Flora
Flora snorts, the sound soft and bright beneath her breath. "Maybe you should take up ventriloquism," she says, glancing sidelong with a grin just this side of wicked. "Then you could throw your voice around without opening your mouth wide enough for the sand to move and set up shop."
But then he’s lifting her hand and kissing it like it’s just another part of the rhythm between them—natural, unhurried, impossibly tender—and whatever thoughts had begun to churn in the background are swept clear again by the simple, undemanding warmth of him. She said she wouldn’t compare Kaisel and Jack, and she won’t, but gods, this is not something she’s ever known before. This easy kind of adoration, soft and open and unafraid. It blooms something unsteady in her chest, a fullness that makes her breath catch and her smile threaten to split wide across her face.
She exhales instead, pressing a little squeeze into his fingers as her voice dips into mock warning. "Just remember—these are the same hands I use to tickle you with."
His deathbed gummy worm theory earns a huff of amusement and a look over her shoulder sharp with affection. "Duly noted," she says, eyes dancing. It is weird that this is their second hypothetical conversation about what will happen when one of them dies, but also, well, maybe not. Maybe it makes perfect sense, considering the way they talk, the way they fill the silence with nonsense and nothings and sweetness and everything in between.
The Sugartide waits ahead, sails shimmering like melted candy under the afternoon sun, and Flora hums thoughtfully as they step onto the dock. "If you roll gummy worms up inside other gummy worms, does that count as a sandwich?" she wonders aloud, steps light on the wood. "Or maybe it’s a wrap. Either way, soup’s a no, the worms would obviously drown and it would be too tragic."
Releasing Kaisel's hand with a little pulse, Flora walks up the gangway, the sun painting gold across the dark grain of the deck. Down below, the ship is more or less the same as when he'd last been there; bed unmade, the scent of jasmine and citrus still clinging to the air, and a few new plants tucked into corners like afterthoughts thanks to Mateo, vibrant and green and growing.
Flora means to be casual about everything, needs things to stay light, but the memory of last time they were together here hits harder than expected. It lives in the slant of the light, in the bed still rumpled like it might remember them. Heat rises unbidden across her cheeks, delicate and surprising and impossible to hide. She tosses her cardigan aside to give her hands something to do, glancing toward the bedroom and then back at him with a lopsided smile that tries for easy but lands somewhere closer to shy.
"I don’t have a couch to collapse onto," she says, voice a little breathier than intended. "But I figure we’ll make do." And gods, she hopes he doesn’t notice the flush across her nose, or the sudden skip in her pulse because what a day they've had already, and gods he's absolutely right that they probably need something with more sustenance than pure sugar can provide. So, dropping to her knees, Flora begins to hunt through the various cupboards, unhelpfully calling out random raw ingredients for them to try and piece a meal together with.
But then he’s lifting her hand and kissing it like it’s just another part of the rhythm between them—natural, unhurried, impossibly tender—and whatever thoughts had begun to churn in the background are swept clear again by the simple, undemanding warmth of him. She said she wouldn’t compare Kaisel and Jack, and she won’t, but gods, this is not something she’s ever known before. This easy kind of adoration, soft and open and unafraid. It blooms something unsteady in her chest, a fullness that makes her breath catch and her smile threaten to split wide across her face.
She exhales instead, pressing a little squeeze into his fingers as her voice dips into mock warning. "Just remember—these are the same hands I use to tickle you with."
His deathbed gummy worm theory earns a huff of amusement and a look over her shoulder sharp with affection. "Duly noted," she says, eyes dancing. It is weird that this is their second hypothetical conversation about what will happen when one of them dies, but also, well, maybe not. Maybe it makes perfect sense, considering the way they talk, the way they fill the silence with nonsense and nothings and sweetness and everything in between.
The Sugartide waits ahead, sails shimmering like melted candy under the afternoon sun, and Flora hums thoughtfully as they step onto the dock. "If you roll gummy worms up inside other gummy worms, does that count as a sandwich?" she wonders aloud, steps light on the wood. "Or maybe it’s a wrap. Either way, soup’s a no, the worms would obviously drown and it would be too tragic."
Releasing Kaisel's hand with a little pulse, Flora walks up the gangway, the sun painting gold across the dark grain of the deck. Down below, the ship is more or less the same as when he'd last been there; bed unmade, the scent of jasmine and citrus still clinging to the air, and a few new plants tucked into corners like afterthoughts thanks to Mateo, vibrant and green and growing.
Flora means to be casual about everything, needs things to stay light, but the memory of last time they were together here hits harder than expected. It lives in the slant of the light, in the bed still rumpled like it might remember them. Heat rises unbidden across her cheeks, delicate and surprising and impossible to hide. She tosses her cardigan aside to give her hands something to do, glancing toward the bedroom and then back at him with a lopsided smile that tries for easy but lands somewhere closer to shy.
"I don’t have a couch to collapse onto," she says, voice a little breathier than intended. "But I figure we’ll make do." And gods, she hopes he doesn’t notice the flush across her nose, or the sudden skip in her pulse because what a day they've had already, and gods he's absolutely right that they probably need something with more sustenance than pure sugar can provide. So, dropping to her knees, Flora begins to hunt through the various cupboards, unhelpfully calling out random raw ingredients for them to try and piece a meal together with.
I hope you're sweating the bigger stuff,
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
Code stolen from Queen Sky
