in different positions like a doll for the next hour. 

Melus and Silver find their way to her at the end of the shoot. She hugs them both, overjoyed to see them for the first time all day, and they merely laugh and help her into her chaperoned limousine that takes her into the Spina di Rosula building, wherein she needs to finish up the rest of her album signings. 

Navia’s hand feels like it’s about to fall off by the time she puts the cap back on her marker. Silver wipes her forehead for her, and Melus gives her a bottle of water to drink. The ten seconds she has to drink is the only break she can afford because Navia is, once again, steered to another location.

It’s nearly midnight by the time Navia finishes checking in with her ambassador work with the local charity, checks in with the Steambird to confirm her interview time slots for next week, takes more photos with fans on the streets, signs more items for fathers with daughters who would love to get a signature from her, double checks the time for her choreography practice for tomorrow, and takes off her makeup in her bathroom. 

Navia collapses on her bed, face first. 

She groans into her pillow. The sound is muffled by the fluffiness of her pillow, one that she picked up during a tour in Liyue. 

She stays like that for a while, breathing in the scent of her perfume soaked in by her pillow. There’s a whisper in the back of her head, the demon that stands on her shoulder, whispering to her to stay in bed like that forever and never come back up to face another hectic day. 

But, just like she’s been doing for every day of her life, Navia rolls over and starfishes on her large queen-sized bed, looking up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. After expecting her polished ceiling for another minute, Navia gets up from bed with an undignified groan.

She scratches her lower back with a wince, already feeling the soreness spreading there. Making a mental note to ask Melus or Silver to bring her an icepack tomorrow morning, Navia throws her closet doors open. 

This is usually the part where she would quickly, sluggishly undress and pick up her silkiest pajamas and crawl into bed for a good night’s sleep. Consigliere, her pet turtle, would curl under the sheets with her and they would both snore to their hearts’ content. 

Not today. 

Navia needs a new change of pace. 

Even if every part of her body is begging her to lie down and sleep already.

With a huff to blow a strand of hair out of her face, Navia changes out of her sweaty clothes and into something more casual. Her outfit is much plainer than what a person would expect of Navia Caspar, Fontanian superstar, but that’s exactly what she’s looking for. 

Navia puts a hand on her doorknob before she gasps and turns back on her heel. 

“Can’t forget you, you trusty old thing,” she whispers to herself, picking up a pair of sunglasses. She grins and puts it on her face before kissing Consigliere on the forehead and walking out of her door. She kicks it close with a light kick. No one should be able to recognize Navia with her sunglasses on. It’s perfect for a night like this. 

She holds her breath for a long moment when she exits her apartment building. 

When no one comes up to her and mobs her for more autographs or pictures, nor when no one openly gawks at her like some sort of creature out of her zoo habitat, Navia does a small fist pump at her side. She taps the side of her glasses in victory, and she grins as she slips away into the lively Fontanian night. 

She makes a beeline for Hotel Debord. Not only is the hotel close to her apartment, but it’s also a sentimental place to be. It’s the first place to give her a chance to perform when she was starting out in high school, and Vaneigem is still a dear friend of hers in the industry. Fond memories are etched into its very architecture, both in performing on the stage and sitting at their tables watching other performances with dear friends and…

Well, fond memories, as well as bittersweet ones. But, what other place can she turn to right now for comfort? Bittersweet coffee to a tired soul is a better alternative to no coffee at all. 

Navia is greeted by a waiter the moment she enters. She knows that the waiter recognizes her from underneath her sunglasses from the way his eyes sparkle at her, but she merely smiles at him, coy in nature, and presses a finger to her lips to keep him quiet. 

He leads her to her usual spot: a corner in the room that allows her to survey the area and people-watch as she pleases, but a corner where no one can bother her themselves. The waiter pours her some wine as she sits cross-legged, and she requests that he leaves the bottle for her to take home. He nods and says that he will be back with her food shortly. There’s no need for Navia to ask for a menu here. The chef always seems to know exactly what she wants, on any given day.

Navia hums as she plays with the corner of the small notebook that she’s brought along with her in a coat pocket. She thumbs through the worn edges, finding a blank page, and begins to doodle in it with a pen. Doodling helps with thinking of new lyrics, a new beat, or simply to clear her mind. For a solitary night like this, under the dim light of the hotel that only thrums with the sweet vibrations of the cello player on stage, it’s the best thing that she can afford right now. 

“Can I sit here?”

Startled, Navia’s pen streaks an inch to the right from the little flower that she’s doodling in her page. She sets her pen down before she can do more damage to the page, flustered enough to feel the slight twinge of warmth sweep across the skin of her cheeks and neck. 

Navia clears her throat. “I don’t see why not,” she says, trying to level her voice in a I’m not famous, I’m just here to eat as a normal citizen of Fontaine kind of way. 

The woman smiles at her, relieved at her reciprocated invitation. Her smile is small, but it fits perfectly on her graceful face, framed by dark locks and the stature of someone confident and self-assured in their abilities to walk around the room with their chin held high. 

The woman sits right across from her, placing down a cup of tea. Oddly enough, she places it right in front of Navia, rather than herself. 

“You look like you could use some peppermint tea,” she says with another smile. This smile is smaller, shyer but still warm. 

Navia laughs, holding onto her glass of wine instinctively. Her thumb smooths over the feeling of the cold surface, but she doesn’t make a move to drink it, nor the tea. 

“Do I make it that obvious?” Navia teases. The woman just shortly nods. It’s hard to tell from a distance, like from across a stage, but she supposes that being this close at a table can be obvious to anyone just how tired Navia looks, even with her sunglasses perched on her nose to hide her subtle eyebags.

Navia sighs and lets go of her glass of wine. She takes the tea and holds it by the handle, bringing it up to her face to inhale the scent of peppermint. It’s inviting. She used to drink this all the time, when she would stay up late writing her songs or going over scripts until she had them memorized to perfection. 

Her father would pass it to her silently across a table while she worked. It smells so much like his recipe, minty with a hint of honey and milk. There were very few people in the world who knew she liked it that way. 

She looks back at the woman, and she stares. 

Navia scrutinizes every part of her.

She is a stranger, Navia realizes; but the woman also looks so much like someone who she happens to know like one. 

Navia swallows down her emotions, gently placing the cup of tea back down in front of her. She can’t tell what those emotions entail, really. Disappointment? Relief? Is it possible that it could be both at the same time, swirling like the peppermint and milk in this cup?

“I’m sorry,” Navia says, too gentle for a stranger. “Can I—” She clears her throat. “Well. I think I’m being a little rude, huh? What’s your name?”

The woman just smiles, lips that curve at the corners. Something about this woman’s eyes doesn’t quite reach her smile, and it suddenly starts to put Navia on edge. 

“It’s not very important,” the woman insists, her voice like a coo, as if trying to calm Navia down. “I’m just here to look out for someone in need, that’s all. You looked like you needed something that wasn’t wine.” 

“Oh,” Navia says dumbly. 

“Thank you,” she says again, once she remembers her manners. 

She gnaws on her lower lip and looks back down at her cup. There’s something in the pit of her stomach telling her to keep speaking to this mysterious woman, to ask her why she’s here, haunting her like a ghost of someone who hasn’t left this corner of the hotel. At the same time, turning down a kind stranger’s cup of peppermint tea doesn’t feel the most natural thing to do, even if half of her body begs her to do so. Navia is kind as much as she is jaded.

“Please,” the woman says, gesturing to the cup of tea. Her voice is smooth like honey. “Drink up. I’ll get out of your hair and let you enjoy the rest of your evening. I just wanted to make sure you felt taken care of. It was nice meeting you, Navia.”

So she knows who she is. 

It’s hardly surprising, but it makes Navia narrow her eyes. She takes off her sunglasses and tucks it into the collar of her shirt, looking at the woman across from her eye to eye for the first time all evening. 

There are very few people in this world who would treat her as if she isn’t Navia Caspar. She feels warm in this woman’s presence now, being treated like any girl from Poisson.

