I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
Flora raises a brow at Kaisel, and though her mouth stays primly shut above the soft white wrap of her scarf, her thoughts slip through the bond with all the sweetness of a poisoned cherry. But if I did that, how would you ever learn? Still, the brush of him through the bond is enough to soften the edges of her resistance, not enough to make her sensible—that ship had sailed directly into a reef the moment she’d agreed to marry him beneath Safrin’s stars—but enough that when he offers her a hundred chances to say I told you so and foot rubs until next season, Flora’s whole face changes. Her grin goes wicked, bright and immediate, all resistance snapping like a ribbon between her fingers. "That’s all you had to say!" she announces, already turning toward the track. "Let’s go!"
Heading toward the horses feels like walking directly into a decision she’ll either brag about for the rest of the season or deny under oath, and Flora glances sidelong at Kaisel with a lingering, forward-looking I told you this was a bad idea so already loaded behind her eyes for how spectacularly, hilariously, publicly badly this could still go. Her stomach does something rude and fluttery as one of the attendants helps her mount, and for all that she wears her confidence like lipstick, glossy and deliberate and reapplied as needed, the height of the saddle and the restless shift beneath her make every piece of half-remembered riding knowledge scatter through her mind like loose petals in a snowstorm. Reins settle into her mittened hands, instructions arrive in brisk little pieces, and Flora nods as if she is absolutely absorbing all of it.
Then they’re off. The start is not graceful, and the first ring slips past her in a flash of mortifying almost-there while her heart leaps somewhere into her throat and decides to build a vacation home there. "Oh, fuck off," she hisses under her breath, not entirely sure whether she means the ring, the horse, the laws of momentum, or the entire concept of winter sports.
But then the rhythm catches. Not neatly, not like she knows what she’s doing, not like some elegant little Halo snow-princess born with reins in hand and frost in her lashes. Beginner’s luck blooms in her, and Flora leans into it as her fingers tighten, and her breath tears out in a laugh. Babe, she calls down the bond, giddy and breathless, every syllable sparkling with disbelief, we’re doing it!!
By the time they cross the finish, Flora’s cheeks are wind-pink beneath the edge of her scarf, and her pulse is hammering with the wild, stupid joy of having survived something she fully intended to complain about and when her gaze lifts toward the scoreboard, she's shocked to find that it's their names listed at the top. Flora’s mouth drops open, her aqua eyes going wide as she whips her attention back toward Kaisel, and the brightness that breaks across her expression is pure, ridiculous sunshine over snow, all delight and disbelief and the immediate rewriting of history in her favour. "See! I told you this was going to be a good idea!"
Heading toward the horses feels like walking directly into a decision she’ll either brag about for the rest of the season or deny under oath, and Flora glances sidelong at Kaisel with a lingering, forward-looking I told you this was a bad idea so already loaded behind her eyes for how spectacularly, hilariously, publicly badly this could still go. Her stomach does something rude and fluttery as one of the attendants helps her mount, and for all that she wears her confidence like lipstick, glossy and deliberate and reapplied as needed, the height of the saddle and the restless shift beneath her make every piece of half-remembered riding knowledge scatter through her mind like loose petals in a snowstorm. Reins settle into her mittened hands, instructions arrive in brisk little pieces, and Flora nods as if she is absolutely absorbing all of it.
Then they’re off. The start is not graceful, and the first ring slips past her in a flash of mortifying almost-there while her heart leaps somewhere into her throat and decides to build a vacation home there. "Oh, fuck off," she hisses under her breath, not entirely sure whether she means the ring, the horse, the laws of momentum, or the entire concept of winter sports.
But then the rhythm catches. Not neatly, not like she knows what she’s doing, not like some elegant little Halo snow-princess born with reins in hand and frost in her lashes. Beginner’s luck blooms in her, and Flora leans into it as her fingers tighten, and her breath tears out in a laugh. Babe, she calls down the bond, giddy and breathless, every syllable sparkling with disbelief, we’re doing it!!
By the time they cross the finish, Flora’s cheeks are wind-pink beneath the edge of her scarf, and her pulse is hammering with the wild, stupid joy of having survived something she fully intended to complain about and when her gaze lifts toward the scoreboard, she's shocked to find that it's their names listed at the top. Flora’s mouth drops open, her aqua eyes going wide as she whips her attention back toward Kaisel, and the brightness that breaks across her expression is pure, ridiculous sunshine over snow, all delight and disbelief and the immediate rewriting of history in her favour. "See! I told you this was going to be a good idea!"
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
