[Alicia had always liked the gardens. Really, she's always liked being outside. Even on her shyer days, she'd always loved to slip out and enjoy the fresh air, have some time privately with just her and the world.
Now, she turns away from even that. But maybe the reminder would be good for her. Or maybe it'll just make her feel worse.
Oh. Lunch. She considers, then tries to make a gesture that indicates something smaller. She'll eat something, but maybe not a full lunch. Still, a snack is better than nothing.]
[Renoir reminisces on travelling between the gardens and his atelier, always fond of frequenting places one hardly expects to find people. He welcomes privacy and exploring his emotions - but his wife had taught him the importance of moderation. Show yourself to the world just enough to stop them asking questions.
Lunch outside is a balance between those expectations. He relishes being alone with his emotions when he cannot be amongst family.
But first one needs to leave the safety of indoors.
He holds open the door with his shoulder and gestures for her to pass over the threshold.]
[Renoir opens the door and automatically, preemptively, Alicia turns her good eye away and squints. It's as if she's afraid the sunlight and fresh air will burn her again, somehow. But nothing comes, and eventually she carefully turns to look outside again.
But. She lingers at the threshold. When was the last time she actually went outside? Has she been since the fire? She doesn't know, and the thought scares her. Instead of continuing, she presses herself more against Renoir, staring with a wide eye outside.
It's just the garden. She knows it's fine. But she also feels like, if she steps outside, she'll crumble to ash.]
[The light of day has never been so terrifying and welcoming at the same time. He remembers spotting smoke and fire, smelling ash and char, but not being close enough to pull anyone out the rubble.
Today, here and now, he releases her grasp on his arm and embraces her closely. If she is afraid to step outside alone then he is right here.]
It's a difficult choice, ma cherie. This is why families need each other.
[Amongst other reasons. In any case, will she want to step outside with him holding her close?]
[Alicia closes her eyes and lets herself get lost in the simple comfort of her father's embrace. If it was Clea, she'd just make Alicia step out. If it was Verso, he'd try to ply her with gentle words, then give up and suggest something else. If it was Maman...
Well, it's good it's Renoir. He won't mind if it takes her a few minutes to gather her courage. And when she does move, she does so while still clinging to her father. She forces herself to just edge past the threshold, making sure she doesn't cross it without him.]
[Renoir closes his eyes and puts one foot before the other. Alicia moves in his shadow, keeping close and quiet. His arm wraps more comfortably around her shoulder. This could hardly be called walking but can be called progress. He forces himself to match her pace. If these small steps are all she can manage, then he can manage to be patient.]
Good, Alicia. I understand this is difficult.
[It is a short distance to the top of the stairs that descends from the porch to the fountain.]
[Each step is a little easier. Or not the steps themselves, because even at her boldest they are still hesitant and weak. But each second spend out in the air and the sun makes her a little less nervous. Once or twice she considers bolt back in, but her father provides a convenient barricade to that impulse.
Eventually they make it to the fountain and Alicia pauses, giving a shaky exhale. Her breathing still rattles a little bit, but it's been getting better. She doesn't wheeze as much. And look, she's outside, even if she leans again Renoir from the sheer emotional effort of going this far.]
[Renoir leans forward, looming like a protective shadow that envelopes from every direction. The sun warms his back while he inhales gratitude and breathes out his fear. The fountain is still while he rests his head upon hers. He holds her close, afraid to let her go.
Perhaps she wishes she had died, but he is grateful she is alive.]
[Part of her wants to stay here, in the shadow of her father as he embraces her and shields her from the world outside. It'd be easier, to ignore everything else. But that's not much different from staying in her room in the darkness all day, and they'd come out here to voice that.
Eventually she untangles herself slowly, with careful and calming breathes. It's not so bad when it's just them in the quiet of the garden. There's even some faint birdsong to brighten up the scene.
Even as she tries to sit up and be brave, one hand still stays clinging to Renoir's sleeve. Even so, she forces herself to breath deeply in the fresh air. It's good for her, even if the action still makes her hurt. The doctors said it was good to practice, sometimes.]
[She breathes in and out, out and in, and he observes with a remarkable amount of patience. It is a difficult position to occupy, watching his child learning how to become used to herself again. But this is extremely difficult for the child in question.
Perhaps the birdsong brightens his mood. Perhaps the sight of her trying to practice. But a fleeting mixture of love and pride colours his face.]
We should move your bedroom outdoors, non? Back into the treehouse?
[He does not speak of the doctors or nurses who visited her bedside. He has endured their presence in his life - meaning she might be tired of hearing about their opinions. She is outside and walking with support. That is proof of recovery.
So he says something colorful and obscure to lift the mood. Hopefully.]
[To the treehouse. She makes a small sound, a light little laugh, but even that's too much. It's only a moment before she devolves into a coughing fit, irritation her already sensitive throat.
Luckily she recovers after a moment, but it leaves her breathing heavily and with a rasping rattle. She hasn't learned how to laugh without making noise yet. It's disheartening that she might have to.
But she tries not to let Renoir see her dip in mood again. Instead, she points to one of the flowers that's starting to bloom nearby. Isn't that nice?]
[He notices those small moments of comfort, dwarfed by her embarrassment, always he notices, but this time as so many times before he looks towards whatever she uses as a distraction. He gifts her that moment of grace.]
Magnolias. [White to be precise.] Associated with nobility and pride. I sent your mother a bouquet while we were courting.