Navia smiles at the woman in front of her, a new friend found on such an estranged night. 

“Thank you, again,” she says shyly, and the woman just smiles at her. Again, her smile never reaches her eyes. 

Navia picks up the cup by the handle and brings it to her lips. 

She feels the warmth of the tea lapping gently against her mouth when she feels someone places curled fingers on her wrist. 

The grip on her wrist is strong, but it doesn’t bruise her. 

It’s imploring, just as much as it is gentle. 

Navia brings the cup back down to the table, obedient to a silent command.

“I’ve spoken to the owner upstairs,” a voice says next to her, magisterial and yet still possessing that quiet sense of calm. “Monsieur Vaneigem doesn’t seem to think that you’re a part of his staff.”

The woman, who had been so calm and warm since sitting across from Navia, opens and closes her mouth as she stares wide-eyed at Clorinde like a fish out of water. Navia notices the grip the woman has on the corner of the table first— how oddly tense she seems, now that Clorinde is staring down at her.

There is no threat behind Clorinde’s eyes, but then again, is she ever one to kneel to such measures? Though the look on her face is not particularly inviting, it’s not hostile either.

But her presence alone, the confidence and conviction that she carries, is disarming. It strips anyone in her vicinity of their belligerence, and Navia is not immune to it either. She avoids Clorinde’s eye, and she tells herself that it’s because she would like to scrutinize the other woman instead, and not because Clorinde’s presence next to her makes her heart feel sunken to the floor. 

Navia’s heart pounds in her chest. It doesn’t feel like it does when she’s on stage with the deafening beats of her drumist behind her. The stage is exhilarating. Being here feels like she’s cold and trapped. 

“I was…” the woman begins, and she swallows hard like there’s a knife in her throat. “I wanted to make Miss Navia’s day a little bit better. I was just about to leave.”

The woman makes the bold move to get up from her chair, the scrape of its legs making Navia wince as it echoes off the walls of the hotel, and Clorinde takes a step towards her. 

Clorinde being closer only agitates the woman even further. Navia empathizes. 

“Would you mind taking a sip of Miss Navia’s drink for her?” Clorinde asks. 

The request is adjacent to friendly, as if Clorinde had just asked if she could tell her the time. Still, the underlying intention is clear. 

“Oh, I couldn’t. I don’t think Miss Navia would like to share drinks with a stranger, after all,” the woman says with a small laugh. Her eyes are shifting back and forth, over each of Clorinde’s shoulders, as if looking for a spot to dart away to. Navia stands up straighter, and she begins to feel the urgency of the situation, even if her throat already feels constricted by something else in the vicinity. 

“I think she would be inclined to agree with that,” Clorinde just says. “No one in their right mind would share a drink with a stranger.”

Navia winces. She knows it’s not Clorinde’s intent to rope her into the conversation like that to insult her, even if passively. But still— she can’t help but look down at the tablecloth and wish she could bolt just like that woman. The very sound of Clorinde’s voice is like the snarl of a wolf to her, and she’s become prey. 

She wishes she could run. 

She wishes she could stay. 

She wonders which Clorinde would prefer. 

And then Navia gets angry, clenching her fists into her lap. She gets angry at herself. What does Clorinde’s opinion matter in this? Why does she still care?

“I’m sorry,” the woman blurts out. “I didn’t mean to disturb either of you, if—”

“Drink the tea,” Clorinde says. It’s neither a demand nor order. 

There is no one in Fontaine who would dare to object to Clorinde’s wishes, as small as they can be. Navia knows it’s just a mere fact. 

So when the woman just shakes her head silently, side to side, her face pale, Navia is both surprised and impressed. 

This woman has just signed her death warrant. 

Navia half-expects Clorinde to pull out her gun, right here in front of everyone. Though no one is staring at them, she can tell that people at other tables are beginning to glance over at them in mere curiosity, their eyes glazing over Navia’s face twice as if trying to place her face in their memories. She’s grateful for how far away the waiter had placed her from everyone else. 

She’s grateful, even if she would never say so out loud, when Clorinde merely steps closer into the woman’s circle, a hand gripped on the woman’s shoulder, her lips close to the woman’s ears as she whispers some sort of instructions, and then steps away to watch the woman nod, blurt more apologies, and hurry away outside of the hotel. 

Of course Clorinde decides to take the quieter route. 

Clorinde knows how much Navia likes the spectacle on the stage, and how much she likes the privacy at Hotel Debord. 

And it’s that context between them, of knowing what they like and don’t like in a situation like this, that makes Navia wish she could just slap Clorinde in the face and walk away and never look back again for another three years. 

And it's in that context that Navia knows that she won’t do it, that Clorinde knows she won’t. 

They watch until the woman leaves fully out of the door. 

Clorinde turns her head to look down at Navia. She looks straight into Navia’s eyes, before she turns her chin abruptly away, as if Navia could cast her into stone with another look. Navia wishes she could. 

But having Clorinde hanging her head next to her like Navia had kicked her is punishment for the both of them enough. 

Navia sighs. She pushes the tea away. Clorinde steps aside as if expecting her to rise from her seat and walk away. It would have been the sensible choice. 

Instead, Navia says, “Sit down. People are going to keep staring at you if you don’t.”

If she didn’t want to walk away, she could have just asked Clorinde to do it for her. Clorinde would have complied with her wishes. They both know it. 

Clorinde complies now, sitting across from Navia where the woman had sat down before even if the tension in her shoulders tell her that Clorinde would be wanting to do anything but. 

And now Clorinde sits here, across from her, like a ghost from her past. 

Except theoretically, ghosts can’t touch her and hurt her. Clorinde could. 

She could reach out across the table and touch Navia’s hand, or place her fingertips on Navia’s cheek, or look at Navia until the look on her face warrants a stab into the chest. It would hurt all the same.

It hurts now, but Navia is an actress. She just looks back at Clorinde, quelling the blossom of pain that spreads across her entire body like poison running into the veins. 

She knows that there must be poison in the tea, that this very feeling of paralysis is what Clorinde has been trying to prevent for her. Navia is beginning to prefer actual poison to the look that Clorinde gives her now. At least actual poison would hurt less. 

“Were you following me?” Navia asks. She can’t keep the tightness out of her voice. Even the greatest actresses have a limit to what they can prevent. 

Clorinde flinches at the demand at her tone. It’s exhilarating to know that she has that kind of effect over Clorinde’s head, but it makes her feel just as dejected. What’s happened to them? 

She should have never given Clorinde her heart. She should have never let Clorinde point that arrow into her heart, trusting her never to fire. Clorinde is someone who knows how to aim for the kill. 

“I wasn’t,” Clorinde finally says. She’s looking down at the table cloth like Navia had, her fingertips rubbing the cloth like it could provide her even the tiniest sliver of comfort. “I was here for… work.”

Navia takes two deep inhales before she responds. She needs to get through this conversation civilly, at the very least. 

“Thank you,” Navia says. It comes out easier than she thought. “I think I would’ve taken a sip and gotten myself hurt if you weren’t there to stop me.”

Clorinde glances upwards to look at her for a moment. She surveys Navia’s entire face, as if looking for the slightest twitch in her cheek. Navia doesn’t blame her. She wishes it was a lie.

“I couldn’t let you get hurt,” Clorinde replies quietly. 

Navia nods. It feels stiff to do so. It’s not like Clorinde had said anything unveiling. Even before the stardom, when they were merely nine and ten years old, Clorinde had always stuck up for her when she couldn’t. She was Navia’s protector, both of her health and her ideals. 

It would have been foolish to think Clorinde would stop, even if she had been the one to walk out of Navia’s life.

She clears her throat once again and reaches for her wine instead, sipping on that instead of the deadly tea that rests in the space between them. 

“I told her to wait for me outside, so I could deal with her accordingly,” Clorinde says again when the silence begins to become overbearing. “I will take the tea with me. I know who to speak with, to make sure this never happens again.”

“And you’re not going to lecture me about bringing someone with me next time, are you?” Navia asks, teasingly as much as she warns Clorinde not to overstep the red line that gashes between them. 

