flora
Flora can’t help the spread of her smile at the sheer indignation radiating off of Kaisel; his horror at the name Rupert flaring like a torch in the night. The way his voice cracks in whispered protest makes her bite at her bottom lip to try and contain it, but it’s useless; she’s beaming. When he finally lands on a usable phrase, her nod is solemn but her eyes are bright with mischief. "Perfect." Her fingers toy with a loose thread on his shirt, and then she adds with a small twitch of her lips, "But for every...let’s call them code-red words, we need good ones too." Because there was no way they were going to have secret phrases that only meant one of them was on thin ice. "Like, if I say, ‘there was a sale on gummy worms so I bought a whole sack full,’ that actually means I want to run away and fool around with you as soon as possible." It also might literally mean that there had been a sale and Flora had bought out the merchant, but she'd be fine with it should there be any misunderstandings.
The pad of her finger presses gently to his lips just as he kisses it, and when his apology comes, quiet and rough-edged, she only nods. Not because it didn’t matter, but because something in her doesn’t want to hold onto it. Like if she leaves it unspoken, it won’t echo between them anymore. The things he said hadn't been cruel, not really, but it hadn’t been him either. That’s what had startled her most, and why she was so keen to simply forget it had happened.
So when he asks what they should do about tonight, she exhales sharply through her nose, giving it only a moment's consideration. "Fuck ’em," she murmurs. "We’ll get the spirits to bring down some fluffy bathrobes and drink refills and they won't even know we left."
Her smile fades a touch then, not from withdrawal, but from the sheer intensity of her sincerity, and when she lifts her gaze to him, she nearly melts. It isn't just because he’s handsome, though gods, that's no small part of it. That low-burning bronze of his skin that looks molten from the firelight, the tousled mess of his hair where his fingers had tugged through it, the slight heat still clinging to him from frustration (or maybe from her). The flicker of amusement still soft at the edge of his mouth, the warmth kindling in his copper eyes like light striking the inside of a seashell.
But it’s more than that. It’s the way his arms still hold her like they mean it, even after all the hurt. It’s the way he’s always there, even when they crack open. The boy who would float in a sea of dicks for her, miserable but present, and somehow still hers through it all. And maybe it’s ridiculous—maybe it’s so them—but in this moment, with his hands warm on her spine and the lantern light catching in the flecks of his gaze, she thinks there’s no one in the world she’d rather fight with, so long as it always ends like this.
"You’re the only one I want to be with tonight," she says, quiet and sure, her voice thick with everything she hasn’t said yet. "We’ve had enough people interrupt our moments for one evening."
The pad of her finger presses gently to his lips just as he kisses it, and when his apology comes, quiet and rough-edged, she only nods. Not because it didn’t matter, but because something in her doesn’t want to hold onto it. Like if she leaves it unspoken, it won’t echo between them anymore. The things he said hadn't been cruel, not really, but it hadn’t been him either. That’s what had startled her most, and why she was so keen to simply forget it had happened.
So when he asks what they should do about tonight, she exhales sharply through her nose, giving it only a moment's consideration. "Fuck ’em," she murmurs. "We’ll get the spirits to bring down some fluffy bathrobes and drink refills and they won't even know we left."
Her smile fades a touch then, not from withdrawal, but from the sheer intensity of her sincerity, and when she lifts her gaze to him, she nearly melts. It isn't just because he’s handsome, though gods, that's no small part of it. That low-burning bronze of his skin that looks molten from the firelight, the tousled mess of his hair where his fingers had tugged through it, the slight heat still clinging to him from frustration (or maybe from her). The flicker of amusement still soft at the edge of his mouth, the warmth kindling in his copper eyes like light striking the inside of a seashell.
But it’s more than that. It’s the way his arms still hold her like they mean it, even after all the hurt. It’s the way he’s always there, even when they crack open. The boy who would float in a sea of dicks for her, miserable but present, and somehow still hers through it all. And maybe it’s ridiculous—maybe it’s so them—but in this moment, with his hands warm on her spine and the lantern light catching in the flecks of his gaze, she thinks there’s no one in the world she’d rather fight with, so long as it always ends like this.
"You’re the only one I want to be with tonight," she says, quiet and sure, her voice thick with everything she hasn’t said yet. "We’ve had enough people interrupt our moments for one evening."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
