flora
It’s a good thing Flora can’t see Kaisel galloping up her stairs like a sugar-drunk colt, or she’d have kicked him down them without remorse. The sound alone—slapping palms, thunderous stomps, the unmistakable chaos of limbs with no clear chain of command—earns a brief pause from within the depths of their fabric fortress, her brow lifting in slow, curious disbelief.
Inside the lounge—because obviously their fort has designated wings—she finishes fluffing the pillows into a makeshift chaise, smoothing out the blanketed floor and adding the final fold to what she’s decided is the beverage nook. By the time Kaisel returns, a little breathless, a little radiant, sliding in like a boy too bright for this world, she’s lounging back with her legs tucked to the side, half-shadowed by the soft, uneven glow of lantern light spilling through the weave.
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep the smile from overtaking her face as she gazes at him. But all teasing dies the moment he upends a small handful of stars into her cupped palms. Her smile vanishes, replaced with a stillness so rare it almost feels like silence in motion. She stares down at them, lids low over aqua eyes, and one finger trails lightly across the sharp little ridges as if they might hum beneath her touch. They gleam faintly already, warmed to life by whatever charge he’d given them upstairs, and her throat bobs as she nods.
"Yeah," she says softly. "I’ve seen them." She doesn’t move right away, just watches as Kaisel begins to press them onto the blanket ceiling, each one stuck into place with care. Still cradling hers, she glances sideways at him, mouth opening and closing once before she finds her words. "My dad used to make them for me and Enzo," she murmurs, gaze dropping again to the plastic stars in her hands. "When we were little. They were supposed to make up for the fact he was always gone." Her voice doesn’t falter, but something quieter coils through it, a softness like salt beneath the sweetness.
Lifting one, she peels off the back slowly and reaches up to press it against the wooden leg of a chair, her fingers gentle in the way people are with memories. [sa]y"Remi’s were made out of clay. He used…I don’t know, something weird to make them glow. They had this kind of…earthy smell. Like stone and mint and burnt pine." Her lips curve faintly. "He told us they were real stars. Said he asked them to fall for us." A pretty lie that had only shed more light on his absence in their lives.
Another star finds its home on the underside of the table. And another. Her hand moves slowly, delicately, as if each one is a spell. "I like these ones much better."
Inside the lounge—because obviously their fort has designated wings—she finishes fluffing the pillows into a makeshift chaise, smoothing out the blanketed floor and adding the final fold to what she’s decided is the beverage nook. By the time Kaisel returns, a little breathless, a little radiant, sliding in like a boy too bright for this world, she’s lounging back with her legs tucked to the side, half-shadowed by the soft, uneven glow of lantern light spilling through the weave.
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep the smile from overtaking her face as she gazes at him. But all teasing dies the moment he upends a small handful of stars into her cupped palms. Her smile vanishes, replaced with a stillness so rare it almost feels like silence in motion. She stares down at them, lids low over aqua eyes, and one finger trails lightly across the sharp little ridges as if they might hum beneath her touch. They gleam faintly already, warmed to life by whatever charge he’d given them upstairs, and her throat bobs as she nods.
"Yeah," she says softly. "I’ve seen them." She doesn’t move right away, just watches as Kaisel begins to press them onto the blanket ceiling, each one stuck into place with care. Still cradling hers, she glances sideways at him, mouth opening and closing once before she finds her words. "My dad used to make them for me and Enzo," she murmurs, gaze dropping again to the plastic stars in her hands. "When we were little. They were supposed to make up for the fact he was always gone." Her voice doesn’t falter, but something quieter coils through it, a softness like salt beneath the sweetness.
Lifting one, she peels off the back slowly and reaches up to press it against the wooden leg of a chair, her fingers gentle in the way people are with memories. [sa]y"Remi’s were made out of clay. He used…I don’t know, something weird to make them glow. They had this kind of…earthy smell. Like stone and mint and burnt pine." Her lips curve faintly. "He told us they were real stars. Said he asked them to fall for us." A pretty lie that had only shed more light on his absence in their lives.
Another star finds its home on the underside of the table. And another. Her hand moves slowly, delicately, as if each one is a spell. "I like these ones much better."
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
