Chapter Text
Graduation is a process.
The week of is mostly spent packing, and saying your goodbyes. This is the last time you’ll see your classmates before destiny seizes hold of them, after all. The Mermaid? Soon her legs will vanish and she’ll be dragged into the cold depths, longing for a world she once walked upon and will now see as a foggy dream. The Princes? One will be a beast and the other blinded by thorns.
The shapeshifters will lose themselves one way or another; Bunny Blanc spends every moment she can to hold Alastair’s hand before the long roads of their destinies force her to become his beguiling guide into madness as little more than a cotton-tailed rabbit. Ramona Badwolf nods as her father tells her over and over again, in a gruff and quiet voice, to stay close to the shadows and the trees, they will come for your pelt. I love you, pup. Be safe.
And then there is...
Well.
Poppy tries not to think about the future, really. She’s content to dwell on the past.
The thing with Duchess starts like most romances do; like a poison, completely out of their control and so subtle that they don’t notice until it is far too late. Poppy remembers the breathless rush of soaring in the cold, winter air, clutching someone else’s hand and feeling her heart pound against her ribs, her blood singing fire in her heart. The genuine compliment-- you were great --coming from someone as hostile and selfish as Duchess, well, it sticks with her. For some reason, the two of them don’t exactly--stay away from the other. Duchess bosses her into skating forms and Poppy attacks the ice as much as she can.
Ankles straight. Shoulders back. Don’t flap your arms like an idiot, Poppy, what the spell is wrong with you--and Duchess corrects her with surprisingly gently hands, steady, like this, okay? Like dancing.
Poppy has never danced and especially not ballet so the advice is honestly wasted, but Duchess doesn’t stop trying. When she retires to her room with her sister, Holly comments that Poppy should be careful.
“Why?” she’d asked.
“Duchess was looking at you, like really looking at you,” Holly had said, brushing her hair. “That’s more than enough reason to be on your guard.”
Duchess’s hair is gorgeous. Poppy knows the difference between high quality highlights and those of natural magic, which makes the ivory streaks woven against ebony curls even more enchanting. She comes in every two weeks for a clean trim and a deep conditioning treatment so Poppy gets more than her fair share of oogling.
The hair, of course. Not Duchess Swan. That would be, like, so improper.
They don’t have a lot in common, Duchess and her. Poppy has no destiny--or has chosen to let Holly take her birthright, not that anyone needs to know--and Duchess pursues hers with more intensity than Apple White which is saying something. While Apple is content to poke and prod and sometimes beg Raven Queen to turn evil, Duchess would have dug her nails in deep and demanded it, not taking no for an answer. She would backstab and blackmail and cheat her way into a happily ever after, if she could. Poppy privately admires it, maybe not the method, but the dedication.
“How’s the water?” Poppy asks as she starts process of washing out the first wave of sweet smelling conditioner from Duchess’s hair, black and white slipping through her fingers like silk. Enchanting . “Is it too warm?”
She half expects an acidic barb flung her way, even braces for it, but Duchess hums in the back of her throat.
“It’s perfect,” she says, unnaturally soft. “For once.”
Ah, there. Poppy hides a grin and pumps the conditioner in her hands again.
She speaks with her hands, Poppy notes out the corner of her eye as she chews on her pen. She takes the Muse-ic mainly for the credits, but she won’t deny a subtle and instinctive pull towards singing that she supposes has to do with a destiny she gave to Holly.
Duchess being in the class is a bit of a bonus, in that she is fascinating and Poppy likes to think that they’re acquaintances bordering on tentative friends, by now. Maybe? Duchess is always so hostile that she doesn’t have any friends, only lackeys, but Poppy likes her spunk. Spite is always such a strange motivator, unhealthy but powerful.
Muse-ic--performing in general--seems to unearth that softer side in Duchess that Poppy only got to see once. Duchess is passionate about it, just a step below her endgame happily ever after, always asking about measures and keys and tempos, gesturing with her hands. She could read out a phonebook and make it seem entertaining, Poppy thinks, staring at the picture Duchess paints with graceful flourishes of her wrist.
“You’ve really, really got to be careful,” Holly begs her. “Duchess has been...hovering around you, I think. She’s at least in the same building as you, y’know, all the time.”