Clorinde’s smile is tight-lipped. 

Before she can say anything more, the waiter comes back to Navia’s side. He doesn’t pay Clorinde much attention, other than glancing over at her once, but he sets down a dish in the center of the table, rather than bringing it close to Navia’s side. A plate of chateaubriand, a dish meant to be shared between two. 

Navia smiles at the waiter warmly. 

“Could you get us another glass?” she asks, and the waiter nods. 

A fresh glass is brought to Clorinde’s side, and Navia pours her a generous amount of wine. Clorinde takes a sip, and nothing more. Navia supposes that it’s better than nothing at all. 

Navia can’t honestly tell what it is: if it’s the exhaustion in her body, if it’s the ambience of the hotel, if it’s the wine buzzing lightly in her head, or if it’s the way that Clorinde looks at her. 

She doesn’t know what it is, but she’s beginning to think that she wants Clorinde to stay, even for a little while longer. 

“What have you been up to?” she asks. 

It’s a painfully stark contrast to the things they used to talk about, and the things that they used to be. 

But Clorinde pretends like it doesn’t hang over their head, and she answers, “Working. As you have, it seems.”

The little jest makes Navia smile, even if it’s smaller on her face. She cuts up some steak and chews on a piece before she replies. Clorinde quietly eats across from her, her eyes downcast to the steak rather than Navia. 

“Well, I can’t pretend that I can search up what you do for work as much as you can with mine,” Navia says, as evenly as she can. “Are you still… working for Monsieur Neuvillette?” she adds, and it’s a blatant attempt to connect even if she feels half of her soul begging her to sever the bridge already. 

“Yes,” Clorinde replies simply. There’s a slight edge to her voice that suggests that she wants the conversation to head elsewhere. 

Navia doesn’t pry. So, she says, “Well, then I hope it’s been as fulfilling as you hoped it would be.”

She hadn’t meant for it to sound so… bitter. Caustic. 

Archons, why’d she think this was a good idea? Can’t three years be enough for this to be put to rest between them? 

She knows the answer, obviously. Of course not. 

Not even a thousand years could fix it after what Clorinde had done to her. 

Clorinde puts down her fork. It seems like she’s lost her appetite as much as Navia had. Navia curses herself, but there’s also a part of her that feels thankful and relieved to finally see Clorinde break.

“I’ll let you enjoy your dinner,” Clorinde says. There’s nothing in her voice that gives away any sort of emotion that she feels. It frustrates Navia, but she doesn’t push to ask. Why would she want to?

“Goodnight, Navia,” Clorinde says again, and she stands. 

She looks Navia in the eye as she nods and goes on her way. 

Navia watches her leave, and she doesn't go after her again. It feels like déjà vu. Clorinde has become a mirage in the shadows.

And even as she begins to breathe evenly again, Navia mourns the loss of eyes that look past the stars behind her face and right into her heart. 

The next week is more or less the same. Every week has been, really. 

It’s not like she’s one to complain. She’s grateful for how busy things have been. It helps keep a certain someone off of her mind, and she can’t be more thankful for anything else than that. 

A movie that she stars in has begun filming, and she’s been on set for it for the past week, her mornings spent in the makeup chair and her afternoons going over the same scenes over and over again. At least her co-star, a bright woman named Nilou who helps her through the choreography during their breaks, is kind and patient. It’s the first musical that she’s starring in, a contrast from her array of action and romance movies. Melus had been happy to pitch it to her, opening her to another realm of opportunities. 

Off set, Navia continues to shoot for advertisements and see Chiori to get fitted for new outfits for her future concerts and galas. Her new lipstick line is about to launch, and her schedule has been booked to the brim with photoshoots for it. According to Silver, they were going to put her face on another big billboard in the Court of Fontaine. There have been talks to have her lipstick ads be shown in Liyue too. 

Then there are her charity events, giving Consigliere enrichment fit for a spoiled turtle, talking to board members of the Spina to go over her future clothing line for the winter, planning which baseball games she can attend for her leisure, and of course, finding time for her friends. 

The life of a star is bright, and Navia hopes that she can keep that light burning for a long, long time. 

Navia sits down on her plush couch with a heavy sigh, spooning some ice cream into her mouth that Melus had found for her to snack on. It’s well deserved— she had just finished a seven hour shoot that morning, and this has been her only break all week. 

“Demoiselle,” Melus begins, standing in front of her with his hands folded behind her back like Silver is next to him.

This is usually the part where they give her a brief rundown of what to do for next week. Melus and Silver have been her loyal assistants even before she had become famous, and it seems neither of them are looking to stop anytime soon. She’s grateful for their help, but she wishes that they would let her breathe for a minute between sitting down and being told about more work. 

Still, she sits up and motions for them to continue. She could listen while she eats her ice cream, at least. 

“I believe you would be pleased to know that your schedule will begin freeing itself up by next Thursday,” he says, walking over to a whiteboard in the corner of the room. He and Silver wheel it in front of Navia, and they turn it to reveal neat scribbles of Navia’s schedule for next week. It’s considerably smaller than it had been the week before, and Navia exhales with a smile. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” she says with a groan, and Silver chuckles at her antics. “You’d think my teeth would have fallen off by now from how many times I had to smile at a camera all month!”

“You only have one more shoot for your lipstick commercial,” Melus tells her happily. He brings out a stick and lengthens it, pointing its end to the board. “Tomorrow, we will escort you to your last commercial for the month. We can order donuts for the staff beforehand. On Tuesday, you are to appear for a Spina fundraiser on Mont Automnequi. The venue is outdoors, so Silver will remind you to put on bug spray on the day of.”

“What if I have to be the one to remind Silver? He’s quite forgetful, you know,” Navia teases lightly. 

Silver argues, “But I take your bug bites seriously, Demoiselle.”

Navia laughs. She sits up further and plucks a wooden spoon from the coffee table’s assortment of utensils and hands it to Silver, allowing him a spoonful of her ice cream as a reward for his loyalty. Melus watches the exchange with amusement, and then he shakes his head. 

“Regardless, there is another thing we must discuss with you,” Melus begins, and the sudden soberness in his tone has both Navia and Silver looking over to him in curiosity. Then, as if realizing the gravity of the situation, Silver swallows his spoonful of ice cream and brings the spoon out of his mouth and hangs his head. 

Navia looks back and forth between them. There’s an air of quiet urgency around the two of them. They haven’t acted like this in a long while. 

“What, do you think the lipstick we’re releasing is an ugly shade?” she asks them. “You could always be honest with me,” she chastises, placing her bowl of half-eaten ice cream on the table so she could cross her legs.

“Not at all,” Silver pipes up.

“Not at all,” Melus agrees. Even with his sunglasses on, Navia can tell that their faces soften considerably. “We’ve been… informed about your situation at Hotel Debord a few days ago.”

“Oh.” Navia shifts uncomfortably in her seat as she tries to find the right words. The air is beginning to stagnate between the three of them. “There’s nothing you should worry about. It’s been taken care of. Clorinde told me that she’s made sure of it.”

Her voice catches on the name. She hopes Melus and Silver don’t pick up on it. 

But of course they do. 

“Seeing her must not have been an easy task, Demoiselle,” Melus says, his gravelly voice twinged with both empathy and worry. 

Navia waves off his concern. “There are tougher things to deal with in the world than running into your ex,” she says, and she hates that it comes off still slightly tart in her mouth. She’s a grown woman, for Pete’s sake! She shouldn’t be talking about an ex like they were a disease in her mouth. 

Forgive and forget, as they say. Though she doubts that the person who coined the term hadn’t been in love with their childhood best friend, only for them to walk away when it had really counted. 

Silver clears his throat. “The woman who tried to poison you has been arrested. We can confirm that with you now,” he says, and Navia nods sagely. 

“Did she have a motivation?” she asks. Not that it really matters, but she was merely curious. People try to kill her all the time. It’s an odd thing to be desensitized by, but such is the way of her life. Her question is posed as if she had asked them what kind of coat the woman was wearing. 

