your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
me: i'll keep the post short because there's lots to talk about in this thread.
also me:
Flora sighs like the weight of Kaisel's generosity is a burden she’s being forced to endure, her head tipping back just slightly as if she might collapse under the strain of it, but the performance doesn’t quite reach her eyes, doesn’t touch the way something warm and fluttering has already taken root beneath her ribs, because no one has ever done this much, gone this far, thought this carefully about her, and even as her lips press into a mock scowl, there’s something softer blooming underneath it, something bright and unsteady that feels suspiciously like being cherished.
Her eyes snap open the moment his hand slaps into hers, fingers lunging immediately to catch him in retaliation, already halfway to accusing him of something ridiculous before she realises there’s something else there, something cool and smooth pressed into her other palm instead. The shift is instant, her attention dropping as her brows lift, suspicion rearranging itself into curiosity as she turns the small glass orb over slightly in her hands. "An onion-scented paperweight?" she guesses, tone dry and unimpressed in a way that is entirely performative, because there’s already a flicker of something else catching in the glass, something that doesn’t belong to a joke.
And then it moves and the change in her expression is almost imperceptible at first; the skepticism loosening, softening, her gaze sharpening as the first memory begins to unfold, sound and colour blooming out of the orb like something alive. She leans in without meaning to, drawn by it, by the way it feels like reaching into something that should be untouchable, her lips parting slightly as recognition flickers—faces, voices, moments she knows, moments she feels—each one catching somewhere different in her chest as they pass.
By the time she reaches Danta’s memory, it hits differently, the sudden heat of it climbing up her neck before she even fully processes what she’s seeing, her breath catching as her cheeks flush deep and immediate, the orb lowering almost on instinct as if distance might dull the surprise of it. She swallows, hard, eyes flicking up to Kaisel with something that looks almost like guilt before it settles into understanding instead, her mouth forming a soft, startled oh as the pieces slot into place. "Wait..." she breathes, a laugh slipping out under it, quieter now, edged with disbelief. "So that’s why you were talking to Danta about when he and I—" She cuts herself off with a shake of her head, one hand coming up briefly to her forehead as if she can physically press the realization into something manageable. "Oh my gods. And all while you were trying to do this for me?"
The memory of that conversation, the way he’d been unsettled and hurt, lingers just long enough to pull something softer into her expression, and she reaches for him without thinking, her arm looping around his hip to tug him closer, her head tipping to rest there against him, before the orb is changing again. It isn't to something sharp or startling, but to something quieter, something that doesn’t demand her attention so much as hold it, and Flora stills completely as she watches, breath slowing without her permission as Kaisel’s memories unfold. There’s no singular moment to cling to, no grand gesture to marvel at, just the steady, unbroken thread of her; working, laughing, existing in all the small, ordinary ways she’s never once thought worth noticing. The way she moves through a room, the way she collapses into the sun with Spice curled close, the sound of her laughter not as she hears it but as it leaves her and lands somewhere else, reflected back through someone who chose to remember it.
It isn’t loud, isn’t overwhelming in the way fireworks are, but something about it presses deeper, quieter, like a tide pulling steadily at her until she realizes she’s already been swept under. To see herself like that—to be seen like that—without performance, without expectation, just..kept in all the small, unguarded moments she never thought anyone was paying attention to, it does something to her that the rest of the night hadn’t quite managed.
Her throat tightens before she can stop it, the feeling rising too fast, too full, laughter and something dangerously close to tears tangling together until she doesn’t know which one will win, her fingers curling tighter around the orb like she needs to hold onto it or risk losing the feeling entirely. It’s too much in the best, worst way, like trying to contain the ocean in something meant for rainwater, and when she finally lifts her gaze to Kaisel, it’s slower than it should be, weighted by awe. Her eyes shine, bright and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with champagne now, her lips parting as if she means to say something, anything, but the words don’t come, caught somewhere behind the sheer weight of it all. And for once, Flora—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, always ready with something to say—has absolutely nothing. That these ordinary pieces of her—messy, unguarded, unperformed—have been gathered and held and turned into something worth keeping, leaves her feeling split open in the strangest, most luminous way, like every sharp, defensive edge she’s ever relied on has been softened not by force but by attention, by care, by someone who chose to see and didn’t look away. She feels it everywhere at once, in the tightness of her throat, in the flutter beneath her ribs, in the way her fingers won’t quite steady around the orb.
