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ʟᴀᴠᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇᴛꜱ
Pran stares at her computer screen, bottom lip sucked between her teeth, wondering whether she is dreaming; imagining it all.
Purple is a recurring theme in the history of lesbian iconography.
The soft purple of her bedroom walls seem all too bright. Maybe she has silently known for years, and has been expressing herself without being fully aware of it.
Really, she should have realised — especially since she never quite understood the attraction of men.
Like violets, lavender was a common gift between women as a covert expression of sapphic interest.
The flowers themselves never made her curious. They're flowers; they're pretty. That's it.
Or so she thought, up until now.
Looking over at the framed photo of herself and Pat upon her desk, hand-drawn and painted lavender flowers beneath the glass, Pran lets out a low whine.
She should have realised.
Her love for pat has never felt 'friendly' — or even 'sisterly' — as her mae tends to put it.
Pran gets that now. and that should have really been the first sign: the fact that Dissaya said something about her daughter's feelings for the neighbour's daughter.
It was obvious.
It was obvious enough that Dissaya realised while Pran remained innocently oblivious.
Pran wants to scream.
She didn't realise that her affections for Pat had changed so drastically, but her mae had. The same mae that despises Pat's pa, but weirdly accepts Pat and Paa.
Pran's head snaps up at the opening of her window, watching with wide eyes as Pat slips inside.
Her long hair is woven into an intricate braid — done by Paa, no doubt — and it shows off her heart-shaped hairline.
Pran wants to cry. Pat is so pretty.
Some argue that lavender is irrevocably bound up with queerness, but it is unclear whether this refers to the her itself or to the colour alone.
Pran wants to paint Pat in shades of purple; paint Pat with violets and lavender to claim her as Pran's own.
Pran wants to keep Pat at her side for as long as humanly possible. She fears that she would die if she does not.
Pat's wearing an oversized purple shirt, and Pran wants to cry.
It's their colour, it has to be. Pran and Pat have always been purple, clashing in the middle of reds and blues.
Purple means them; it means that they're meant for each other.
Pat smiles adorably at Pran. "Pran!"
Pran internally melts. "Why are you climbing through my window, you idiot? The front door isn't broken."
"It's quicker. And...your mae has been scary lately."
Because she knows...
Pat walks over to where Pran is sitting at her desk, briefly glancing at Pran's laptop. She perches on the edge of Pran's desk, hands curled around the lip of the wood.
If Pran was a wisher, she'd say that Pat looks nervous; like she's about to confess. Pran's not so delusional.
"Hey, Pran..."
Pat bites at her bottom lip, and Pran inhales sharply. She wants to bite and suck on that bottom lip herself. She wants to stake her claim on it and never let Pat torture it again.
"I, uh... I've got something to tell you, and I... I don't want to scare you..."
Pran frowns, her hands instinctively moving to cover Pat's where they rest upon her desk. "Pat, it's okay. What's wrong, puppy?"
Pat blushes, and, okay, that's weird... "Pran, I... I think that I— no, I know that I..."
Pran swallows, heart rabbiting in her chest. "...yeah?"
"I like you, Pran. I think I have for a while, maybe a long while, but I've only just—"
Pran doesn't let Pat finish. she drags Pat down to her level, pressing their lips together with a pained whine, stomach flipping at the surprised sound that escapes Pat.
The older girl catches up pretty quick, returning the gentle kiss, her free hand shaking as she cups Pran's jaw, thumb caressing the swell of Pran's cheek.
Pran shivers at the touch and shifts forward, daring to attempt deepening their chaste kiss. Pat accepts it, melting.
Pran quickly has a lap full of eager Pat, the drummer's small shorts riding up higher upon her thighs spread around Pran's hips. Pran's hands tremble upon Pat's thighs, her mind betraying her in its belief that Pat isn't even wearing pants.
Pat's hand slips beneath Pran's shirt, resting upon the bare skin of her waist, and Pran shivers again. A low whimper escapes Pat when Pran experimentally bites at her bottom lip before sucking it into her own mouth.
Pran's in heaven. Pat feels like she's dying.
Gently pulling away from Pran to catch her breath, Pat keeps her eyes closed as she rests her forehead against Pran's. "Fuck, baby girl... You taste so sweet, like a dream..."
Pran whines. "Ai'Pat, you can't say shit like that..."
"Not until you're my faen?"
"...huh?"
"Can I say it when you're my faen, Pran? Can i?" Pat opens her eyes and pulls back slightly, so she's not going cross-eyed. "Be my faen so i can say all of it, Pran?"
Pran blinks away her tears. "Serenade me with your silly words, Pat... Will you?"
"Say 'yes' then, baby. Be mine."
"I've always been yours, theerak. Always."
Pat wipes away Pran's tears with a gentle smile. "My Pran. My faen."
Pran smiles, nuzzling into Pat's hand. "My Pat... My faen."
