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The lights flickered. On, off, on, off, the dust particles shining and flickering in the light.
Furina dusts the blush on her cheeks, lightly spreading the iridescent pink.
“What is Fontaine’s darling celebrity doing in a rickety make-up room like this?”
Furina doesn't pause, every flick of her wrist calculated and planned. “Arlecchino. What brings the Fourth Harbinger to my backstage?”
A chair is pulled out, the wooden panels on the floor creaking. Arlecchino sits down, crossing her legs as she leans on one armrest. The studio lights catch the shimmer of the silver threads woven into her suit, red spilling into white and shades of greys and blacks.
Furina is reminded of a pulsating heart, grabbed and wrenched out of her chest, dripping bejewelled blood in the form of a cascade of rubies down her shirt. The jewels catch the light and shimmer against the darkness of her cape.
Arlecchino shines, just as she does in the spotlight.
“Miss Furina,” Arlecchino's voice startled her out of her trance where the other's blood red and ashen grey visage dances and flickers in her eyes. “Your hands are shaking.”
The brush in her hand had scattered and skipped from her left cheek, across her nose bridge and down to the right corner of her mouth, leaving a pink powdery trail on her face.
“Ah!” The light peach stain pales in comparison to her rosy cheeks underneath. She hasn't had a wardrobe malfunction since she first stepped on the stage of Fontaine five hundred years ago—years of performing and masquerade, and she can't do something as amateurish as holding her make-up brush steady?
Arlecchino takes the brush from Furina's hands, grabbing her outstretched hand and setting it down on her lap. “Allow me.*
Furina flinches, but she doesn't pull away. Arlecchino's grasp was light, a stark contrast to the harsh contours and sharp lines she prefers to wear.
Arlecchino wipes away her attempt, leaving a cool dampness on her skin. Furina feels a shiver run through her body.
The cloud of pink dust assaults her senses, too much all at the same time. She resists the urge to cough or sneeze.
Arlecchino glances at the box of coloured rhinestones sitting on the desk. She deftly picks out one, two, three—one pink, one white, one orange.
Furina's heart beats faster, at first miniscule, then increasing till her heart is in her throat. Her pulse thunders in her ears, her blood rushing throughout her body.
Arlecchino notices her falter. “My apologies. I have presumed-”
“No! I mean. It's fine. I'm sure the costume manager wouldn't mind.”
Her statement has the opposite effect of what she had intended. Arlecchino frowns, “Is it them on stage, or is it you?”
Furina doesn't know how to articulate her thoughts. She doesn't know how to express the tangled knot of emotions roiling in her heart.
Fear? Anxiety?
It is nonsensical for her to fear showing the world who she is. She is Furina de Fontaine! She, who put on a play for five hundred years, the actress of time immemorial, who bowed out of the limelight not without fear, but bravely all the same. The people adore her even with her public fall from grace, and pushed her to new, freer heights.
The matter of who she holds dear in her heart should be child's play.
“If you are not ready, I'll not push you,” Arlecchino says, uncharacteristically gentle. “But I believe it would be good for you.”
“You suddenly care so much for me. Weren't you trying to dethrone me just a few months prior?”
Furina still recalls Arlecchino's cold gaze, her threatening words and the image of her towering over Furina, demanding explanations and accountability, each word feeling like the strike of a gavel, the fall of a guillotine.
Arlecchino maintains her composure now. “You are not just a mere celebrity. You are the people's leader, responsible for your nation.”
“Not my nation any longer, nor my people.” The reminder sits sour on Furina's tongue.
“You still lead them in their hearts, Lady Furina. You were their archon.”
“I was a fake.” Furina confesses. Not that it matters— Arlecchino knows the truth, perhaps was even the first to realise. The words still taste like poison in her mouth. “I was a fraud, and a liar does not make a sovereign.”
“Does it matter?” Her question seems sincere, even though the answer seems so painfully obvious to Furina. A flicker of rage flits to life.
“Would I speak about it if it did not?” She snaps.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“I'm sorry.” She whispers. “I simply…”
Furina plays with the rhinestones on the desk, flipping one between her fingers. The stone catches the light and turns, flickers and turns.
“You tire of masks and masquerades,” Arlecchino muses. “Would you not like to show the nations who you are?”
She picks up one of the rhinestones, the pink one, and waits for Furina.
Furina nods, a hesitant acquiescence.
Arlecchino places two rhinestones on her left cheek, the pink one, then the white.
Furina picks up the last orange rhinestone with a slight tremor in her hand. She returns the stone to its rightful place.
Pink, white and orange glints on her cheek.
The rhinestones aren't aligned perfectly, the stones themselves rough and uneven.
Furina looks in the mirror and sees herself, and though her heart races, she looks perfect.
Arlecchino nods. “Perfect.”
Furina echoes, “Perfect.”
“The stage calls,” Arlecchino taps her on her shoulder. “Break a leg.”
She stands and moves to Furina, dropping into a low bow. Holding her hand, Arlecchino presses a light kiss to the back of Furina's hand once, then twice.
The warm studio lights make her light-headed, the soft glow rounding out Arlecchino's features.
Furina is sure her face is flushed the same pink as the rhinestone on her cheek.
This tranquillity is broken as Arlecchino steps back, allowing Furina to leave.
The harsh glow of the spotlight now seems even more unpleasant.
Right before Furina enters stage right, she hears a whisper behind her.
“I'm sorry.”
When she turns back, Arlecchino had already faded into the shadows, gone without a trace.
After her show, she returns to a singular flower set upon her table, next to a slice of cake and a note.
It was a lakelight lily, not a grand confession of love in the form of a rainbow rose, but Furina thinks she prefers it this way.
They are both learning, one small step at a time.
Furina tucks the lily behind her ear and slips the note into her pocket, right over her heart.