[Closed] Chance Encounters (Chrysanthe)

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Georgie's flat, evening.

Georgie busied herself with a wine bottle as Chrysanthe made her way around the room, examining the art that hung on the walls. She’d purchased this bottle a few days ago, intending to enjoy it with a book she had been meaning to read, but this seemed a much better use of it. She had to wrestle a bit with the cork, but it came free eventually with a satisfying pop. She retrieved two glasses and filled them, making her way back over as Chrysanthe stopped in front of the easel. The brush of their fingers as she handed over the glass made her blush, which she found frankly rather absurd. Their hands had touched multiple times already tonight, and a simple brush as she handed over Chrysanthe’s wine meant nothing at all. She clinked her glass lightly against the other woman’s, and took a drink, turning to look at the canvas as Chrysanthe asked about it.

“This one is my latest project,” she explained, “it’s the view out the windows of the studio room I work in at the institute. It’s up on Queen Daphne Hill, so it gets the most splendid views. It’s really lovely when it’s sunny. I haven’t been able to work on it the last few days, unfortunately. It’s been cloudy, and the light just isn’t right. I sort of stuck myself in a very small corner, choosing to paint at sunset, I think. It’s such a small frame of time to work in. But I love the colours.”

She stared at it for a bit, her expression thoughtful. She was rather fond of how it was coming along. She had changed or added a few things over the last few days, but was eager for the weather to turn so that she could finish more of it. She took another drink of wine, and then a realization dawned on her.

“It’s chilly in here,” she said, “I’m sorry, I’ll get the fire going.”

She set her glass aside, making her way over to the woodstove, kneeling down and setting about lighting it. It was still something that was quite new to her, but Bess had shown her the best way to do it before she’d left home. Paper, smaller bits of wood, and then her firewood. As an artist, she had plenty of spare paper laying around. Aborted scribbles and terrible first drafts made wonderful kindling.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” she said as she struck a match, “If you like, I can show you my sketchbook. I’ll warn you in advance, though, there are nude model studies.”

She got the fire lit and shut the grate, dusting off her hands and getting to her feet again. “I’ve had a few people ask to flip through it and then get very flustered, so I tend to lead with that now.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
Georgie’s Flat, Uptown

Chrysanthe turned back to the painting with Georgie, admiring it. “I feel as if I can almost see the light in the painting,” she said, smiling at Georgie. “I don’t know much about technique or the rest, but it’s beautiful.”

Chrsyanthe took a sip of the wine, turning to watch as Georgie set to work on the fire. At the other woman’s suggestion, she settled in on the chaise, the wine glass in one hand and her legs crossed at the ankle beneath her skirt.

Chrysanthe started to agree when Georgie suggested they look at the sketchbook. Her eyes went a little wide at the mention of nude model studies, and her eyebrows lifted as she looked at Georgie.

“Men or women?” Chrysanthe asked. She had, she thought wryly, drank too much; she felt like she saw a glimpse of a way forward - of spilling it out - actually, she might say casually, I’ve never seen a naked man but I have seen a few other naked women - quite gay, you know, as it turns out -

“Both,” Georgie had answered, amidst all the rest, and Chrysanthe nodded.

“I’d like to see your sketchbook. I don’t think I’d want to look at the men much,” she took another sip of wine, her gaze on Georgie as the other woman went to get it. “But I’m not very easily flustered, I’m afraid.” Her fingers held the stem of the wine glass firmly, steadily.

She was so close, Chrysanthe thought as Georgie came back towards her. It would have been easy to say it, to slip it in - as I’m gay - because I’m gay - because I’m not interested in men, but women - and every way she might have said it outright had slipped her tongue. Instead, she was hinting around the edges of it. Surely, Chrysanthe thought, surely it was obvious enough.

Georgie, Chrysanthe thought, had never been shy. She didn’t remember when she had known the other girl was a lesbian; she had known. She had known plenty of lesbians at Brunnhold; she had known what a lesbian was from a young age. She had no easy excuse of ignorance to explain her own delays; it was all right. Chrysanthe didn’t, most of the time, see any reason to judge herself on speed. She had gotten there in the end; it had been like finding a key, and opening a door she had never ever known existed.

“Did you always want to be an artist?” Chrysanthe asked, smiling once more at Georgie. The other woman was beautiful in the firelight; it caught in her hair in particular, Chrysanthe thought, taking another sip of her wine and resolving it slow down. The light flowed; it light up all the red in the strands and gleamed dark in the curls.

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Georgie's flat, evening.

