[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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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.]
no subject
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?]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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).]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.