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To just bear witness to this girl was enough. To be invited to her room, however, was beyond Demi’s wildest dreams.
Even so, here she was - lavender scented note clasped in hand, discreetly slipped to her across the table before their last match. Such a gesture had caught Demi by surprise, and yet, still… She understands. At least, she thinks she does! She had been watching Margaretha for a very long time, after all.
…Oh, not just watching! Gosh, that makes her sound totally weird, doesn’t it? No, the two of them were close! Or, so she would like to think. Demi was friendly and accommodating by nature - overtly so. It was sometimes hard to tell, late at night in the depths of troublesome thoughts, if really that idea of ‘closeness’ was nothing but a bold presumption. Sweet Margie was a cautious girl - timid and courteous, polite to everyone and always excusing herself. This was where the ‘watching’, so to speak, became important… for with Margaretha, there was often so much more said in subtle actions than in overt words.
If Demi were to summarize Margaretha Zelle, how would she do it?
Elegant. Such a word spoke for itself. The girl held herself with all the graceful poise one would expect of a former performer. Each action, movement, gesture, was so carefully considered. This is what Demi had caught first of all, what had sparked her attention when she had first noticed the refined girl who delicately hung back from the direct ridicule of others.
Secretive. Like everyone else, Margaretha was here for a purpose. Like the vast majority of them, she had kept her reasons a closely guarded secret, held deliberately to her chest as if padlocked there. There was so much Demi did not know… though, perhaps she should consider herself lucky enough to say she knew something. As tightly sealed under lock and key as Margaretha Zelle was, there had been moments… glances… assurances… enough, enough for Demi to feel as though she were privy to something more than just the carefully constructed mask that Margaretha showed the rest of the world.
For another word..? Beautiful certainly fit the bill, but it was one that brought a red flush to Demi’s cheeks. When thinking like that, she had to keep herself in check. Demi knew where her own attractions lay, but what of Margie? Within the hints and signs that Demi had been taking note of, there was nothing to suggest that Margaretha was interested. Not like that. The girl was shy with her, even bashful, but what was that to mean other than just that? Initiating first was out of the question. To scare away one of the saving graces of this horrid place, a saving grace who had just decided to place trust in her, would be the worst thing of all.
…Damn it, Demi. She was here to knock on Margie’s door. The last thing she should be doing is psyching herself out! Working with customers, running the bar… all of that had built her confidence, enough that meeting a darling friend at her bedroom door shouldn’t be a problem, right?
…
Her act of idly standing by instead of knocking was certainly doing nothing to help prove this theory correct. It is not as if she had been this shy with the girl before! If Margie was injured, Demi was always the first person there with a dovlin in hand. When Margie was scared before a match, it was Demi who stood by her and offered the words she needed to hear. Holding the delicate note up to her nose, Demi takes in a deep breath, allowing the potency of the lavender to wash over her. She could do this.
Steeling herself, she makes the small leap of faith of drumming two light knocks onto the door.
And she waits.
…
“Who is it?” A familiar, gentle voice calls out from behind the door. Cautious as ever.
“Oh! Um—” Had she not been expected? Despite the invitation being in writing right in front of her, she starts to doubt herself. She keeps her own voice cheerful. “It’s only me! It’s Demi!”
There is a pause, and Demi really thinks she’s somehow managed to mess this up with just that simple greeting, but then, with a click, the door finally opens.
And there she is. As always, Margaretha looks utterly perfect. Not even a strand of hair is out of place in her immaculate, jet black bob. Her lip gloss is stunning, and her blush is applied to her cheeks in just the right way to show off the fullness of her face. To think she looked like this on a day off! Is it just that the dancer is always prepared for the prying eyes of others, or… did she get ready for Demi especially? Oh, dear. Now that is another dangerous thought, one to rein in quickly before her own cheeks get redder still.
“Hello, Demi.” Margaretha greets her with a small smile, as delicate looking as the rest of her. “It is ever so nice of you to have come…”
“Sure I came!” Demi pipes up immediately, almost too eager to respond. She raises up the lavender note she had been left, as if to proudly show it off. “Who would I be if I ignored an invitation as lovely as this? From you of all people!”
Perhaps the blush applied to Margaretha’s face truly did have an ulterior, practical purpose. If her cheeks grew rosy naturally, it would be easily hidden. The girl takes a step to the side of her door to make way.
“Please, come in.” She says. And so, Demi does.
There is not a lot of leeway to truly make the room given to you in this manor your own, but still, a bedroom always somehow finds a way to reflect the person that stays in it. Every corner, every nook and cranny, is tidied up spotlessly. There is not a speck of dust in sight, not even a crease in the bed sheets! Demi cannot help the awe on her face as she looks around, feeling a hint of shame at imagining if this visit had been the other way around… she wasn’t messy, per se, but her room must look like a slob compared to this! Margaretha stays by the door, a nervous knot making its way into her brows.
“Is it… okay?” She says, the self-doubt in her voice potent. “Sorry, I tried to tidy up for you, but I know it’s not perfect...”