When she finally finds her voice it comes out quieter than expected, but steady, threaded through with something bright and trembling that refuses to be hidden. "If we weren’t already married," she says, her lips curving as she exhales the words like a secret she can’t keep contained, "I’d demand you marry me right now." It’s half-laugh, half-vow, and entirely true, because what else was there to do in the face of a feeling so monumental, other than demand forever? But because they are already married, instead Flora rises from the chair in one fluid motion that’s a little unsteady but entirely certain, one hand still curled loosely around the Everkeep while the other reaches for Kaisel without hesitation, pulling him down to her as she closes the distance between them.
The kiss isn’t careful, isn’t measured, isn’t anything close to restrained; it’s immediate and full and a little desperate in the way of something that has too much to say and nowhere else to put it. There’s laughter still caught in the edges of it, breath shared and uneven, but beneath that there’s something deeper, something that unfurls slow and endless the longer she stays there, like she’s brushing up against a part of herself that only exists when it’s mirrored in him. It isn’t enough, not really, not in the way that trying to hold water in your hands is never enough when you're desperate for a drink, because the feeling runs deeper than touch, deeper than sound, deeper than anything she can give shape to, but she tries anyway, presses closer, anchors herself in the warmth of him, in the solid certainty of his presence, as if she can translate everything the Everkeep showed her into this one, impossible moment.
Kissing him like this feels like skimming the surface of something vast and ancient and entirely theirs, something that doesn’t need to be understood to be known, her heart knocking hard against her ribs as if it’s trying to reach him directly, bypassing all the fragile, human ways she usually expresses herself. It feels like being seen and chosen and kept all at once, like every version of her—the sharp, the soft, the messy, the luminous—has found its echo in him, and that echo is answering back in kind, steady and sure and impossibly right.
also me:
Flora sighs like the weight of Kaisel's generosity is a burden she’s being forced to endure, her head tipping back just slightly as if she might collapse under the strain of it, but the performance doesn’t quite reach her eyes, doesn’t touch the way something warm and fluttering has already taken root beneath her ribs, because no one has ever done this much, gone this far, thought this carefully about her, and even as her lips press into a mock scowl, there’s something softer blooming underneath it, something bright and unsteady that feels suspiciously like being cherished.
Her eyes snap open the moment his hand slaps into hers, fingers lunging immediately to catch him in retaliation, already halfway to accusing him of something ridiculous before she realises there’s something else there, something cool and smooth pressed into her other palm instead. The shift is instant, her attention dropping as her brows lift, suspicion rearranging itself into curiosity as she turns the small glass orb over slightly in her hands. "An onion-scented paperweight?" she guesses, tone dry and unimpressed in a way that is entirely performative, because there’s already a flicker of something else catching in the glass, something that doesn’t belong to a joke.
And then it moves and the change in her expression is almost imperceptible at first; the skepticism loosening, softening, her gaze sharpening as the first memory begins to unfold, sound and colour blooming out of the orb like something alive. She leans in without meaning to, drawn by it, by the way it feels like reaching into something that should be untouchable, her lips parting slightly as recognition flickers—faces, voices, moments she knows, moments she feels—each one catching somewhere different in her chest as they pass.
By the time she reaches Danta’s memory, it hits differently, the sudden heat of it climbing up her neck before she even fully processes what she’s seeing, her breath catching as her cheeks flush deep and immediate, the orb lowering almost on instinct as if distance might dull the surprise of it. She swallows, hard, eyes flicking up to Kaisel with something that looks almost like guilt before it settles into understanding instead, her mouth forming a soft, startled oh as the pieces slot into place. "Wait..." she breathes, a laugh slipping out under it, quieter now, edged with disbelief. "So that’s why you were talking to Danta about when he and I—" She cuts herself off with a shake of her head, one hand coming up briefly to her forehead as if she can physically press the realization into something manageable. "Oh my gods. And all while you were trying to do this for me?"
