flora
The moment Sicarius lowers herself, Spice’s entire demeanour shifts with the unbearable speed of someone who has won a war entirely in her own head. Her little chest deflates, her wings loosen, and by the time the younger dragonling creeps down toward the bar with that scraping little squeak, Spice has decided that graciousness is obviously the next most queenly option. She launches herself from the air in a flutter of white wings and lands on the bar only to throw herself dramatically onto her back, talons curled toward her chest, before exhaling a playful plume of frosty breath toward Sicarius.
"Oh, babe." Flora exhales the laugh around a smile, drawing in a breath as if she can still feel the shape of that moment beneath her skin. "It didn’t just feel like my veins were filled with stardust. It felt like all of me had been remade all at once, like every single tiny piece of me suddenly remembered it was supposed to be more than it had been." Her fingers curl around the stem of the glass, entirely unable to pretend toward modesty even for sport. "It was incredible." The word lands with all the force of her delight, bright and unabashed and glittering with the kind of satisfaction that has nothing to apologize for. Then her brows bounce, mischief immediately returning as though she has only just remembered the best part.
"And now, instead of the Doubletake, I’m the Hot Take." Flora gives this the theatrical weight it deserves. "Because I can take memories and replay them." Her grin turns fiendish, pleased in a way that is half queen and half gossip with divine backing, and she leans in slightly over the bar. "So no more he-said-she-said bullshit, no more tragic little one-sided retellings where everyone conveniently forgets the exact part where they were being the asshole, and no more pretending someone didn’t say something when I can simply pull the receipt out of their head." The smugness lingers for another second before softening, the sharp glitter of it warming into something more fond, more personal as Flora’s gaze settles on Asta. "But it also means I can do this."
Turning slightly, Flora lets the memory rise, old and alcohol-warm and preserved with the hazy intimacy of a night that had, at the time, felt ridiculous and harmless and entirely too full of feelings everyone involved had been pretending not to have. The bar around them does not vanish so much as gain another layer, the present shimmered through with the back room of the Hanged Man years ago, all low light and spilled liquor and the muffled sound of Asta’s karaoke carrying from outside. Danta is there as Flora remembers him, leaning against the wall mid-conversation, loose-limbed and sharp-edged and drunk enough that honesty has found a crack to slip through, his expression conflicted in a way he likely would have denied if he'd been given the chance.
"He’s not my friend, you know?" memory-Danta says, the words carrying with all their old, tangled uncertainty, his voice snagging slightly around feelings that had not yet learned how to stand in the open. "He’s just...mine."
Flora looks back to Asta with a grin that is softer than it has any right to be, especially given the wicked little sparkle still alive in her eyes. "It’s kind of nice," she says, swirling her mimosa, "being able to show people the parts of conversations they weren’t there for."
"Oh, babe." Flora exhales the laugh around a smile, drawing in a breath as if she can still feel the shape of that moment beneath her skin. "It didn’t just feel like my veins were filled with stardust. It felt like all of me had been remade all at once, like every single tiny piece of me suddenly remembered it was supposed to be more than it had been." Her fingers curl around the stem of the glass, entirely unable to pretend toward modesty even for sport. "It was incredible." The word lands with all the force of her delight, bright and unabashed and glittering with the kind of satisfaction that has nothing to apologize for. Then her brows bounce, mischief immediately returning as though she has only just remembered the best part.
"And now, instead of the Doubletake, I’m the Hot Take." Flora gives this the theatrical weight it deserves. "Because I can take memories and replay them." Her grin turns fiendish, pleased in a way that is half queen and half gossip with divine backing, and she leans in slightly over the bar. "So no more he-said-she-said bullshit, no more tragic little one-sided retellings where everyone conveniently forgets the exact part where they were being the asshole, and no more pretending someone didn’t say something when I can simply pull the receipt out of their head." The smugness lingers for another second before softening, the sharp glitter of it warming into something more fond, more personal as Flora’s gaze settles on Asta. "But it also means I can do this."
Turning slightly, Flora lets the memory rise, old and alcohol-warm and preserved with the hazy intimacy of a night that had, at the time, felt ridiculous and harmless and entirely too full of feelings everyone involved had been pretending not to have. The bar around them does not vanish so much as gain another layer, the present shimmered through with the back room of the Hanged Man years ago, all low light and spilled liquor and the muffled sound of Asta’s karaoke carrying from outside. Danta is there as Flora remembers him, leaning against the wall mid-conversation, loose-limbed and sharp-edged and drunk enough that honesty has found a crack to slip through, his expression conflicted in a way he likely would have denied if he'd been given the chance.
"He’s not my friend, you know?" memory-Danta says, the words carrying with all their old, tangled uncertainty, his voice snagging slightly around feelings that had not yet learned how to stand in the open. "He’s just...mine."
Flora looks back to Asta with a grin that is softer than it has any right to be, especially given the wicked little sparkle still alive in her eyes. "It’s kind of nice," she says, swirling her mimosa, "being able to show people the parts of conversations they weren’t there for."
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