“She won’t say, but she took a plea bargain,” Melus says. “Miss Melchior found CCTV footage of her following you down the street and pouring a clear vial of poison into the tea that she had meant for you. There’s nothing you have to do about it now, thank goodness. We’ve been told that it’s being taken care of as we speak.”

“Well, that’s a relief to hear,” Navia says, and she sits there and acts as if the brief mention of Clorinde’s name hadn’t jumpstarted her heart. 

“But there is…” Melus starts, and he trails off, looking over to Silver, “…something else, that we would like to make known to you in advance.”

Navia grows restless at the odd looks that they share between each other. “I hope you know that I can’t read your guys’ minds,” she jests. 

Silver turns to look at her first, clearly losing whatever contest the pair were holding with their looks. “Because of the rise of these kinds of incidents, the Spina di Rosula has unanimously agreed to tighten security on you,” he explains plainly. 

Navia just nods solemnly. She’s not happy about it, but she obviously understands. 

She’s not blind to how many times she’s had to be ushered off stage during a sound check to be told that there was a bomb squad coming to check the perimeter after being tipped off, or how Melus and Silver look twice as constipated whenever she wanders off on her own on set. It’s what comes with rising fame, she supposes. 

She’s becoming more popular by the day, and as grateful as she is for it, she’s also aware of the danger that it entails. She knows it intimately. After all, it’s the reason why her papa isn’t here anymore. Neither is Clorinde, even if her reasons are more guesswork than anything else. 

“You two know better than anyone else in this building,” Navia says with a light giggle when the pair sink into their silence. “There’s no reason for you to act like I want to throw my ice cream at your face. Having more restrictions will suck, but you’re right about it being for the best.”

“Yes,” Melus says, even if it’s still hesitant. “The Spina has been preparing for this for quite some time. They’ve been looking for a primary bodyguard for you, and they believe they’ve finally found it.”

Again, that sounds reasonable. Of course Navia already has bodyguards— several of them, actually. Jean Faustier has been around the longest, as he’s been part of the Spina even when Papa had still been there, and he’s escorted her on and off the stage for the past few years. There are a few who walk around with her whenever she visits public cafes, and many of them are on call should she need more security when going to an amusement park with friends. 

A primary bodyguard, which she assumes will be with her for the majority of her day, sounds… fine. Not ideal, and it would make her feel a little small, but she’s not one to throw a tantrum about safety. Plus, the Spina isn’t one to wrangle her to do things she doesn’t want to do. They love her as much as she loves them, built on a company that her father had started for charity and helping the community, and thus, her. 

So long as she’s still allowed to breathe and go where she pleases, she sees no problem with it. 

But Navia can’t help but feel a little suspicious at their evasive behavior. 

They keep looking at each other, as if trying to prod the other to say something first, and there’s a bead of sweat on the side of Silver’s forehead. They’re nervous, that much she can tell, but she’s not sure why. 

Unless…

“You can’t be serious,” she says flatly. 

She stands abruptly, and Melus and Silver immediately try to calm her down. 

“There’s no better option than her, Demoiselle, that much I believe you can agree,” Melus says, his voice gentle. 

“And she was there to protect you at the Hotel Debord,” Silver adds. 

Something clicks in her head. Clorinde had said she was there for work, which meant—

“Was she there to act as my bodyguard?” she asks, her voice slightly higher and louder. She paces back and forth in front of her couch, the agitation in her body steadily rising like a pot on the stove. “And you two didn’t tell me?”

“No,” Melus says quickly. “She was there to interview with the Spina, yes— but we didn’t confirm that she would become your security detail until after the matter.”

“So she wanted this?” Navia stops abruptly to look at the pair in muted shock. “She interviewed— to be my bodyguard?”

The gall of that woman— the nerve she has to waltz back into her life and act like some knight in shining armor, after everything, after— 

“She didn’t know it was for you,” Silver says. Navia breathes out at that, half a laugh and half a scoff. “Monsieur Neuvillette asked her to interview. When she found out that it would be for you, she declined… at first.”

“At first?” Navia echoes. Her voice sounds hollow. 

“We told her we believe that there are foul matters at play,” Melus explains slowly, his hands up as if trying to soothe Navia. “That you are in more danger than we can understand. It didn’t take long to convince her after that.”

Navia only stands there, gaping at them. It’s not uncommon for her to have to improvise on the spot, or to be told that there was a change in her schedule and that she had to change and adapt as fast as she can. 

But this— this is proving to be hard to wrap her head around. 

Of course, she had thought briefly of what the threats on her life could mean with a bigger picture. It’s easy to brush it off into thinking that she may just have obsessed fans or haters, because it is, after all, the easiest way to be in danger as a person like her. But then again, Navia Caspar isn’t just a celebrity, or a star in the sky. 

Her father had done shady things in the past, even if it was for the betterment of Fontaine. His early grave has been a blaring indication of it. Navia can become famous enough to touch the stars and still not be able to run from the fact that there are awful people, people underground who stand only for their own gain, who know her name. 

“Find someone else,” Navia says, her voice tight with anger and grief. “There are other people out there who can do a bodyguard's job.”

“But not like Clorinde,” Silver says simply.

She hates that it’s true. 

She makes a frustrated groan in the back of her throat, picking up her jacket and throwing it over her shoulder. She’s stomping over to the exit, and Silver and Melus follow her even if they both seem lost. 

“It’s for the best, Demoiselle,” Melus tries desperately again. “It will all be okay in the end.”

“With her in my life? How could you be so sure?” she snarls, turning on her heel to look at Melus. Her heart is beating wildly and erratically in her chest. “She left me! She was— she never—” 

Her voice breaks. 

She has to blink back tears. 

For the first time in three years, she feels like she had when she had crumpled on her bedroom floor, crying into her hands, no longer being held up by a pillar of someone like Clorinde. There will be no pillar in her life like Clorinde ever again in her life. 

She knows it. She knows Melus and Silver know it, because all they do is look away in shame.

Navia swallows back the grief. 

It’s easy now after having to practice for so long. 

“You know I can’t just say yes to this,” she just says. “For more reasons than I can count.”

“We won’t force you to agree,” Melus answers quietly. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and Navia feels smaller under his grip. “We just ask that you consider. For your sake.”

Her sake is making sure Clorinde never slithers her way back into her life. Her sake is deleting Clorinde’s number, burning every picture she has with Clorinde, throwing away all the gifts that Clorinde had given her over the years. Her sake is to forget about Clorinde. 

But she had never brought herself to do any of it, and thus, her own sake had never been her priority. Her sake had been put to the test when Clorinde had been standing there right in front of her, and she had failed, miserably.

So she just nods at Melus mutely, opens the door, and hails one of her chaperones to take her back home. 

Charlotte and Lumine are in her kitchen, watching her walk back and forth between her counters like a four-man operation. It’s how Navia prefers it, really— baking macarons is her zen time, and having her friends be there for her just makes it even better. 

She’s grateful that Lumine has a few days off from her tour to hang out, and that Charlotte had volunteered to get off work early to make sure she was okay. She had texted the both of them with a single word, and they both came running under the pretense that it had been dire. They weren’t wrong.  

“I think you’re the only person in the world who has a personal chef and still bakes because she can,” Charlotte says, amusement coloring her tone. She’s making ganache with Lumine under Navia’s careful instruction. 

“It’s calming,” Navia argues with a small laugh. She’s still bustling around the kitchen, and her veins are thrumming with energy. It’s definitely not calming now, but at least it’s giving her something better to do than ruminate on her current situation at hand. 

In fact, Clorinde’s report is sitting on the corner of the table right now. Silver had silently passed it to her before she went to bed the other night, and Navia had consumed it whole even though every word in it had already felt etched into her skin: Clorinde Melchior, born in 1990, claimed to be trained in the Marechaussee Hunter tradition. A retired champion fencer and Olympian, proficient in muay thai, wushu, and other athletics that Navia can hardly remember reading. 