“Huh!?” Demi’s reaction is almost visceral, her disbelief at what she has just heard kicking in before her brain is able to catch up. “Gosh, Margie, you call this not perfect? You’ve done it all up so beautifully, I don’t even know where to start!” She glances all over, wondering if it was even okay for her to be here.
“...Thank you.” And for a moment, that’s the only thing Margaretha says, turning to shut the door behind them. Demi blinks… and finally, her brain catches up. A reflection. Yes, just like Margie herself, the outward perfection of this room was like a mask, wasn’t it? Not that the lovely girl wasn’t incredible , God, Demi would always be the first to advocate that. However…
It would be shallow to treat Margaretha’s surface as her all, wouldn’t it? This room, how neat and tidy it is, did not speak to Demi’s inadequacy, nor did it make her dear friend untouchable. She knew better than that. She knew better! And yet, she’d run her mouth, taken in by that surface level perfection, acting like she barely knew her at all! Damn it, is this silence too awkward now?
“So, um…” Demi rubs sheepishly at her arm, hoping to push past her prior comment. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Is there anything I can help you with, doll?”
The smile that reaches Margaretha’s face seems involuntary, her reaction to the cute pet name plain to see. Still, with the way her eyes stay downcast, Demi can tell this is serious.
“Well, you see…” Sweet Margie begins, her eyelashes fluttering as she dares herself to look back up to Demi directly. “Forgive my abruptness, but I wanted you to come here to talk about… us.”
Lord almighty. Demi is certain that her heart might have just stopped then and there.
“...Us?” She echoes, unable to muster anything else, afraid that anything more will wipe away the illusion of whatever this is, of wherever her own mind is taking her with that single word.
Margaretha’s eyes widen, as if caught in headlights, “Oh gosh, I apologize for how that sounds..!” Ah. Demi’s heart beats again, but at the cost of it sinking. “What I mean is… how do I put this…”
There is a moment of silence, and Demi begins to think that the suspense of this might just be the end of her. Margaretha rubs her thumbs over her elbows, nervous.
“I am worried… about how much you do for me.” The dancer finally says, as if the words are an exhale of breath. “I do not know if it is fair.”
What? Demi has to blink a few times before this sinks in. What can she even say to that? Has she been overbearing? Have her late night anxieties not been unfounded all this time?
“...What do you mean by that, hun?” Is all Demi can muster in response, desperately hoping for some elaboration to make any of this clearer.
“I mean…” Margaretha’s voice is nothing but a breath now, and Demi’s heart not only sinks, but aches. However, the girl then shakes her head, as if finding her resolve once more. “I mean that I feel as though I am taking advantage of your kindness. I feel guilty.”
Okay. It would appear that the elaboration is not helping, for Demi is still unbelievably confused. All she has done is extend a helping hand when necessary to a dear friend, right? Is… Margie really so unused to that? At least it would seem that, whatever this is, the blame for it does not lie at her own two feet, but she is still no less concerned to hear it.
“Goodness, Margie… whatever could there be for you to feel so guilty over?” Demi takes a step closer to the girl, offering a smile in an attempt to close the gap. Perhaps all that is needed here after all is some reassurance. “We’re friends, right? Or, at least, I see you as a friend! Helping each other out is what friends are for!”
Margaretha almost looks confused as Demi says this, before that look of anxiety casts a shadow over her face again. That is when Demi finally puts a finger on it. That wasn’t just anxiety on her lovely face … no, that was that guilt. That must be it! That unique concoction of fear mixed with the desire to make amends, to do things right as a way of atonement - it was the worst cocktail of emotions in the book. Guilt could make anyone a wreck for reasons outside anyone’s control. Even the simple act of surviving could be enough to cause that horrible feeling to brew up a storm. Demi Bourbon knew it too well.
Before Margaretha can retort, wallowing in it, Demi makes a move to speak up again.
“There’s nothing wrong with leaning on somebody else, doll.” The smile on her face rests more easily, regaining some of its confidence. “We’re in a horrible situation here… stuck in a place I doubt any of us could have ever imagined. It’s times like this that the company of others is most important. You can rely on me to—”
“Demi…”
The barmaid’s speech stops in its tracks as Margaretha almost sounds agonized. Stunned into silence, she listens, watching as the girl who has her heart makes direct eye contact with her almost pleadingly. “That’s exactly it. That’s the problem. Everyone thinks I’m helpless, that I need someone to lean on, because that’s what I want everyone to think. Ever since…” She hesitates, the intended direction of her words dying in her throat. “…I mean, for the longest time now, I have done nothing but use other people’s kindness to help myself. You think I’m this lovely, darling, innocent girl… but I’m not.”
Margaretha looks down now, turning herself away as if the magnitude of her words are a cause for her to hide as she continues.
“Your heart is huge, Demi. You’re a wonderful person.” There is the slightest hint of a smile on her face as she says this, a smile that is ever so sad. “It’s for that reason that you deserve to know how much of me is a front. I’m sorry.”
