Direct Sunlight, Gray Days
Lily loves the ocean, though the memory of it is dim-- glimmering faintly with the gaze of her childhood. She remembers standing in the surf, dress lifted out of the way, while the water splashed her ankles, whispered against her skin. The salt-and-mystery smell was thick in her mouth, she felt as if the water hummed, sang to her, and underneath language that drew her out of her bed at night to stand on the darkened sand. She dreams of taking Narcissa to the beach, of the evening sun on her lover's platinum and honey hair. She always sees the scene drenched in the gray of a cloudy day, or the deep blue of night-- Narcissa dislikes direct sunlight, would never play out in the afternoon, letting the bright glow gift her skin with freckle-kisses. It's unladylike. Narcissa smells heavily of gardenias, bright white blooms, pale like her china-doll skill, and beneath that Lily senses the smell of the ocean; flowers grown on a high beach terrace. Out of reach, beyond Lily's meager, muggle-born means. Still, with her ear to the perfect round of Narcissa's breast, she dreams of her lover lounging in the shade, where Lily can bring her offerings of seashells and hold her pale hand.