She remembered teasing Clorinde for all the medals in her room when they were teenagers. It’s difficult to take her report so seriously when every bullet point in it had been a funny anecdote in their childhood. 

“I still can’t believe Clorinde would agree to something like this,” Charlotte says, dissent clear in her voice. Navia stiffens, and she sees Charlotte glancing over Clorinde’s report again out of the corner of her eye. 

She supposes that there’s no way to go around this conversation, even if she doesn’t like it. 

“I could,” Lumine says with a hum. She’s washing her hands now with her back turned to them, and Navia is glad that she can’t see the sour expression on her face. “I’ve only met her a couple times, but that woman is stubborn.”

“She could afford to be stubborn anywhere else,” Navia mumbles, squeezing her piping bag just a tiny bit harder than she should be. 

“Sure,” Lumine says lightly, drying out her hands on a paper towel, “but then she wouldn’t be Clorinde.”

Well, she supposes that’s true. She doesn’t say anything, but Lumine smiles like she knows exactly what Navia is thinking.

“When did you guys date? How long did you two date?” Charlotte asks, propping her chin on her hand on the table to look at Navia sharply. “You never really talk about her with us. At least—” not anymore, Charlotte clearly wants to add, but she wisely clamps her mouth shut.

Leave it to her to launch into reporter mode at any given time. Not that Navia really minds. Charlotte’s brazen attitude is exactly what she needs right now to vent out how she feels, and it’s exactly why she lets Charlotte get all the exclusive interviews.

“We dated all throughout college,” Navia explains, keeping her head down as she pipes, “I knew I had feelings for her since high school— maybe a bit earlier— but neither of us really did anything about it until we got drunk during one of Furina’s parties and…” She chuckles at the thought. It’s a fond memory, no matter how hard she tries her best to dip it in the bitterness of her current situation. 

“And… how long has it been since you’ve seen her?” Lumine asks, almost hesitantly. 

Navia closes her eyes briefly. She sets her piping bag down. 

“Three years,” she says quietly. It was almost painful to get out. 

Navia thinks about how Clorinde had been there through everything, until she suddenly didn’t want to be. To this day, she hasn't even been told why. If Clorinde becomes her bodyguard, it could provide her with the opportunity to ask. 

But then there’s that odd second question: does she even want to know?

Then, almost out of the blue, Lumine asks, “Do you want to hate her forever? Is that your plan?”

“Of course not,” Navia answers, and she’s struck with how easy it slips out of her mouth. 

She doesn’t hate Clorinde. 

Of all the emotions that Navia could feel, it’s never been hatred. 

Navia doesn’t have to say anything for either of her friends to read her expression. Lumine looks around the kitchen until she spots the plate of Navia’s freshly baked cookies from a few hours ago, then offers one to Navia. Charlotte just pats Navia’s arm.

“Just go with the flow,” Lumine says gently. “That’s what Fontanians say, right?”

Navia breathes out a breathless laugh. She takes the cookie. There’s still that hesitant part of her mind that tells her to run away and never look back, but there’s that other part of her, small and twinkle-eyed, who reaches out to her heart first in the end. 

She’s never been one to hold onto grudges forever. Some people call it naivety, but her father had always seen it as her superpower. 

They don’t have to be friends again. She doesn’t have to forgive Clorinde. Clearly, fighting against the tide of avoidance hasn’t helped. If this is where the flow wants to take her, then fine. 

Sure. 

She could try that with Clorinde. 

Navia waits in the lounge room on a sofa, scratching at her thumbnails and shaking her leg over and over again. There’s muffled conversation in the other room, and she can hear it even over the sound of the radio blasting her own song. 

It’s impossible to miss the cadence and smoothness of Clorinde’s voice, even if it’s muffled through these walls.

Melus and Silver stand next to her, glancing down at her obviously anxious form once in a while. They say nothing to her. They know that nothing they have to say will do anything to quell her emotions. 

There is dread in her body as much as there is nervousness and despair all at once. It makes her want to throw up. 

Melus puts a mollifying hand on her shoulder to steady her. Silver does the same on her other shoulder. It makes her puff out a laugh at the ridiculousness, but their actions do their jobs in getting her to calm down. 

She stands when the door opens. Two men enter first— Sonny, a Spina manager, and Luca, Sony’s bodyguard. She smiles quietly at them, and they nod at her with modest smiles of their own. They’ve watched her grow up since she was a baby. They do everything in her best interest, even if she doesn’t like it. She supposes that’s what family is for. 

And then in walks Clorinde. 

Clorinde is looking around the room first, eyes landing on the many records and posters on the walls. Her eyes fall over the framed picture on the shelf of a young ten-year-old Navia posing with Callas, who kneels to her level and helps her hold up a singing competition trophy. It was the first trophy she had ever won. 

Navia knows why she hesitated. Clorinde had taken that picture for them. Even in pictures where Clorinde is nowhere to be seen, her hands can still be found on it.

“There’ll be a contract for the two of you to sign on Monday,” Sonny says, his eyes flitting back and forth between Navia and Clorinde as if half expecting one of them to disappear on the spot. “Until then, there is no obligation of duty, legally speaking. But I’ve spoken to Miss Melchior, and if Navia agrees, she can begin her security duties now rather than wait until later.”

Navia gently presses her tongue between her teeth. She wants to say no. She knows that there is no one pointing a gun to the back of her head to tell her to agree. The longer that she can wait where Clorinde isn’t floating around her for the next however long their contract says, the better. 

But she finds herself saying, “Alright.”

Sonny looks at her, eyebrow slightly twitched upwards. He’s surprised, but he doesn’t say anything other than, “Good. Let me know if there are any issues with the arrangement.”

The two Spina men leave, but not before Luca flashes Navia a thumbs up in mild assurance.

Navia’s shoulders don’t untense even when Clorinde walks up to her to offer her hand. Clorinde’s look is neutral, the same look that she wears whenever she heads off to work or speaks to someone she doesn’t know. Navia doesn’t know if the ache in her heart is relief or pain. 

They shake hands, a brief up and down movement that’s expected of any professional exchange, and Clorinde merely says, “It would be my pleasure to work with you.”

Navia doesn’t know if she really means it, or if she’s just saying it to be professional. She bites down on her tongue again to keep from asking. The less she speaks to Clorinde, the better her health will come out from this. So she just nods. 

Thankfully, Melus and Silver are the ones to talk to Clorinde for her. Navia walks out of the Spina di Rosula building to head to her chaperoned car, and Melus, Silver, and Clorinde trail behind her, her paired assistants telling Clorinde about the expectations of Navia’s day and the recent worries about the places she frequents. 

Clorinde merely hums to all of Melus and Silver’s words, only asking questions when it’s needed, and the questions themselves are professional in nature. They never dig deeper than they have to, and Clorinde leaves one seat between them in the car while they keep discussing. Navia looks out the window while the three continue to congregate, listening silently with her hands in her lap and nowhere else. 

Clorinde follows her around wherever she goes for the rest of her day. Melus and Silver stay in the car to be taken back to the Spina, while Navia is followed closely by Clorinde to the set of her movie. 

If she swings her umbrella a couple times to look around and force Clorinde to dodge it, it’s done accidentally. Mostly. 

No one dares to ask why there’s a woman following Navia around while she goes about her day. They glance at Clorinde, then at Navia, then duck their heads down and say nothing more. Navia hopes that they all think the same thing, that Clorinde is merely nothing more than hired muscle. If they diverge from the idea and think of something wholly different, well… Navia just grimaces at the thought.

Clorinde stands to the side while Navia acts in front of the camera. She stands aside whenever Navia has to walk out of frame to ask for water or to have the sleeve of her dress fixed. People continue to gawk at her silently, and Navia can’t really blame them. Clorinde stands out like a sore thumb, dressed in blacks and purples, her arms crossed over her chest and the look on her face never straying from aloof. 

Her eyes never leave Navia. 

It annoys her. 