Georgie had been immediately honest when Chrysanthe had asked if the models she had drawn were men or women. Nudity had never bothered her personally, especially not when it came to art. The models that came to sit for the figure study classes were of all sorts — old, young, fat, thin, men, women. They were even various races. There had been a wick recently that Georgie had quite liked, a young man with tattoos all over his arms and back. The tattoos were almost more interesting to draw than the poses, and she had been hoping he would come back and sit for another session.

Chrysanthe said that she didn't think she would like to look at the men as much, which stuck with her. She mulled that over as she went to retrieve her sketchbook from the bookshelf where she kept it when it wasn't in use. There were a number of reasons that could be the case, she thought. Though, it had been followed by Chrysanthe saying she wasn't easily flustered, which really eliminated quite a few of those reasons. She turned from the book shelf to look back at Chrysanthe, backlit from the light of the woodstove, her hair shining copper and gold in the orange light. It made Georgie think of the pub. She made her way back over and sat down quite close to Chrysanthe on the chaise. She held out the sketchbook, allowing Chrysanthe to take it and flip through it at her leisure. It was mostly studies of things. Plants, objects, some animals, and the models of various sorts. One featured prominently across a few pages, a young woman with long dark hair, drawn in various lights and positions, though always clothed. There were others as well, some in quick gesture drawings and some more dedicated, full sketches.

Chrysanthe asked her if she had always wanted to be an artist, and she smiled, nodding. "Since I was a little girl," she said, "the versatility always appealed to me. Anything can be art. A statue, a drawing, two pieces of scrap welded together— doesn't matter. And anyone can be an artist. There's no law against humans or wicks creating things. I love it."

Georgie was quiet for a bit, watching as Chrysanthe continued to flip through the sketchbook. A piece of her golden hair slipped forward, out from behind her ear, and Georgie wanted nothing more than to reach out and brush it back out of the way. It might have just been the wine, and the vodka, but it took everything she had not to. What she had said was still rattling around in Georgie's head. She cast her mind back to the pub. The flirting. And then it hit her, like something snapping into place. Of all the explanations for what she had said — about not wanting to look at nude men — there was really only one that made sense.

"Chrysanthe," she said, "forgive me if this is a bit too forward, but… are you a lesbian?"

The question came effortless for her. She had never been shy. Her father joked that she didn't know the meaning of the word. She supposed he was right, in a way.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
Georgie’s Flat, Uptown

Georgie sat down beside her, very close; close enough that Chrysanthe was, if she were honest with herself, just a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t in a bad way; on the contrary, it was in rather a good sort of way, Chrysanthe thought. That didn’t help quite in the moment, but she knew the difference all the same.

She took the sketchbook from Georgie with a smile, opening it on her lap and looking down at it, trying to focus more on that, and less on the other woman’s warm smile and elegant fingers. She picked up her wine again, resolve forgotten, and took another sip, very careful to keep the liquid away from the delicate pages.

Chrysanthe had to admit to herself she didn’t know what she was looking at, beyond the obvious, or for. She admired what she saw nonetheless, impressed by what the other woman could do with pencil and paper. She looked up when Georgie answered her question, listening with a smile. “Anything can be art,” she repeated, and grinned. “I see that in your sketches, I think. Everything you draw seems like art, even a leaf.”

Chrysanthe went back to flipping through the sketchbook. There were, as Georgie had warned her, nude models. On paper, she didn’t find the men quite as distasteful as she had feared; she didn’t quite know what she had expected. There was nothing lewd or provocative about it, only form and shape, rendered harmless on the page.

Georgie said her name, and Chrysanthe glanced up again, smiling. The question hit her rather abruptly, and her eyes widened just a little. She didn’t look away from Georgie’s gaze; she couldn’t, quite, seem to manage it.

“Yes,” Chrysanthe said, evenly. When the time came to say it, it wasn’t as hard as she’d expected; the walls she had built up in her mind seemed to crumble and fall. She set the wine glass to the side once more, looking down at the sketchbook in her lap, then back at Georgie.

It was relief she felt, mostly, at having been asked, at her hints having been enough; it was shame, too, because she didn’t quite know why she found it so hard, still. She smiled a little, looking back down. Georgie hadn’t asked – not about her work, and not about this – but just like earlier, she found it spilling quietly out of her.

“I didn’t fully realize until Gior,” Chrysanthe said; she smiled a little at Georgie, tentatively. “That must sound so strange, but I just…” she looked away once more, aware of the fall of pale blonde hair between them, scarcely seeing the sketches on the page.