The memory of that conversation, the way he’d been unsettled and hurt, lingers just long enough to pull something softer into her expression, and she reaches for him without thinking, her arm looping around his hip to tug him closer, her head tipping to rest there against him, before the orb is changing again. It isn't to something sharp or startling, but to something quieter, something that doesn’t demand her attention so much as hold it, and Flora stills completely as she watches, breath slowing without her permission as Kaisel’s memories unfold. There’s no singular moment to cling to, no grand gesture to marvel at, just the steady, unbroken thread of her; working, laughing, existing in all the small, ordinary ways she’s never once thought worth noticing. The way she moves through a room, the way she collapses into the sun with Spice curled close, the sound of her laughter not as she hears it but as it leaves her and lands somewhere else, reflected back through someone who chose to remember it.
It isn’t loud, isn’t overwhelming in the way fireworks are, but something about it presses deeper, quieter, like a tide pulling steadily at her until she realizes she’s already been swept under. To see herself like that—to be seen like that—without performance, without expectation, just..kept in all the small, unguarded moments she never thought anyone was paying attention to, it does something to her that the rest of the night hadn’t quite managed.
Her throat tightens before she can stop it, the feeling rising too fast, too full, laughter and something dangerously close to tears tangling together until she doesn’t know which one will win, her fingers curling tighter around the orb like she needs to hold onto it or risk losing the feeling entirely. It’s too much in the best, worst way, like trying to contain the ocean in something meant for rainwater, and when she finally lifts her gaze to Kaisel, it’s slower than it should be, weighted by awe. Her eyes shine, bright and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with champagne now, her lips parting as if she means to say something, anything, but the words don’t come, caught somewhere behind the sheer weight of it all. And for once, Flora—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, always ready with something to say—has absolutely nothing. That these ordinary pieces of her—messy, unguarded, unperformed—have been gathered and held and turned into something worth keeping, leaves her feeling split open in the strangest, most luminous way, like every sharp, defensive edge she’s ever relied on has been softened not by force but by attention, by care, by someone who chose to see and didn’t look away. She feels it everywhere at once, in the tightness of her throat, in the flutter beneath her ribs, in the way her fingers won’t quite steady around the orb.
When she finally finds her voice it comes out quieter than expected, but steady, threaded through with something bright and trembling that refuses to be hidden. "If we weren’t already married," she says, her lips curving as she exhales the words like a secret she can’t keep contained, "I’d demand you marry me right now." It’s half-laugh, half-vow, and entirely true, because what else was there to do in the face of a feeling so monumental, other than demand forever? But because they are already married, instead Flora rises from the chair in one fluid motion that’s a little unsteady but entirely certain, one hand still curled loosely around the Everkeep while the other reaches for Kaisel without hesitation, pulling him down to her as she closes the distance between them.
The kiss isn’t careful, isn’t measured, isn’t anything close to restrained; it’s immediate and full and a little desperate in the way of something that has too much to say and nowhere else to put it. There’s laughter still caught in the edges of it, breath shared and uneven, but beneath that there’s something deeper, something that unfurls slow and endless the longer she stays there, like she’s brushing up against a part of herself that only exists when it’s mirrored in him. It isn’t enough, not really, not in the way that trying to hold water in your hands is never enough when you're desperate for a drink, because the feeling runs deeper than touch, deeper than sound, deeper than anything she can give shape to, but she tries anyway, presses closer, anchors herself in the warmth of him, in the solid certainty of his presence, as if she can translate everything the Everkeep showed her into this one, impossible moment.
Kissing him like this feels like skimming the surface of something vast and ancient and entirely theirs, something that doesn’t need to be understood to be known, her heart knocking hard against her ribs as if it’s trying to reach him directly, bypassing all the fragile, human ways she usually expresses herself. It feels like being seen and chosen and kept all at once, like every version of her—the sharp, the soft, the messy, the luminous—has found its echo in him, and that echo is answering back in kind, steady and sure and impossibly right.