Feeling Clorinde stare at her while she works is like hearing a fly buzz around her. It’s inconsequential, but it’s bothersome and she wishes she could swat at the air to make it go away. Unfortunately for her, Clorinde is much more stubborn than a fly. 

Navia doesn’t say anything to Clorinde when she leaves her dressing room and leaves the set. She doesn’t look at Clorinde even as she says goodbye to the team, smiling and waving and praising them for their hard work. Clorinde doesn’t say anything to her either when she leaves and finds a chaperone waiting for her in front of her black car. 

Clorinde opens the door for her. Navia resists the urge to roll her eyes and enters, and Clorinde follows suit.

She feels more eyes staring at the back of her head, and she knows it’s not just Clorinde. She looks out the window and finds people gaping at them inside the car, and once they see her looking back, they duck their heads like scolded children. 

Navia sighs through her nose. They must have seen Clorinde opening the door for her. Oh, how she couldn’t wait to finally find a reporter and have their nosy questions turn up about Clorinde, so she can finally put this all to rest. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to look too hard for someone to ask. 

Navia exits the car and Clorinde follows at her heel, closing the door for her and stepping in between her and the paparazzi that wait for her at the doors of the Steambird. Clorinde says nothing to the paparazzi or to Navia, but her confident stature is enough for the paparazzi to back away from the invisible line Clorinde had made between them and Navia. 

She’s here for a quick appearance at a fundraiser and nothing more, but the Steambird is a nest of nosy reporters just waiting to pounce at the chance to ask her what the blurry pictures of her and Clorinde already posted on social media are all about. 

She enters the building with a smile on her face. She waves at Charlotte who buzzes by with a camera and SD card in her hands. Charlotte mouths something incomprehensible to her, and Navia isn’t afforded any time to ask about it before Charlotte darts away, presumably to take care of the photos in her hand. 

The room that she enters is buzzing with life, with reporters and people of all kinds milling around. There is a podium on the small stage at the front of the room. Navia is grateful that she doesn’t need to speak today, and that she’s only here as a mere guest. Speeches on the fly haven’t always been her strong suit. 

Euphrasie, the chief editor, languidly extends her hand to Navia and thanks her for coming. 

“We weren’t sure if you were a fan of pizza or egg muffins, so there are both at the refreshment table if you need it,” Euphrasie says, sweeping a hand to the corner of the room. Navia thanks her with a small laugh. 

“I’m not hungry, but thank you. I’ll make note of it if I get peckish after all the conversation,” Navia says easily. 

Euphrasie’s eyes sweep over her shoulder, right where Clorinde should be. Navia feels the dread pool in her stomach like cold water. “And your… partner?” she asks, bringing up a practiced arched eyebrow. 

“I’ll take a look when I have the time,” Clorinde just says. 

Navia gives her a look. She knows what that means: Clorinde hadn’t eaten much today yet. She opens her mouth to say something, but Euphrasie beats her to it, and she’s thankful. She had been forgetting herself.

“Well, I hope you two enjoy your stay, even if it’s brief,” Euphrasie says. She nods to Navia and Clorinde, then she makes her way to the middle of the room to find more guests to entertain. 

Navia breathes out a loosened sigh, and Clorinde says nothing next to her. 

Brief doesn’t begin to describe how fast Navia makes her rounds around the room. She has a two minute conversation with any person that she finds, and she signs her name in the book to pledge some money to the fundraiser, and she’s already making her way out of the door, Clorinde following close by. She wants nothing more than to lay in bed for the rest of the day, away from Clorinde’s presence. 

Melus and Silver are already waiting for her right outside the door of the Steambird. It seems as if she had successfully slipped away without garnering too much attention, and it disappoints her, just slightly. She had wanted at least just one person to ask her for a brief interview. She knows Clorinde would disapprove, but it’s exactly why she needed it. 

“The conversation wasn’t too drab I hope, Demoiselle?” Melus asks her. 

“I flew through every conversation as fast as I could, so I honestly can’t tell,” Navia says with a laugh. “Silver, can you ask the driver to take me back to my apartment?”

“Right away,” Silver says, nodding his head. He turns to leave out of the door first, leaving them in the corridor to wait.

He returns before the silence stretches too thick between the three of them. Navia is glad to know that he’s still as speedy as always. 

They exit the Steambird, Clorinde keeping the door open for them, and they’re immediately bombarded by more flashes of cameras. This time, the paparazzi is accompanied by other reporters outside of the Steambird. It’s not entirely surprising, not when the fundraiser inside is an invite-only event for exclusive members. Navia hadn’t really wanted to attend, but she’s still an exclusive director of the Spina with the added responsibilities. 

People shout her name, over and over. The flashes of light don’t bother her. She had the right idea to be wearing her sunglasses before she exited the building. Clorinde looks down at the floor next to her, clearly pretending that the flashes aren’t disorienting her if the way she’s squinting has anything to say about it. It makes Navia giggle under her breath. 

A reporter shouts her name particularly louder than the others. 

Her shout draws Navia’s attention, and she looks up. The scatter of flashes doubles, and it makes Navia’s smile grow just slightly wider. Melus and Silver falter in their steps, already accustomed to Navia’s whims and wants when under the spotlight. It takes just half a second longer for Clorinde to adjust and stop with them.

“Navia!” the reporter shouts, and she shoves a mic close to Navia’s face. Clorinde’s hand twitches at her side, but Navia steps closer to show her that it’s alright. “How do you feel about working on your latest film? Are you close with your co-stars?”

“Oh, they’re all so great,” Navia gushes. “Nilou is a patient, kind woman. I’ve stepped on her toes too many times to count, and she just smiles at me and pretends nothing ever happened. I already plan to get her a fruit basket after shooting wraps up.” 

It makes the reporters around her chuckle, endeared by her disarming answer. Another reporter asks, “What brings you to the Steambird’s fundraiser today?”

Before she can answer it, another reporter yells from the back, “Do you have any advice for aspiring artists who want to be like you?”

“How’s your turtle, Consigliere? You haven’t posted him in a while!” 

“Will you be wearing another Chiori original to your next gala?”

“What about the rumors that you have beef with the band Fatui Harbingers’ Arlecchino?”

“What was it like meeting Lyney and Lynette on their tour last month?”

“How do you prepare before every concert?”

“Can you give us a hint about what your next album might sound like?”

The clamor of reporters is deafening and unforgiving. They all strain against the barriers that have been put there by the Steambird’s security, flashing their cameras at her and straining to get their microphones and recording devices as close as possible to Navia. 

Clorinde looks almost lost, looking out into the sea of people with sharpened eyes and tense shoulders, as if daring one of them to break formation. 

And amongst all the questions, Navia hears one ask, “Who’s that woman next to you? Is she your plus one?”

The reporter right in front of her bounces off the question and urgently brings the microphone closer to Navia. “We’ve been seeing that woman stick close to you the entire day, and social media has been up in arms asking about it,” the reporter begins, her voice steeled by her resolve to get an answer. “Who is she to you, Miss Caspar? Is she someone your fanbase should be made aware of?”

Navia laughs, mostly from the absurdity of how the question is phrased. Obviously not, she wants to say, but she’s lived in the industry long enough that she needs to make it sound just a tad bit nicer. 

“Her name is Clorinde, and she’s just my bodyguard,” she says. 

Well— almost says. 

It’s what she wants to say at least, but Melus and Silver push the microphone away from her face and take Navia by the arm to drag her away before she can get a single word out. 

“We’re sorry, but no more questions for Miss Caspar,” Melus orders, waving away the rest of the cameras. 

Navia, confused and dazed by the sudden change, is practically dragged into the Spina’s limousine. Silver closes the door shut firmly behind them, and their driver speeds off like his life depends on it. Next to her, Clorinde is blank-faced. She stares long enough to find a slight twitch in Clorinde’s jaw, a tell of her confusion. 

The rumble of the wheels underneath them is like a purr underneath her feet, and the quiet radio is chattering away about something about the horrid weather in Fontaine. There’s silence in the car for the whole of six seconds. 

Then, Navia asks, “What was that about?”

