time should make this easy :: [ denali // post-80th ]

When the twins walked in on Denali — a pencil clamped between her teeth and dizzy from attempting to scribble a few sentences onto the stationery atop her desk, not a word of it looking like anything more than frustrated scribbles — it only took a moment for them to offer their assistance. Peregrine cackled and teased while Tallulah grinned with excitement at the prospect of being completely in the know about every detail of correspondence, particularly if that meant being privy to all potential communication with Bette Sublino. Her overly romantic teenage imagination had lost its mind over the heartbreakingly ill-fated connection, after flowers and postcards had been sent back and forth during the Games, carrying messages of concern and support for one another. Although life and death were on the line, never before had the twins witnessed their big sister being more than friends with anyone and watching Denali on the television made it all feel so distractingly obvious that both of them could agree on three things.

One: Denali might just have met the love of her life (Tallulah's words, not Peregrine's) in that arena.

Two: Denali was far too stupid to realize this herself.

Three: Denali was in desperate need of their help.

"Dearest Bette," Tallulah excitedly whispers to herself while writing the words in her finest calligraphy, each letter a flourish of swirling loop-de-loops with hearts hidden in the fanciest of swishes. This is a love letter she has spent years practicing for.

Beside her Peregrine snorts softly, rolling her eyes at the careful effort and the knowledge of exactly how many times her twin has practiced writing these very words in her notebook over the past weeks. "Is that really how the letter should start?" For all the things they agree on, the unspoken follow-up is that what they don't agree on is exactly who Denali's affections are for. They don't talk about this because both of them think the answer is too obvious and the idea that the they have come to two very different conclusions is too much for Tallulah to fathom and too ridiculous for Peregrine to correct with anything other than sarcasm that her sister willfully mistakes for sincerity and agreement.

Denali picks her head up from where the side of her face had been resting on her desk, still worn out from the effort of attempting this on her own. "Are you guys trying to write my own letter without me?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of that," Tallulah immediately replies, eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight, "we're just here to help! Don't worry, we'll do our best to make sure we get every word just perfect for you. Won't we, Ginny?"

"Uh-huh," Peregrine's stare is still fixated on Bette's name, one eyebrow skeptically raised before the first sentence has even begun, "perfect."

"See?" Holding the stationery up as proof for Denali to see, Tallulah shows off her exemplary penmanship, beaming brightly.

Blinking at the paper, Denali holds up one of her bandaged hands, the vague gesture attempting to point out the error that has already been made. "I'm not trying to write to Bette," she says as her little sister's mouth drops open into a stunned o of confusion.

"You're not?" Peregrine asks, poorly feigning shock even as her face is consumed by a grin. "Who else could you possibly be writing to?" Snatching the letter from her sister's hands, she's already scribbling out Bette and writing Lex in her own slightly jagged yet authoritative, no frills handwriting. It's the kind of cursive that looks like it could start a fight if you don't do exactly what it says.

"Lex." There's a stalled moment of silence while Denali stares blankly at the bookshelf across the room, chewing absently on the inside of her cheek and looking as if she's entirely forgotten that they were doing something. "I got a haircut today," she finally dictates with a half-shrug. Tallulah wallows in a dazed silence of her own, trying to come to terms with how this situation went from transcribing a glorious love letter for the ages to something so disappointingly mundane. "It feels weird." Peregrine writes each word without comment or complaint, her grin smaller but still tightly tucked into the corners of her lips. "Lighter, despite the way I'm probably not supposed to feel lighter after —" It takes a solid minute to find the word she's looking for, Peregrine writing the actual ... of the delay with quiet impatience. "— everything." They both sigh at how that word didn't turn out to be quite the one they wanted. "It's short now. They cut and cut and cut away the fire damage — slow and optimistic; just an inch or two at a time — to see if there was anything salvageable, but it was all sorta melted and charred. I ended up with a buzzcut."

Scalp strikingly pale beneath the fuzz of red stubble, Denali turns her eyes to a nearby mirror that she's been trying to avoid looking into since coming home. The reflection isn't what she remembers, it isn't what any of the girls in this room remember, but none of them say anything. Tallulah's disappointment in the actuality of this letter not matching up with the frivolous ideas that had been dancing in her head is replaced with sympathy and the most gentle expression of sisterly concern. It feels as weird for Denali to be saying all of this aloud, blunt and honest, as it does for the twins to hear it as if they're listening in on a private conversation not meant for them. They're there, but not; spoken to, but not. "Everyone took turns petting my head and they keep insisting the little bit that's left is really soft," Tallulah tries to offer a reassuring smile about how that's the truth, "but it looks sharp in the mirror. It sticks straight up like tiny needles."

Finally Peregrine looks up from writing (having added her own sidenote that: no, Denali's hair is not stabby and, yes, it is in fact super soft now) and studies her sister's face, old freckles and new scars. Denali looks everywhere but their eyes, not knowing what to do with her confession any more than either of the twins do. "You're upset about your hair?" Tallulah asks softly, all three of them aware that this is about something more than hair. Denali doesn't respond and doesn't respond and doesn't respond.

"It's weird not being able to touch it and know for myself," she admits, flushing in embarrassment. "Maybe it's stupid, but I tried to rub the top of my head against my knees — only I can't quite touch it to a spot without bandages. So that didn't work." A weighted sigh dissipates until the only sound is the hushed scritchity scratch of Peregrine dutifully transcribing. "Hey! Are you writing that down? I didn't mean for you to write that down, Peregrine. Stop!" Maybe at first she genuinely hadn't realized or maybe she did, but thought it was still something Lex should know because it was important or endearing or both. "This is my letter and so I get to decide what it says and you need to —"

Peregrine's brutalist script is abruptly cut off as Tallulah seizes control of the letter once more, trying to put a stop to her twin's antics before Denali becomes legitimately upset instead of merely annoyed. No one says anything aloud for a moment, despite the way Peregrine's expression speaks volumes about how pleased she is with herself, until Tallulah's hesitant voice attempts to offer up a tiny consolation for the incident. "I've got it, Denali. You just tell me what you want it to say."

Swallowing, the redhead stares hard at her toes, nothing going the way she had intended it to. "None of this is really what I meant to write about." Tallulah waits to set the words to paper until Denali actually looks up and gives her a nod of confirmation that she does in fact want this part written down. "I had an idea in my head that the first thing I wrote to you should feel important and eloquent and maybe even poetic or something and so obviously then I didn't know what to say at all. So..." She trails off awkwardly, "yeah. I got a haircut, because I guess I have to start somewhere. It looks as weird as writing to you instead of sitting next to you and talking feels." At this, Peregrine looks up from the indignation of her demotion and fixes her undivided attention back on what's being said. "Everyone keeps reassuring me that it'll grow back and I know I'm being silly. It's definitely good that all of the matted tar was cut off and it's not even that I think it looks that bad or anything."

"It doesn't —" Peregrine's intensely factual voice attempts to interject, but no one turns their attention to acknowledge her.

"I don't know how to explain it," Denali continues without pause for the attempt at supportiveness, "it just feels lighter; lighter than it should be." The quiet of the room grows thick and cloying. "I'll think of something better to write about next time."

The three of them sit there, wordless, as Tallulah painstakingly writes each letter with enough care so as to compensate for her twin's troublemaking. "How do you want it signed?" She asks, eyes wandering over the scribbles and sidenotes upon the page.

Denali contemplates the question and how it feels so much like talking about her haircut, like it's more than the words she says. "Always," she decides, as if trying to convince herself of something she's not quite certain she believes yet. "Always, Denali."