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KAMALI

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[multiverse]

( it takes her a long time to decide what to wear, which is not ordinarily such a problem for parisa — it's not like she was lacking in luggage she brought with her to saltburnt. more, the situation is off. new. obviously she's met gale before, when she was young and fresh faced and high off her own youth, in twirling skirts and bowed necklaces, when chanel was still a popular thing for young people to wear. now? she's outgrown her femininity, to some extent. she isn't young. she stopped finding animal print ironically chic. she's a different version of herself than the one gale married, which is suitable enough, because she certainly didn't marry a priest, which means gale changed, too.

she knows armand would suggest something devastating. low cut or tight fit, something she can pour herself into, something to feel good in. but it's also a church, and too much skin could be considered tacky, so.

ultimately, she's in a crafted suit, artfully tailored to fit her. heels, as ever, to be something resembling a normal height. churches, even chapels, always remind her of her wedding — picking a venue out with gale, gale explaining the stained glass to her with his hands on her waist, chin over her head. here, jesus turns the water into wine and here is saint michael with the sword. she doesn't try to think about it, but it's clear by the outline of him in the multicolored light, with the cruxification of christ looking down at him — she knows his form. intimately. often people, even those closest to her, remark on how cold she always is, how unaffected she'd been by their separation. it's not true. even now, parisa remembers old dreams she had of their future, and realizes in another life, she might've seen all these new changes overtake gale. the gray in his hair, the additive lines in his eyes. smiling, always. she might've decided to grow old with him.

as it is, she doesn't look much different than he last saw her. the grays have been plucked and colored in — the lines soothed out with injectables. botox is closer to godliness than whatever this is, she thinks, but only to be edgy. )

What's the word, then?

( she tries to imagine what gale looks like, speaking his sermons — fondness creeps into her features, because she imagines he loves it. stepping aside from the pew, she leaves him be, approaching the altar and taking in all the mystical details of catholicism in the artworks, the displays, the gilded trinkets. )

I always thought churches were peaceful. ( she glances over her shoulder, offering an olive branch of a smile. ) At least until my uncle threatened to gut you and your Christian God after being shushed in the pews. Haven't seen much of him, since.

[corporeity]

[ it’s inevitable that gale conjures the same memory, refracted through the stained glass of his perception. of all the people gale has ever been with — a short but heartfelt list — he’s glad it was parisa that he married. parisa, whose dainty hand he held in churches and event halls across europe, thinking and then saying you would look heavenly in any of these places. in all of them. he’d had faith, even then, swaying him towards the english tradition. always has, since he looked to god for company and comfort as a boy. a constant, in the success and failure of academia, the heartbreak and elation of love.

to the untrained eye, parisa might look the same, but he recognises the sheen of darker lowlights. the barely there change in her demeanour, the way she holds herself with a different sort of confidence than in her youth. ]

Parisa. [ her name, greeting and longing and relief wrapped in each syllable. that’s the watchword. then, politely, ] Your uncle or god?

[ a joke, sort of. he waits a long moment to follow after her. because insomuch as anyone allows parisa to do anything, he ought support her to settle. he wagers they both need a moment, to reach a new equilibrium, tempered for the world where they aren’t together but share the same space.

of course, as soon as she smiles, he mirrors it, eyes crinkling at the corners. ]

It’s good to see you. [ gentled as he approaches her side, both hands in his pockets. with a glance over her ensemble, effortlessly lovely, even the knot of her ankle appealing in some victorian way — ] Sensible shoes and all.

[ one brow arched. something he said when they made it to the one hundred and fiftieth step at the duomo, and he carried her the remainder of the winding stairs, much to the irritation of the passerbys trying to make their way down. and again at the base of the basilique du sacré-cœur. hadn’t needed to say anything in sicily, at least, when she allowed a chunkier sandal for its sloping streets, uphill both ways and only tolerable when tipsy, delirious with sunshine and romance. ]

[multiverse]

Both, I suppose.