“I just didn’t know.” Chrysanthe said, finally. She glanced back up at Georgie, smiling just a little, more than a little uncertainty at the edge of it. I didn’t know how to tell you, either, she wanted to say; I didn’t want it to seem – presumptuous – I’ve never known how to tell anyone.

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Georgie's flat, evening.

Georgie just smiled as Chrysanthe confirmed what she had guessed. Her expression changed to one of sympathy as she went on, about when she realized it. She sounded so apologetic, somehow. Like it was something she was supposed to know from the start, or like she had done something wrong in taking her time realizing it. Georgie reached out and took her hand, tentatively, giving it a comforting squeeze in much the same way she had earlier in the night. Her grip wasn't tight, and she would let go if the other woman pulled away.

"It doesn't sound strange at all," she said, reassuringly. "Really, it doesn't. Figuring yourself out isn't a sprint, Chrysanthe, and there's no right way to do it. There are people much older than you and I who still don't know who they are or what they want. It'd be nice if we were given a map, or some sort of guidebook. Instead we're dropped out in the middle of nowhere and expected to figure it out."

She turned, looking towards the fire. "I know it may seem like I've had everything sorted since we were in school, but it took me time, too."

She looked back to Chrysanthe, a faint, warm smile coming over her face. "Do you want to know how I figured out I was gay?" she asked, "One day, I found a flower with a love note attached to it outside my dorm room door. It was anonymous, but I thought the handwriting looked like a girl's. I spent all day trying to figure out who it was from, until one of the girls on my floor finally told me it was from a boy in my Statics class. She had seen him drop it off."

She looked away again, down at their hands. "I was so disappointed! But I couldn't figure out why. I'd always felt like I was supposed to be happy that a boy liked me, you know? That's what we're told is supposed to happen. I thought about it for days. Eventually it hit me: I had been happier thinking it was from another girl than I was knowing it was from a boy."

"Baz was the first person I told. It was such a big thing to me, and all he said was 'oh, okay'. Like it didn't matter! Which I guess it didn't, to him. Not in the way it did to me." she did an imitation of her brother for the last bit, and it really was spot on. She grinned, adding "When he came to me a few years later all 'Georgie I think I like boys' I said the exact same thing."

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
Georgie’s Flat, Uptown

Georgie took her hand; Chrysanthe smiled, and didn’t let go, her fingers settling through the other woman’s. It wasn’t any different now, Chrysanthe told herself, than it had been earlier in the evening. Georgie was a friend, comforting her, just as she had been earlier. Just because they were both lesbians – just because they now knew they were both lesbians – didn’t mean there was anything more to it.

Georgie didn’t let go, and she didn’t either.

Chrysanthe grinned a little when the other woman spoke of a guidebook, nodding slightly. She turned a little more, looking at Georgie, immensely conscious of how close together they were.

Chrysanthe nodded again when Georgie asked if she’d like to know how the other girl had realized she was gay. She grinned at the story of the flower and the love note. She laughed when Georgie imitated her brother, grinning a little wider. “Just like him,” Chrysanthe said disparagingly, although fondly as well. That was, she thought, the best and worst part of Baz all in one.

“For me it was like…” Chrysanthe took a deep breath. “There was… a wall inside me, I think, and I’d always thought it just a wall. And I realized that not only there was there a door, but that I could open it and walk through, to this place in me that I had never known existed. It was like… casting for the first time or taking off a blindfold perhaps.” She smiled, more relaxed now.

“I still haven’t told my sister,” Chrysanthe admitted a moment later. “I know that… well, I’m not sure exactly what she’d say, but I know that all she wants is for me to be happy. I just, um… I came back from Gior to my nephew not even a year old. She had so much to deal with, and it seemed strange to just… walk up and say it, and so I never did. And now…” Chysanthe smiled at Georgie. “It’s been so long, there’s a part of me that just thinks I should let it come up when it needs to, and there’s a part of me ashamed for keeping this from her.”

Sometimes, she thought about just greeting Amaryllis with it, as she had with her hair. There had been no hiding that, at least; there was no point to trying. All she could do was walk into tea with her chin held high, and so she had. She thought of a button, perhaps, or writing the words onto a paper and pinning it to her shirt, so there could be no hiding it. And yet at the same time she didn’t see, quite, why it should matter, and she didn’t know whether it was sense or fear.

“You really did always seemed to have it figured out,” Chrysanthe went on. She smiled at Georgie, a little softer, still holding the other woman’s hand. “I admired you a lot in school. I still do.”

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Georgie's flat, evening.