“Really?” Poppy covers her mouth to hide the excited curl of her lips. “I mean, we go to the same school. Can’t really help that, sis.”
“Poppy.” Holly scolds her softly, and they catch eyes in the mirror. Holly looks frightened, which is strange; there are worse things than Duchess Swan in the world. Holly worries too much. “Please, be careful? I don’t want you getting dragged into any schemes.”
“It’s fine, Holly,” Poppy says, looking away from the mirror. “She can’t take away my destiny.”
I don’t have one.
“You’ve been staring at me,” Duchess says as she puts a palm against Poppy’s locker, making it slam shut. A show of intimidation and dominance; even though students are looking their way with wide eyes, worried, Duchess has her voice pitched low. It’s almost like they’re sharing secrets; Poppy blinks slow, tilting her head and peering through a purple fringe.
She wants to say something cool. Instead, she murmurs, “Can you blame me?”
Oh that was stupid. Why did I say that? Hex me! Ugh!
Duchess’s lips part and she flounders , like she was expecting Poppy to cower. Maybe if she’d done this weeks earlier, or maybe if Holly hadn’t told her that Duchess stared too , or if she’d still been a new kid around the halls, she might have. They remain in a bubble of tense what now , unsure of where to tread.
Duchess takes a breath. Presses harder against the locker so that the muscles in her arms slide beneath milky skin. Deceptively strong; a dancer’s lithe form. Enchanting.
“Well, either stop it or we’ll settle things at the lake.” Duchess snorts. “Your choice.”
An invitation. Poppy’s heart kicks into her throat as Duchess turns on the tips of her toes, pointe , and walks down the hall like she’s set for murder. For a moment she stops, ponders what exactly she should do. If Holly were around, she’d say…
If you surrender to fear, then fear wins .
The problem is that Poppy isn’t afraid. Not at all.
She goes to the lake after classes are out. She tells Holly that she’s meeting a friend for coffee, that she’ll be back before dark; it’s not exactly a lie, or perhaps only half of one. It’s fine, she assures herself. I won’t surrender to fear .
Duchess is lost in a dance as she steps to the shore/. She’s in deep thought, Poppy guesses, and while she should politely raise her voice and say something, she finds that her voice is caught tight.
Duchess dances like she’s going to die.
Allegro . Fast, frantic; every move counting, chin held high and neck bared as if in offering. The stretch of her sinew is clearly defined, now. She hasn’t even broken a sweat; the beads of moisture clinging to her skin are drops of water flung from the surface of the lake she frantically dances on.
Her eyes are closed. Poppy would be impressed if she wasn’t breathless.
There is something so, so sweet in Duchess’s tortured expression. She looks like a child chasing after something out of reach, and each grand j eté is followed by a whiplash of a pirouette , tighter and tighter. Poppy feels like that, too; wound tight inside. It’s hard to breathe; her breath explodes out of her in a puh as Duchess faces away from her, balancing on pointe and stretching her arms out, like wings.
They both freeze. Poppy’s ragged breathing fills the silence between them; Duchess’s hasn’t changed at all. She straightens, balanced on the surface of the water, and faces Poppy. She hasn’t put away that vulnerable, frightened face yet; Poppy feels dizzy. She sits down on a rock, swallowing with a dry throat.
Enchanting , she thinks again, and she knows she’s staring but at least Duchess stares back at her. The wet slap of her heels against the water brings Poppy somewhat out of it, and Duchess steps closer. Ten feet, then five. Then two.
“I,” Duchess looks away, lips pursed. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
Poppy tries to gather her thoughts. “Were you hoping I...wasn’t?”
“Yes. No!” Duchess snaps her teeth. “No, I really...I really wasn’t. I want to know why you’ve been looking at me.”
Why have you been looking at me back? Poppy bites back the question, and answers, “Because I--I love your hair.”
Duchess arches a brow, mouth cranking into a frown.
“And-!” She rakes a hand through her own bangs, feeling her face heat. “I really admire your--your dedication. I don’t, I don’t have a destiny. Never wanted one, really, but you’re so focused on yours and so--so--I don’t know!” She looks up, meets brown with her own spring green. “I can’t look anywhere else.”