( uncle, she means. she didn't experience godliness on their wedding night — she experienced gale, which was better, because he was attentive, generous, and there. not godly of him at all.

there's a lilt to her lips as she sticks out a foot, all the same memories to the forefront. once, a broken heel on an early date (vintage jimmy choo, if you can believe it), gale swoon-worthy and etched by the fine print of romance novellas before him, sweeping her up, laughing at her. it rained too, a real dud of a date, except gale still kissed her at the end of it, wet rat hair and shivering lips and all, so it wasn't really bad at all. a lot of her memories end on the period of life between his big arms, be they lazily dancing beside the seine river to the dulcet tones of murmured french and sucked cigarettes, or in front of the venus de milo, sharing one passionate kiss in the effort of worshiping old gods. it's not like she's not thinking of kissing him now, or if the christian god he so adores appreciates sinning as tribute as much as $1 donations. parisa draws her eyes from a crucified jesus to gale and is happy to make the exchange, smiling at him fondly.

parisa is the kind of asshole to wear sunglasses indoors, but is not the kind of asshole to wear sunglasses in a chapel, and so has them clenched in her hand as she steps away, just to get a full look at him, pointing her sunglasses at him from the top. tracing the curve of his expression, wary and maybe a little bleeding, but is so gale it negates any other definition. reverent, a museum curator handling an ancient relic of his past. )

You changed your hair. I like it. ( generally men with long hair give her the darling impression of her brother, and she supposes there is some comparison there — boys like poems in the flesh, romantic, written in cursive. she goes lower. ) Your eyes, too. More coffee than chocolate, now. Also good.

( the next thing, the biggest change, the outfit he dons. her gale was more — purple sweater vests and buttoned shirts, well tailored woolen slacks. parisa is suddenly shocked that she's never looked up what priests wear under their robes. decidedly: ) Not the kind of collar I'm used to you wearing.

( the rest? she thinks it's the same. he hasn't put on any noticeable amount of weight, still firm and fit from what she can see. maybe some vanity in the quality of his leather shoes, which peek out from his robes, but parisa imagines everyone has their vices, and can't imagine it was anything but a pragmatic choice. if given the choice, the gale she remembers would spend all his money on first editions of jane austen before he'd think of cycling to a summer wardrobe. she drops her arm, still smiling at him — sad, but also happy, nostalgic in that way. )

You look happier. Are you?

[corporeity]

[ a hand escapes his pocket and strays to his hair, carding back through his gray-threaded waves. longer than it was when she saw him last. he finds himself too-pleased to hear she likes it, both because he respects her taste and because he hasn’t fully excised that part of him that desires her approval.

he almost says, i don’t think one can change their eyes. well, not in any way I’m willing to imagine. visions of lasers and terrifying perma-contacts, plastic surgeries gone wrong. but he’d rather hear parisa’s patter than his own rambling. has always loved the burr of her voice, sultry without effort. softened by the french she knows so well.

but she jolts him into action, as ever. ]

Ah — ha. [ two fingers flit to his decidedly more refined collar, tugging at it to ease the burn of his flush, rising from his neck to his cheeks.

as for the rest, gale thinks it could be true. that he’s settled by his profession, his lonely heart put to bed at last. no more pouting and pleading. kneeling only in service of a higher calling. it’s easier to have the holy armour, a safe remove from those who might open new and old wounds. only when he thinks of happy, as a concept, he conjures the summer blue above astarion’s smile — or was it the sunset hue of his gaze? certainly the ease of conversations with him at mealtimes, elbows and fingers brushing.

you haven’t been cured at all. not of the longing. that damning desire for something tangible, like the warmth of entwined fingers. ]

I am — [ suddenly shy as a deer, like he was when parisa first looked his way. his weight shifts from one foot to the other. ] Happier, of late.

[ at least intermittently, when he visits this strange place and finds a well-worn book on his nightstand. ]

Are you well?

[ the question hangs, when it ought to end in a darling, dear, love and can’t any longer. ]