Chrysanthe had held on to her hand, and even gone so far as to lace their fingers together. The connection felt nice, adding another level to their sharing of experiences and the talk of the different ways they had both realized where their affections lay. Georgie held on for as long as Chrysanthe did, listening to her intently. The door in the wall was a good way to put it, she thought. She could see that. She smiled faintly at the idea of it, like a walled garden with a hidden door. She looked back up at Chrysanthe as she started talking about not having told her sister yet. She smiled softly, and nodded.

“I can understand that,” she said, “I don’t think you should feel guilty about not telling her, though. I’m sure you’ll find a way to bring it up. Amaryllis was always so sweet, the rare times I talked to her. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

She ran her thumb over Chrysanthe’s hand lightly. “If you decide to tell her, and you feel like you need some moral support, I could go with you. Sometimes things like this are easier with a friend,” she offered.

Georgie’s eyes widened as Chrysanthe revealed that she had always admired her. She laughed, her cheeks colouring slightly. “I’m flattered,” she said, “but I’m maybe not the best person to look up to. I’m really just very stubborn, that’s all. Some people might say ‘determined’ instead, but those people are wrong. It’s stubbornness, all the way. I’ve known I wanted to be an artist since I was five and I’ve just never taken ‘no’ for an answer.”

She shifted slightly, leaning her shoulder lightly against Chrysanthe’s, still holding her hand, her glass of wine somewhat forgotten on the side table where she had left it after returning with the sketchbook. It was nice, sitting with her like this. She smiled faintly, looking down at their hands.

“Since we’re admitting things,” she began, “I’ve always been envious of your hair.”

She looked up at Chrysanthe, her smile growing slightly, a playful look in her eyes. “Ever since we were younger. It’s such a lovely colour, and it was always so smooth. Meanwhile, the weather gets a bit humid and I turn into a sheep.”

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
Georgie’s Flat, Uptown

Chrysanthe smiled at Georgie when the other woman offered to go with her to tell Amaryllis. She didn’t think she would take her up on it – she didn’t think it was support that she needed, not quite. But it was, really, awfully kind of Geogie to offer, and she really did appreciate it. The other woman’s thumb was stroking lightly over her hand, and Chrysanthe was terribly, desperately conscious of it.

She’d enjoyed looking at the sketchbook, but it was awkward on her lap just now. Chrysanthe closed it gently with her free hand, setting it to the side, all her attention on Georgie. She grinned when the other girl laughed at her remark, and blushed, just a little.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with stubbornness,” Chrysanthe pointed out. She grinned. “I’ve found a bit of it very useful myself.” She leaned back against Georgie’s shoulder, not minding the contact in the least – rather, she thought, the opposite. She meant it too; stubbornness had kept her in static conversation, had pushed her to the scholarship she’d won, had kept her searching for jobs in glass engineering, rather than giving up and becoming a secretary or a companion, or any of the other sorts of jobs considered suitable for a woman.

Since we’re admitting things, Georgie began. Chrysanthe glanced up, and then laughed when the sentence resolved itself, grinning. Georgie was smiling too, wider than before, Chrysanthe noticed. She didn’t know where they were headed; she didn’t know if they were headed anywhere at all. She was conscious – as she had been on other such occasions – of that awareness of a door, as if she’d brushed the ivy back and found the shape of it where she’d expected only smooth stones. They hadn’t opened it – they hadn’t walked through – she didn’t know if they meant to.

She did, Chrysanthe realized with a little start, want to; she very much wanted to, for all that she couldn’t be entirely certain what was on the other side.

“Honestly it was such a hassle long,” Chrysanthe said, shaking her head slightly. “The braids took ages and ages – simply forever – and dying it! Good Lady. I’d get out of the bath, and sort of sit with my back to the fire and my hair all spread out,” she grinned. “Then, when it was finally dry, I’d have to brush it out and braid of it – the whole thing could take nearly an hour.”

“But, really, you have lovely hair,” Chrysanthe turned her attention back to Georgie, really looking at her, her freckled face framed by the rich curls, all of it lit by the firelight. “In the firelight especially it’s… like flame itself,” Chrysanthe smiled a little, holding the other woman’s gaze for a moment; her tongue ran lightly over the edges of her lips, just barely wetting them.

[Georgianna Morgenstern]

Bethas 37, 2720
Georgie's flat, evening.