She has the honor of watching Duchess’s cheeks go rosy pink and she looks away, giving Poppy her profile. Poppy watches a wayward drop of water treck down her temple, over the sleek line of her jaw, and to the tendons in her neck. It settles in the cradle of her collarbones and the tightness comes back, constricting like a snake, and Poppy thinks that maybe Holly was onto something. She could seriously die if this is going to be the norm between her and Duchess, now.
“Can’t look...anywhere else,” Duchess murmurs, slowly looking back her way. Good Godmother, if Duchess keeps showing her that softness, maybe slow death by asphyxiation will be worth it? It’s a gift that no one else has gotten, being that Duchess doesn’t really give gifts at all.
Duchess glances to the lake. Back to Poppy. Offers her hand, like a weapon. “Dance with me.”
“Hah, wait--what?” Poppy shakes her head. “I can’t dance on the water. I can’t dance? “
“Shut up ,” Duchess says between her teeth, “and dance with me. Or--or just! Learn to stop looking at me!”
This is another invitation, she realizes a second before she tugs away her scarf, and grabs Duchess’s hand.
Pas de deux ; dance for two.
An impossible feat on land, considering the gap between their experience. An absolute nightmare when Poppy is wearing heels and is shin deep in water where Duchess flits about it like it's another stage.
Poppy doesn’t get it. At all. Duchess will hiss commands and correct her on her form, sharply--but when she touches her to stretch her arms at the right angle, they’re gentle.
“Steady,” Duchess says, “like this, okay? Like...skating.”
Poppy shivers like she’s on the frozen lake all over again, and the adrenaline pumping in her body is almost the same as taking a leap through the cold air. It’s like drowning when Duchess spins away, and Poppy moves to follow, grimacing as she goes in mid thigh. Her tights are ruined; it’ll take a miracle to save the dress and she has no idea how she’s going to explain all of this to Holly.
Duchess twirls, and bends low. Arabesque. This is how she communicates when she can’t force it through her words, Poppy guesses. Then Duchess’s cold hands frame her cheeks, and Poppy’s neck cranes back.
“I like looking at you like this,” she whispers, her thumb stroking over Poppy’s fluttering pulse. “I want...to keep looking at you. Just you.” Something like regret settles in her eyes, as she adds, “Only in secret.”
Maybe Duchess speaks in Riddlish when she wants to talk about actual feelings. Poppy doesn’t know.
“You want to date me?” She ends up saying, blunt and coming out as a squeak. “But...in secret.” She feels her mouth turning into a frown. “You’re afraid?” If you surrender…
“No.” Duchess answers with uncharacteristic calm, and her other thumb sweeps over Poppy’s lip. She inspects her mouth for smudges; finds none. Poppy buys the good stuff. “Just selfish. I want you, and this, all to myself. Every inch.”
Poppy shivers again, because the lake water is cold and Duchess is...being Duchess. In a profoundly different way. She’s never been the singleminded focus of a selfish girl like Duchess; she realizes, with a drop of heat, that Duchess would pursue her like an ever after, if given the chance. From the flash in those brown eyes, Poppy thinks, that no matter what she says now she will .
Poppy had a chance; stop looking or come to the lake to settle this .
“Is it--are you ashamed? Because I’m a girl?”
“No, idiot.” Duchess rolls her eyes. “Who cares about gender ? I already told you, we’d keep it secret because I’m selfish .”
Every inch.
For a while, people had quietly debated on which swan Duchess really was. From her attire and her beauty, she could be the white swan easily; fragile and hungry for love, adoration. But her other form and her negative personality would make her lean more toward the black; starving, vicious.
She’s both. Poppy’s eyes lift from Duchess’s face to the spill of her hair, white woven against black, naturally, the answer staring them all in the face.
Holly’s warnings suddenly make sense; Duchess was staring at her like a destiny .
If I surrender …
“Okay,” Poppy whispers. “Our little secret, then.”
Duchess’s face blooms, eyes flicking over her face. “You’re okay with it?”
When has Poppy O’Hair done things conventionally? Besides, it won’t be as bad a secret as she shares with Holly. “Yes. Because I want to keep looking at you too.”
Duchess’s laugh is low, and rich. Her kiss, just as much.