“We’re terribly sorry, Demoiselle, but we couldn’t let you answer the question,” Melus says to her, and there’s genuine apology in the tone of his voice. There’s a grimace on Silver’s face next to him. 

“Why?” Navia asks, looking between Silver and Melus in deep confusion. She’s not angry at them, and she hopes she could convey it with the look on her face. She’s just awfully confused. 

Melus and Silver look at each other. Silver nudges to the side with his head. 

Melus sighs, looking back over at Navia. He takes off his sunglasses, and the age in the crinkle of his eyes looks much older than Navia had seen them last. 

“We were meaning to talk to you both about it on Monday with the contract,” he explains. “The contract was meant to be signed and sealed away this morning, but… there are some concerns amongst the Spina.”

“Concerns?” Navia parrots. 

Silver answers next. “Bodyguards are normal for every celebrity to have, but to have one floating around you all the time, twenty-four-seven, sends the wrong kind of message.”

“‘Sends the wrong kind of—?’” Navia blinks, shaking her head at the absurdity of the situation. “To who?”

“That’s exactly what we don’t know,” Melus says. “It could be a group that your father had nettled in the past. It could be an individual. It could be someone you trust in your friend circle. Regardless of who they are, once they realize that we’ve tripled the security on you, they will realize that you’re much more vulnerable than they believed and try tenfold to do something to hurt you.”

“You’re saying that having a bodyguard persistently in Navia’s presence in public may embolden a person,” Clorinde remarks. There’s nothing in her tone that gives away how she feels. 

Melus nods and wipes his hand on his pantsuit. “Demoiselle’s situation is unique. We know that there is at least one person out in the world targeting her on purpose. The fact that we haven’t managed to find who they are is… concerning, to say the least. Their efforts have slowly been rising as each day goes by.”

Navia feels lost. She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. 

Melus continues, “It’s not just the efforts to have you hurt that concerns us about publicizing Clorinde’s position— it would cause speculation in the public, and it may disturb the continuing investigation efforts between the Spina di Rosula and Clorinde’s superiors.”

“Announcing to the public that Navia has a bodyguard to watch her at every waking moment would be like poking a lion,” Silver adds. “Well— multiple lions, maybe.”

Navia’s mouth dries. Silver’s remark suddenly makes her recall Melus’ comment. But to have one floating around you all the time, twenty-four-seven— “You’re using hyperbole, right?”

She looks between them. 

Their grimaces are the only confirmation she needs. 

Clorinde looks away and doesn’t meet her eye.

“It would have all been discussed on Monday,” Melus says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He sighs, then continues, “The Spina proposes that Clorinde lives with you, Navia. If not inside your apartment, then at least somewhere close by. It would be temporary—”

“Is there a camera inside this limousine?” she asks, looking around desperately. “You two aren’t saying all of this to prank me for some sort of prank show, are you? Because it was a little funny before, but now it isn’t.”

“Please, Navia,” Melus begs. It’s the desperation in his voice that gets Navia to clamp her mouth shut. “It will only be temporary. Two or three years, at maximum. Then Clorinde is let go.”

Navia screws her eyes shut. Three years. That’s exactly how long they’ve been separated for, and now they’re being forced back together for the same amount of time against their own wills like a god playing dolls with them. It’s almost funny to think about. 

“Alright,” she says, once the frustration dies down enough for her to speak at a normal volume. “Alright. I can— I can do that.”

Melus and Silver visibly relax.

“But if people can’t know that Clorinde is my bodyguard,” Navia continues, raising her eyebrows at the pair in front of her, “what’s the alternative?”

The silence is deafening. 

The car bumps over a small rock in the road. 

The radio turns to another bubbly pop song— one of her songs. 

“No,” Navia says flatly. 

“Demoiselle—” Melus starts. 

“No.” Navia wants nothing more than to open the car door and jump out and scream as she rolls down the winding highway. “You’re joking, right? No. Absolutely not.”

“There’s no better way we can explain why Miss Melchior is—” Silver tries.

“No!” Navia stares at the pair, mouth agape. “I agreed to letting Clorinde float around me like a wasp at my shoulder everyday for my safety. I can learn to tolerate that—” Clorinde flinches just slightly next to her, “—and I agreed to let her sleep at my place for the convenience because I know I can tolerate it. But this?”

Clorinde is quiet next to her the whole time. She doesn’t know whether to be thankful in the face of her silence, or to shake Clorinde and yell at her to say something. 

“You have to understand that we’ve tried to explore other options, but this is the only option that we find best,” Melus says to her, his eyes empathetic and softened to her clear anguish. 

“But I can’t just pretend to just—!” 

Navia forces her mouth shut. Just like that, her anger dissipates into smoke. It’s still there, simmering under the surface of her skin, but the thought— the thought that she has to—

“Neither of you have to do anything for the cameras,” Silver says gently. “Or ‘pretend’ anything other than saying it once for a coordinated interview, and nothing more. You could say that you two just want your privacy, and be done with it.”

Navia doesn’t say anything. 

She doesn’t know what to say anymore. She doesn’t think she can say anything without either yelling, bursting into tears, rolling out into the road, or all three. 

And it surprises her, to say the least, when Clorinde ends up clearing her throat to say something at all.

“I was hired as a security detail, to protect Navia from a perceived threat high enough that even my superiors thought it was necessary to request my assistance,” Clorinde says, her voice smooth even as her eyes point obediently downward. “I won’t say or do anything that can be avoided, or unless it hinders my work. I swore that I would do my best to serve what needs to be done, and if this is needed— then I will agree. But I also agreed to this arrangement with the impression that I won’t do anything, anything, that Navia doesn’t consent to.”

Clorinde lifts her head, just enough to look Melus and Silver in the eyes. “Navia’s well-being is my first priority, but that doesn’t take precedence over what she disapproves of. The moment she wants me gone, I won’t object. That was the deal I made with the Spina di Rosula at the Hotel Debord, and it will be the only stipulation I will make for the contract on Monday.” 

No one says anything to that for a long while. Melus just nods after she finishes speaking, a contemplative look on his face. Silver looks back and forth between Clorinde and Navia, as if waiting for one of them to finally acknowledge the other. 

Neither of them do. 

“Navia,” Melus says, and the rare sound of her name catches Navia out of her ponder. “You are in full control of the situation at hand. It’s your choice to make.”

Navia swallows. 

“Give me one night to think it over,” she answers. 

Next to her, Clorinde looks away, shielding her from discerning her thoughts. She supposes that’s exactly why Clorinde had turned the other way to look out the window— to keep her from being influenced in her decision. 

She hates that after everything, Clorinde still finds ways to be thoughtful. To be protective of her.

Navia yawns as she continues to mix the mac and cheese in the pot. There is light breaking through the windows of her apartment, but it’s not a good sign. She hasn’t slept yet, but she hopes some warm food in her stomach would be enough to put her to sleep. At least, that’s the hope. 

Balthazar, Clorinde’s cat, presses up against her leg and purrs. A small smile makes its way onto Navia’s face, and she bends down briefly to pet his backside. It makes her happy to know that even after three years, the little rascal couldn’t get enough of her. 

Balthazar looks out into the shadows, gives her one last doleful look, then bounces off into the other room. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Navia yelps, dropping the wooden spoon in the pot and whipping her head around to find Clorinde standing in the doorway of her kitchen, watching her with amusement twinkling in her tired eyes. 

She hasn’t seen Clorinde this dressed down in a long while. The pajama pants suit her, and the baggy shirt she wears is a little familiar. Navia wants to ask, but she knows better. 

“What are you doing up?” she asks instead. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Clorinde ripostes. 

Navia just snorts, turning back around to fish her wooden spoon out of her pot. Thankfully, the handle hasn’t been drenched in the gooey cheese. She continues to stir at a slower pace this time. She hears Clorinde walking closer to see what she’s making. 

“When they told me you lived in an apartment, I almost couldn't believe it,” Clorinde says. “I know for a fact that you have enough money to buy half of Fontaine.”

