Work Text:
Daisy Wells doesn't pause. She is a pink, porcelain doll in a realistic world. There's something about her- poised and articulated, maybe a little foolish to touch, but there isn't any apparent flaw. Daisy believed inwardly that she was superior, and it was relaxing to admit- even if it could only be in trinkets- to her new friend, Hazel Wong.
Hazel Wong is an ugly duckling, frankly. She is quiet and awkward, but gross-looking... well, gross-looking is wrong. When Daisy and Hazel looked eye-to-eye for the first time, she saw nothing. Her small, dark brown eyes unclear. Which made a complicated and stricken feeling inside Daisy. Eyes, she read in her home library, are the gateway to the soul. Did this round, stunted and silent, abrasive girl have no soul? Daisy wondered so a little in French class. But what she soon found was that Hazel Wong is not soulless. In fact, Daisy could say she had too much soul.
Ugly Duckling is incredibly clumsy (fitting). Before every gym class Hazel pretends to tie her shoelaces, but instead tucks them into her trainers. About half of the time, she gives her tie the same treatment, meaning she has to repeatedly fix both during the lessons and overall school hours. In stark contrast, she's insanely neat. It's easy to be a bit loving, almost- Hazel's perfectly made bed, parallel shoes at the footboard, folded clothes every evening (even underwear and socks, Daisy snickers at). She's rather interested in watching Hazel go about it every morning. After a while, she notices she is equally as attentive and neat as she is fumbling. Trying to fade into the frumpled adolescence around her, Daisy concludes. Lavinia, Beanie and Kitty all treat the room so badly that they treated Hazel's cleanliness like it was a three-headed dog. She's learning, Daisy notes.
Hazel reads pointlessly long books that Daisy assumes must be like an overstayed visitor, drawling on over basic stories. Daisy does write it off as pretentious, but finds out Hazel is just insanely focused- she spends lightyears turning pages and rereading scripture. She notices that she finishes one or two books a week, if totally uninterrupted. Daisy has to wonder if she's either bored or addicted to the routine of reading- does she really like the books that much? The more time they spent together, Hazel read less, and this pleases Daisy, but Hazel still loves to read instead of permanently detecting. Bother.
This part is a little crude. Hazel has a lush, plumper body. Daisy does wonder, at this point, if this is a friendly thing to state to herself. Hazel does look nice, though- she has thicker limbs and a formerly stated chubby face. Daisy has seen her in pyjamas, sports wear, school uniform, casual wear and occasionally less casual wear. There isn't much exposed in nineteen-thirties outfits, let alone that of a teenage girl, thankfully. But Daisy can say, confidently and protectively, Hazel has a "good" figure, despite not being particularly busty and being between overweight and average. And so what? She's pleasant to look at. Her hands are noticeably stout and fat, but still nice to hold. It fits comfortably against Daisy's own. It makes her sleepy, Daisy concludes when they sneak together under sheets to speak after lights out. Not only to hold hands under warm sheets but also to press against Hazel from behind and put her head against her collar. That's definitely just Hazel though- she cannot imagine doing that with any other roommates and certainly not a gentleman.
Related, Hazel's hair is always braided. And occasionally, rarely, fishbraids (if Kitty gets her hands on her). Daisy has to smile. Hazel's black hair is growing long enough to reach the bottom of her spine and is perfectly straight, just a little dry. In sunlight, her roots make loops of knots and frizz around her face as if its fur ( Daisy laughed when she saw the perfect example of finger-in-socket showing at her scalp), but her braid is so exceedingly cared for its totally unaffected. Each strand of hair is totally straight. Daisy almost kept an eye to see Hazel untie her routine braid and see it collapse and uncoil swiftly. Daisy is very proud of her own golden and ringed hair, but she's interested, and sort of longs to brush it a little. It's a girlish thing, she reckons, to want to pamper other girls like that. It happens at sleepovers and midnight feasts, so it's not so strange. Once, Beanie brushed hers and managed to snag it three times before Daisy scolded her. She assures herself, a little stupidly, that if she has the opportunity to do so for Hazel, it will be gentle. She knows Hazel is very tender-headed.
Daiy does get to. It's bright orange hue outside, and the sun has yet to withdraw, but it's already eight at night. It's quite dark inside the dormitory, so the burning star in the sky is imminently phlegmatic today. Hazel had commented, homesick and soppy, that she missed the sky in Hong Kong. Daisy knows such a minute amount about Hong Kong- it's hot, she's made from Hazel's rare comments, when she's not petrified about being persecuted for being non-English. She says that today is like her home. She says she misses her sisters.
Hazel has undone her braids and is now struggling to run her hands through the six clumpy tendrils to smooth it out. Daisy unconsciously moves closer and looks at the picture of them in the mirror. "I'll brush it for you. Looks tangled." And because Daisy can't resist it, she tugs on a strand of it, and Hazel pouts at her. There is some discussion (or really just Hazel trying to resist before admitting defeat to the spoiling detective across her) and shuffling to sit on the floor in front of Daisy's bed. Daisy climbs on top and Hazel naturally slots between her knees like they are two pieces of a puzzle. "See, it's all matted!" Daisy scorns as she runs her fingers through it, careful not to pull or tug too hard. It's scratchy under her fingers where it intricately knots. Daisy's fingers move to stroke from Hazel's scalp to the end, a little oily under her fingers, manages to work a hairbrush through it, muttering about how this sort of mess would only happen to Hazel.
"Not like you, Daisy." Hazel ambigiously grumbles, believing it to be the absolute truth, but with weak resentment in it.
That's another thing Daisy likes about Hazel. No, loves. She recognises Daisy for the perfect doll she is- doesn't simmer from not being preeminent like Kitty does. Hazel is giving and empathetic and gifting so completely unlike Daisy herself. It's such obscure behaviour that Daisy can barely fathom that it all swirls back to her foremost theory: Hazel has too much soul. Is too good, and is too kind.
Daisy never really meant to go there, but she recognises it. She loves Hazel. Not the same way she loves her esoteric uncle and begrudgingly loves her frustrating brother, no. Hazel's her best friend and her soul sister, and one more thing Daisy can't comprehend just yet.