[And by courting he means scandalous rendevous in his garrett on the wrong side of town.]
[Nobility and pride. Something she feels she's always been particularly lacking in, but more so now than ever. Nobody ever says it, but she feels like the failure of the family. She even failed to die right.
But Papa wouldn't want her thinking like that. She exhales a small sigh, feeling the back half of it rattle in her sensitive throat.
She lightly smacks Renoir's arm, teasing him for bringing up something as gross and embarrassing as his courtship with Maman. As if she'd want to know about that! (But she wants him to keep talking about happier days).]
[The slightest noise. Her soft murmur that is almost unnoticed between sounds of breezes and birdsong. Air cracks with the gentle slap of his arm; her hand striking the skin where his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.]
So you can smile when the mood takes you.
[His cane transfers to his left hand, so the right can rest upon where hers has settled in his arm.]
[He teases, but there'd been a time she'd been genuinely worried she wouldn't be able to. When the scars were still healing, growing thicker and stiffer. Even now, it's harder to smile than before, but it doesn't hurt. It just feels... strange.
She lifts his hand to move it, so she can lean against his arm. She places his hand back down on her shoulder, so that he's basically embracing her again.
She gestures a little bit, a rolling motion. She wants him to keep talking.]
[Fingers clench gently around her shoulder, settling in place with a comforting weight. His voice echoes from above and behind, a low and warm tone befitting of the season.]
Ours was a romance between a lady and an artist from the wrong side of town. [Prince and Pauper. Rich and Poor.] You know, it threatened quite a scandal.
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Now, she turns away from even that. But maybe the reminder would be good for her. Or maybe it'll just make her feel worse.
Oh. Lunch. She considers, then tries to make a gesture that indicates something smaller. She'll eat something, but maybe not a full lunch. Still, a snack is better than nothing.]
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Lunch outside is a balance between those expectations. He relishes being alone with his emotions when he cannot be amongst family.
But first one needs to leave the safety of indoors.
He holds open the door with his shoulder and gestures for her to pass over the threshold.]
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But. She lingers at the threshold. When was the last time she actually went outside? Has she been since the fire? She doesn't know, and the thought scares her. Instead of continuing, she presses herself more against Renoir, staring with a wide eye outside.
It's just the garden. She knows it's fine. But she also feels like, if she steps outside, she'll crumble to ash.]
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Today, here and now, he releases her grasp on his arm and embraces her closely. If she is afraid to step outside alone then he is right here.]
It's a difficult choice, ma cherie. This is why families need each other.
[Amongst other reasons. In any case, will she want to step outside with him holding her close?]
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Well, it's good it's Renoir. He won't mind if it takes her a few minutes to gather her courage. And when she does move, she does so while still clinging to her father. She forces herself to just edge past the threshold, making sure she doesn't cross it without him.]
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Good, Alicia. I understand this is difficult.
[It is a short distance to the top of the stairs that descends from the porch to the fountain.]
But I know you can do this.
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Eventually they make it to the fountain and Alicia pauses, giving a shaky exhale. Her breathing still rattles a little bit, but it's been getting better. She doesn't wheeze as much. And look, she's outside, even if she leans again Renoir from the sheer emotional effort of going this far.]
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Perhaps she wishes she had died, but he is grateful she is alive.]
You're going to be all right, Alicia.
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Eventually she untangles herself slowly, with careful and calming breathes. It's not so bad when it's just them in the quiet of the garden. There's even some faint birdsong to brighten up the scene.
Even as she tries to sit up and be brave, one hand still stays clinging to Renoir's sleeve. Even so, she forces herself to breath deeply in the fresh air. It's good for her, even if the action still makes her hurt. The doctors said it was good to practice, sometimes.]
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Perhaps the birdsong brightens his mood. Perhaps the sight of her trying to practice. But a fleeting mixture of love and pride colours his face.]
We should move your bedroom outdoors, non? Back into the treehouse?
[He does not speak of the doctors or nurses who visited her bedside. He has endured their presence in his life - meaning she might be tired of hearing about their opinions. She is outside and walking with support. That is proof of recovery.
So he says something colorful and obscure to lift the mood. Hopefully.]
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Luckily she recovers after a moment, but it leaves her breathing heavily and with a rasping rattle. She hasn't learned how to laugh without making noise yet. It's disheartening that she might have to.
But she tries not to let Renoir see her dip in mood again. Instead, she points to one of the flowers that's starting to bloom nearby. Isn't that nice?]
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Magnolias. [White to be precise.] Associated with nobility and pride. I sent your mother a bouquet while we were courting.
[And by courting he means scandalous rendevous in his garrett on the wrong side of town.]
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But Papa wouldn't want her thinking like that. She exhales a small sigh, feeling the back half of it rattle in her sensitive throat.
She lightly smacks Renoir's arm, teasing him for bringing up something as gross and embarrassing as his courtship with Maman. As if she'd want to know about that! (But she wants him to keep talking about happier days).]
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So you can smile when the mood takes you.
[His cane transfers to his left hand, so the right can rest upon where hers has settled in his arm.]
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She lifts his hand to move it, so she can lean against his arm. She places his hand back down on her shoulder, so that he's basically embracing her again.
She gestures a little bit, a rolling motion. She wants him to keep talking.]
no subject
Ours was a romance between a lady and an artist from the wrong side of town. [Prince and Pauper. Rich and Poor.] You know, it threatened quite a scandal.