“The apartment still cost me a pretty penny, you know,” Navia argues, waving her wooden spoon at Clorinde half-threateningly. It’s true— her apartment is quite large, and it’s half the reason why she let Clorinde stay in it in the first place. It would be difficult to bump into each other in such a large area, but she’s forgotten that Clorinde always somehow knows where she is, no matter where she is.

“I was planning to get a mansion, maybe somewhere off the shores in Fontaine,” Navia continues, and she almost adds, just like we’ve talked about if I won the lottery or made it big. “Being here was alright in the end though. The neighbors leave me alone, and Consigliere clearly likes all of the big windows. But sometimes the big mansion pipe dream scratches the back of my head. Not as much anymore, thankfully.”

“What changed?” Clorinde asks, not unkindly.

Navia shrugs. “There was no one to share it with.”

She continues to stir her mac and cheese, even when Clorinde looks away. She meant her father, who she had promised a big, giant castle for them to live in when she grew up, but the fact that Clorinde wasn’t there anymore to share it with her was… also another factor.

Navia purses her lips. She turns off the stove, and it clicks shut. “I’ve been making a pros and cons list in my head all night about this whole thing,” Navia says with a sigh. 

Clorinde doesn’t need to ask her to clarify. “And have you concluded anything?”

Navia pauses and thinks. “That mac and cheese clearly isn’t helping.”

Clorinde chuckles, leaning over to look into her pot of steaming mac and cheese. She inhales it deeply, then says, “You should add another teaspoon of garlic powder. Maybe some paprika. It smells like you’re missing it.”

Navia grunts at the suggestion. She wants to bite, I’m not going to do everything you ask of me, you know, but her hand is already moving to find the garlic powder and paprika in her tray of spices to sprinkle a generous amount into her pot. 

She stirs it, takes out a fork to try a little bite, and finds that it tastes almost exactly like how her Papa used to make it. 

“Huh,” Navia just says. 

She turns her head to look at Clorinde, a word of simple gratitude on her tongue, but then she catches the way Clorinde is looking at her. 

Her arms are crossed, her posture guarded, but she’s smiling softly at Navia, even in the darkness of the late night. 

Navia looks away from it. 

Clorinde has no right to be looking at her like that.

The silence grows between them, stretching them farther and farther away from each other. Navia doesn’t know whether to grasp the ropes of the bridge and pull them back together or let go of it. There’s a part of her that wants to do both. There’s a part of her that just wants to break down on the floor and cry. 

The severity of her situation hasn’t hit until now. It feels like a punch to her gut, when she takes another bite of her mac and cheese straight from the pot, and she suddenly feels like bursting into tears. 

She swallows it down. Crying at four in the morning over a pot of mac and cheese wouldn’t be a good look on her, regardless if Clorinde was there to witness it or not. 

Navia whispers, “This is… weird to you too, right? It’s not just me?” 

If she hadn’t asked, she felt like it would be poking sharply at her side until the three years on their contract was up. 

“It is,” Clorinde agrees. 

She frowns then, and regards Navia with a sharpened look that Navia can’t decipher. She wonders at which benchmark of the three years that they’ve spent separated had caused her to lose all knowledge for reading Clorinde’s looks. 

“I meant every word I said in the car,” Clorinde says quietly. “If you’re uncomfortable by me being here, I wouldn’t be offended. I could always find another way to do my job without hovering over you. Being in the shadows, after all, is part of my job description.”

“Well, what about you?” Navia asks. 

Clorinde raises her eyebrows. She’s clearly put off balance by the question. “What about me?”

“Why did you agree?” Navia presses. “To doing this?”

Clorinde grows silent, and for a moment, Navia wonders if she’ll just bid her goodnight and turn on her heel and go away. 

Navia stirs her mac and cheese and finds a bowl to scoop out a portion while she waits for Clorinde to come to a decision. Through the cracks in her blinds, the sun is beginning to peek out. She grimaces at the thought of the things she has to do today, all on three lattes with extra shots of espresso. 

Then, quiet as the silent retreat of the moon at the shine of the sun, Clorinde says, “Because I know that even after everything between us, I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

Navia presses her lips together at that. It was such a safe answer to give. So safe that it makes her angry. 

She rounds on Clorinde, and Clorinde shrinks back at the look on her face. 

But instead of letting out her frustrations, of shouting or stomping her foot and demanding some sort of better answer, Navia just flatly says, “I wish I could tell you that I couldn’t ever forgive you.”

Because it will be inevitable, in the end. 

She knows it in her heart. Her weak, bleeding heart for the woman who stands in the dark in front of her. 

“I know,” Clorinde replies softly. Her eyes inspect the grout on the floor. “I wish you didn’t.”

Navia blinks, twice until the sting feels bearable enough for her, and she turns her shoulder away so she can enjoy her mac and cheese, standing at her kitchen island in her pajamas with a ghost in her apartment right next to her.

“Goodnight, Navia,” Clorinde says, and the way she says it is final and bidding. 

“Goodnight,” Navia replies. Her nod is noncommittal. She doesn’t look at Clorinde. 

Clorinde doesn't wait for her to look. Her lips just part, slightly enough to make her seem just the right amounts of hesitant, and she turns and leaves. 

Navia stares at her mac and cheese. 

She spoons some into her mouth and chews, and it makes her feel just a little bit better about everything else around her. 

In the back of her mind, she wonders if it would have been a good idea to offer a portion of it to Clorinde. She has to shake the thought away. 

Navia puts the rest of the mac and cheese into a tupperware to eat for tomorrow and goes back to bed, and suddenly, her pros and cons list comes abundantly outweighed by one over the other. 

Clorinde is waiting for her to finish getting ready just outside of her apartment. She nods as she opens the car door for Navia, and the car ride is silent all the way to the recording studio. 

There are people waiting outside of the recording studio. Clorinde looks briefly confused, but her look melts into her usual impassiveness when Navia glances over at her in mild amusement. It’s not every day that people swarm the Spina di Rosula recording studio— the paparazzi being here is deliberate. 

Navia puts her hand over her eyes and squints into the sea of flashing lights, waving to the people being held back by Spina bodyguards and the silver barricades. They clamor for her attention, shouting her name over and over again until it sounds like a drumming chorus. 

Clorinde puts a hand between her shoulder blades when someone almost manages to squeeze between two barricades. A Spina member manages to wrangle him back into the crowd, but Clorinde’s instant reflex makes Navia’s chest jump. Her hand is cold on her skin, but it’s comforting. 

They reach the entrance to the building, and Clorinde opens the door for her. She looks back at Navia expectantly, waiting for her to slip in. 

In broad daylight, Navia puts on a gentle smile. Captivated by the very nature of her smile, lights flash once more. 

Navia’s smile is docile and sinless to the eyes of the paparazzi; to Clorinde, to the woman who knows every dip and curve of her lips, it’s a question. 

Clorinde’s mouth parts slightly into a subtle ‘o’, and her head dips in a nod only obvious to Navia. Navia rewards her with a bigger smile. 

Navia puts a finger on Clorinde’s chin to hold her steady and pecks her on the lips. 

It’s brief, and she isn’t in Clorinde’s space for more than a second, but the flash of lights grow by tenfold and the yells of people around them become so deafening that Navia almost regrets not bringing earplugs with her. 

She tries not to think about how familiar Clorinde’s lips feel, or how she wants more— or how Clorinde kisses her back in that split second that their lips touch. 

The dizzying sparkle of lights that bombard them are easy to blink away with practice, and Navia has to grab Clorinde’s jacket to pull her inside when Clorinde can’t seem to look past all the cameras. 

Inside the recording studio, a woman comes up to Navia. “Your TV interview is in fifty minutes, Miss Caspar,” she informs, and she goes away before Navia can thank her in full. 

The room is alive with buzzing, busy life. People are shouting over one another, and it provides enough chatter in her ears to prevent her from listening to the whispers in her head. Good.

Navia steps away from Clorinde, making her way to the studio to get her makeup done. 

Clorinde, obedient as always, follows her without another word.