Georgie listened as Chrysanthe talked about what a hassle her hair had been at its previous length. She knew a fair bit about that. Her own hair was quite long and also quite unruly, though the unruliness was why she never let it get much longer than it was now, just at the bottom of her shoulder blades. She was incredibly conscious of their shoulders and fields all pressed together, like they had been earlier in the night as they shared that chair, but this time more comfortable and warm. They were still holding hands, her thumb still tracing soft lines along Chrysanthe’s. It hadn’t occurred to her to stop, but the other woman didn’t seem to mind. At some point, Georgie had stopped listening and started just watching her.

Good Lady, but she was beautiful. She let herself think that now. She’d thought it before — in the pub, in the meeting, on the street — but it had been with a level of restraint. This time, she indulged. Chrysanthe’s hair looked like spun gold in the glow of the fire. The soft constellation of freckles across her nose. Her eyes were bright and lively, blue as the sky reflecting on some clear lake. Cobalt, she decided. If she were to paint the woman, cobalt would be perfect. She wasn’t certain she would be able to get the colour exactly, but that would be the place to start. She tuned back into the conversation as Chrysanthe was saying her hair was like flame itself. She got the distinct impression that Chrysanthe was flirting with her again. She was certain now, unlike earlier, when she had dismissed it as something she had read too much into. She smiled, a slow smile that spread across her features along with a soft blush.

She considered what to say next, and Chrysanthe’s metaphor occurred to her again. A wall, she realized. Chrysanthe on one side and her on the other, a door between them. Her eyes searched Chrysanthe’s face for a moment, considering her. Not just her, really, but the two of them, the possibilities, the serendipity of being in the same place on the same night, reaching for the same chair, in a vast city where either of them could have easily been somewhere else. The door in the wall. She looked down at their hands again, her thumb ceasing it’s motions.

“If I can make one more admission,” she began, her voice soft, “I think you’re really quite beautiful, and I think I would very much like to take you out to dinner, if you’ll let me.”

Her cheeks darkened and she looked up again with a bit of a start. “I mean, if you’re available. I didn’t even ask that— I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be presumptuous. If— if you’re not… if you're not seeing anyone. I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

Good job, Georgianna, she thought, her face painted scarlet right up to her ears as she looked away again.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 37 Bethas, 2720
Georgie’s Flat, Uptown

She had, Chrysanthe thought, been flirting, and really quite shamelessly. Georgie smiled in the wake of it, a faint blush on her cheeks, only sort of just visible in the dim firelight. Chrysanthe found her cheeks were a little pink as well. There was, she thought, no hiding behind a veneer of the sort of compliments female friends paid one another; her secret, such as it was, was revealed.

It was something like solace that she didn’t think she’d fooled Georgie before. She didn’t try to make a habit of it, Chrysanthe thought uneasily, flirting with women who didn’t know she was gay. She had wanted to tell Georgie; it was only that she’d found it difficult, because – because, Chrysanthe thought, settling into it, she found she did care whether it mattered to the other woman.

Georgie’s thumb was soft against the back of her hand.

The other woman had been silent for a few moments now. Chrysanthe glanced down as well, looking at their hands. Georgie’s thumb stilled, and Chrysanthe stifled a sigh. Perhaps she hadn’t known, she thought; perhaps she wouldn’t have invited her back if she’d thought – perhaps it hadn’t been a signal after all, only two old school friends catching up platonically, and Georgie’s compliments genuine but not flirtatious.

Georgie spoke.

Chrysanthe didn’t blush easily; she didn’t blush often, not beyond the faint pinking of embarrassment. Georgie did, she was a little delighted to see; the other woman’s cheeks went practically scarlet, color washing from her chin up to her forehead and out along her ears beneath her hair.

Before Chrysanthe could answer, Georgie had kept going, into an apology that stumbled around into asking her out again – or perhaps it was a continuation of the question she’d already asked. It didn’t matter, really; Chrysanthe wasn’t dating anyone at the moment. She hadn’t been, she thought, a little embarrassed, for the better part of a year.

Chrysanthe laughed; she couldn’t quite help it. “I’m not seeing anyone,” she said, her teeth closing over her lip for a moment and then scraping free. “I’d very much like to have dinner with you, Georgie.”

All the fear she’d felt, all the nervousness she’d been wrapped up in seemed to have gone. She felt as if she were floating, just a little, on a cloud of gin, wine and delight. She knew – she knew – that she ought to wait, but the distance between them was so small, her shoulder pressed up against the other woman’s, their hands and fields intertwined; they were both bastly, now, goldshift and pleased, the air around them hazed with the warmth of the fire.

Chrysanthe leaned over, and brushed her lips over Georgie’s cheek. Perhaps, she thought a little wryly, not all the fear had gone, not quite. She turned her head, just a little, and kissed Georgie, just once, softly, on the lips.