what does bernadetta see? more than she ever gives herself credit for, and more than most people are ready to hear for themselves.
just like the rest of her, bernadetta's eyes are not beautiful. her clustered lashes are stiff as a board; her irises are a foggy gray, ashen with no color she could even liken to any of the plants she loves as some consolation. they are eyes that avoid, they are eyes that have been trained to stay down and never meet others'. but they see. everybody knows that bernadetta's eyes see the worst, and maybe that's why people don't consider that they also see the best.
those eyes see the loathing every time. loathing is too familiar to her for them not to. loathing was her comfort and privilege, her only friend for years after she had lost the very first one she made. loathing took persecution by the hand and encircled her. loathing and persecution went hand in hand, because loathing and persecution, they were partners in crime too.
you're not kidding, she nearly accuses. her shoulders sag with the vague wondering if yuri thought they'd fool her like this, after everything. they tear their gaze away first, right as she had finally thought they would look at her, too, and her gaze shrinks in turn. the same old persecution digs its nails into her. it mocks her for opening her mouth at all. it reminds her that every time she does, that no matter what she says, something just seems to go wrong. that maybe her voice should not truly reach anyone's ears.
...and yet, after everything. she understands that there is no place for persecution in what she must do. that she should not be welcoming it home to her heart instead of him. another moment to ground herself, then. fists clenched, bernadetta claws out of herself tooth and nail. she may not be able to do it with beauty like yuri, having no charm to begin with, but she pulls herself out of this hole all the same.
the way she moves is the most decisive she's been all night, maybe all year. brow furrowed, she surges forward with a tiny puff in her cheeks, containing their huff when she takes the platter from yuri in one swift motion and sets it back down with a clack in her next. her hands are less impulsive—they are mindful, they are gentle, lifting in front of yuri conspicuously enough to make themselves known, but they are still insistent in their kindness to tilt their face back toward her. all as if to say: look at me. let me see you. let me care about you. it comes with a gentle pinch of their cheek between gloved thumb and forefinger, more silly stretch of skin than any pinching at all.
alight with clarity, more intent than ever, bernadetta's eyes lock with her favorite lilacs in the world. they brook no argument, even though she knows she must be difficult to take seriously from all five feet, quivering lower lip and mousy talks-aloud-to-stuffies demeanor of her. but she hopes that even she is enough for this. another deep breath, and then:
“...a-a crime!” a what? (as if she had been heard, a distant shattering of glass interrupts bernadetta's momentum. only then does her attention turn, a chunk of its tenacity diminishing to blink dumbly at some faraway altercation between two women on the floor.) “um... not like that. we're a lot sneakier than that.” back to yuri, her expression a bit softer. “but you know, somehow i always have fun when we're doing things we aren't supposed to. last year, it was the viscount's greenhouse. the other month, it was our fake wedding. and maybe that's because...
“because when we do, it's not like we're yuri leclerc and bernadetta von varley.” they really can't be, of course, given the entire nature of crime things. that aside. “we're just partners who go on adventures, and you're just my best friend who i've always cared about no matter what. the best friend i let have my very first dance, kiss, and orchid at the ethereal ball. i'm kind of running out of firsts here, too. but, um... when i'm with you, i don't think anything would get boring after the first time, anyway.”
think, she says. but bernadetta already knows that it wouldn't.
“so tonight, we'll just think of something else we aren't supposed to do! and you won't have to be yuri, and i won't have to be bernie. i-i know it's not as good as running away, but until the day we finally get to do that...” and her gaze might have dropped again by now. usually, it would. bernadetta, who has her bursts of conviction and bravery, and those bursts are just that—she lights up and goes out, pathetically weak heart never able to commit to one or the other.
but this time, her gaze doesn't drop. it remains as her palms go back to just cradling yuri's face, and now, it's bernadetta's lips that try to quirk up for them even if a bit shakily. something about it is as vulnerable as the day she first held out her heart and asked again to be friends. it is so small, and tall all at once. it is brave enough for the both of them, because it does not take being unflappable or inexhaustible to be brave. it does not take permission to be tired, nor forgiveness for voicing it.
bernadetta, who loathes herself just as much, but does not realize that she is still trying and trying, too. she is still trying so hard for the people she loves. they are worth it and infinitely more.
you don't even know my name, they told her, after pushing her away once.
why else would she have ever put her own life on the line when she doesn't? it might not be much, no, but it's the only one she has. and she'd do it again, every time if she had to.