Demi stares, and the impact settles into a revelation.
…No way. This isn’t right. It’s not right at all, for Margie to look this defeated, to look so distraught. Is this really all because of Demi’s desire to help her, to be there for her, to offer a hand? She can’t just accept this. Not for either of their sakes!
Her next words come to her as naturally as her next breath.
“You think I haven’t noticed? That I don’t see how much you’re hiding from the world..?” And there is not a single edge to Demi’s voice. It is enough to make Margaretha, so used to the sharp and rough of others, to look back over in surprise. “It’s not a crime to do that, y’know? To hide, I mean. Authenticity, especially when you’ve been hurt, is scary. Especially in a place like this.”
Acting without thinking, acting on simply what feels right, Demi reaches forward to take Margaretha’s hand in her own. She does not protest.
“I haven’t been helping you out ‘cause of some ideal of you. I’ve been here, and I’m sticking around, because I want to get beneath all of that. I want to know you. The real you.” The pause she takes then is delicate, unsure amidst such certain words. “That is okay… right?”
The way Margaretha stares at her now is alike to witnessing the sun break the clouds after a lifetime of rainfall. The way those beautiful doe eyes flutter at her is something that Demi could treasure forever, as selfish as that desire might be. While it only lasts a few seconds, the silence is as still as ever. Margaretha then finds her voice.
“...It is almost difficult to know how to respond to that,” She admits, before her next sentence hastily stumbles out, “Only that, I think… you might be giving voice to something I did not even know about myself, that I did not know could be how someone felt about me. Not before now.”
“I mean…” Hell, how does Demi even respond to that? Embarrassed by the weight of it, she hurriedly finds her own explanation. “It was only a lucky guess, I think. I can’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head, Margie. All I know is that, more than anything… I would like to know.”
A soft huff of resigned amusement comes from Margaretha, and with it, she turns to face her fully once more. If the girl is a padlock, then perhaps today Demi would find the key to not be lost after all.
“This whole time I thought my act had been polished perfectly. No one but you has ever seen it for what it is.” It is an admittance, an act of finally showing a hidden deck of cards. With it, of course, comes the rawness of being open. “But, still… what if when you see the real me, the unmasked me, you realize that you don’t actually like her? Tell me… would you regret it?”
Impossible! That’s what Demi wants to say, because what kind of world could they live in where that would be true? But… she catches herself, knowing she cannot get carried away. Promising things that neither of them could guarantee would do nothing for the paranoid pragmatism clouding Margaretha’s thoughts.
It is true that they still barely knew each other, not in the grand scheme of things. What of Margaretha’s family? Her hometown? Her old friends? Demi couldn’t put a name to any of that. Margaretha, realistically, could be anything. She had just admitted to her front, after all. Could she even be a fugitive? Wanted and on the run? A situation as dire as that would explain her skittish self preservation, wouldn’t it?
But, still. Still. Details of the past, they aren’t everything. There may be a lot that Demi still doesn’t know about her dear friend, but there is an awful lot that she does. She knows how Margie winds her fingers through the hoops of her jewelry when she’s nervous. She knows how Margie takes care and pride in fixing the wear and tear of her clothes all by herself after a strenuous match. She knows how the dimples in Margie’s cheeks twitch whenever she’s hiding something embarrassing. She knows Margie.
“There may be a lot I still don’t know about you,” Demi says, her smile now coming so naturally to her face, “But I, for one, am excited to find out more. A lot more of the genuine you slips out from beneath that mask of yours than I think you realize, and I like her - a lot.”
It is at this moment that Demi notices just how the two of them are standing - so close. A familiar scent wafts over her, ever so gentle… and it is that lavender, so intertwined with Margaretha Zelle, an aroma inseparable from the girl herself. From this closeness, they stare at one another now, with nothing but their breaths disturbing the lack of space between them.
“...Can you keep a secret?” The lavender girl asks in a whisper, her dark eyes full of unreadable light.
Without a hint of hesitation, Demi replies, “Of course—!”
But she cannot quite finish, the final breath of her sentence not able to leave her mouth before a pair of soft lips suddenly press themselves to her own. It is only momentary, as quick as the breath that was stolen from her, but in that moment, in that second, Demi’s heart combusts into violet flames.
There is nothing she can say. Her lips stay parted, reeling from the ghost of such an act, and she knows how red her face must look as her darling Margie looks at her with such infectious relief.
“I think, of all the things I have kept hidden, that this is the part of me I have wanted to set free for the longest time,” and, as Margie says this, Demi is certain that no smile that she has ever seen on the girl’s face has been as genuine as this one.
At once, there is another revelation, one that could nurture flowers in the most barren of hearts. To only bear witness… no, that is not enough. That could not even be further from the truth. If she were unable to protect Margie, to hold her hand, to caress her cheek as she leans in to do so now, then Demi might lament the meaning of her being here at all.
To partake in this now, in her wildest dreams - she has never been more thankful.