#guncared

// another big masterpost of asks i’ve gotten from this beautiful person (the rest are under the cut and commentary is in the tags)

crimson eyes are sharp as blades as she scans the text so kindly sent by her boss,  the text detailing her next ploy to encourage their customers’ returns.  truthfully,  she cares naught for such gestures,  only playing along for the sake of keeping her job  (  though she has no qualms complaining.  )  regrettably,  the next customer steps into the store far too soon.  she cannot quite help the scowl that adorns her face as she turns to them,  looking far too out - of - place,  far too  harsh  amongst the gentle hues of the flowers,  their quiet elegance.

❝    welcome.    ❞    the greeting is gritted out,  though her expression remains alarmingly  blank –  she receives no acknowledgement,  however,  and while maki has no problem with a lack of human interaction she knows she cannot forego her work.

or,  at least,  she may have taken such an outlook –  had he not lingered in the store,  staring at  every flower in the store,  wandering aimlessly between shelves and never turning to the counter,  not even once.  with each second that passes,  irritation rises,  narrowed eyes glowering at him as he wanders the small shop floor.  she takes a moment,  incredibly brief,  to take a flower  (  a carnation boasting petals of beautiful yellow  )  in her hand,  stem twirled between slender fingers.

finally,  he approaches,  though he is met with no hospitality.  barely a sentence is stuttered out,  a quiet  ❝   what would you recommend –   ❞   ,  before crimson eyes take on an edge of steel,  sharpening into blades as the flower is held out,  stem extended towards the strange  ‘  customer  ‘.

❝    take it,  and get out.    ❞

truthfully, this is the quaintest flower shop he’s ever been to. sometimes, he likes to take flowers home and simply admire them, but he’s realized in recent days that the more cost-effective approach is to admire them in the shop. one of his favourite games to play is to practice description, to describe the flower in excruciating detail, from the colour to the shape of its petals to the angle of the stem. applying symbolism. when they’re freshly watered, he describes the consistency of the droplets.

this time, however, he actually needs flowers. as it turns out, his uncle’s wife’s birthday is today and getting her a present completely slipped his mind. he knows enough about her to recognize that chocolates wouldn’t win her favour. but flowers are elegant and understated, so long as he doesn’t overdo it.

for a moment, he merely stares blankly at the receptionist, who seems to want to kill him where he stands. hasn’t he read about something like this? a girl who looks like she wants to kill you giving you flowers? it’s an archetype... tsundere, it’s called. but people don’t fall in love just like that. she probably just really wants to go back to checking her phone and feels nervous with him around.

        “i’m guessin’ you have nothing else better to do than stare at everyone with those cold, blank eyes of yours?” not that he had any room to judge, but you could say it was an honest to god genuine question coming from the likes of him. he squinted at her, head tilting to the side ever so slightly as he attempted to figure her out. “don’t you think, i dunno, that’s a bit fuckin’ freaky?”

SOFT  TOUCHES .     //     ACCEPTING .     // @guncared .

it’s  far  too  early .        just          a  hint  of  sunlight     ——     caught  &  tangled  like  seagrass  in  the  river  of  harukawa’s  hair ,      which  flows  serenely  over  shirogane’s .        glasses  askew  /  nested  at  the  shell  of  her  ear ,      she  anticipates  that  mid - morning  strobe  headache  of  legend .

there  are  ways  of  placating  it :      a  warm  towel  to  the  forehead ,      so  as  not  to  dally  her  eyes  from  the  screen ;      the  scent  of  vanilla  sugar ,      becoming  of  a  gentler  tone ;      her  arms  locked  intimately  around  another  to  siphon  warmth  and  sweetness  and  all  that  which  repairs  her ,      inside - out .

she  remarks ,      in  her  half - roused  certainty ,      that  she  doesn’t  know  how  this  happened .        shirogane  remembers     ——     thinks  she  remembers     ——     no ,      she’s  positive     ——    that  she  remembers  last  occupying  her  desk .        now  sprawled  under  the  covers ,      harukawa  pressed  under  her  arm .

and  harukawa ,      for  all  her  strength  in  waking ,      is  a  gentle  sleeper     ——    the  drift  of  her  breath  is  effortless  /  eyes  stuttering  gently  beneath  their  lids  as  she  dreams .        not  the  first  time        ( and  hopefully ,      not  the  last )        she’ll  wake  drenched  in  shirogane’s  sweat ;      but  that’s  a  later  problem .

never  did  she  imagine  her        spirits  could  be  so  high .      ( never  knew  she  had  spirits  upon  which  to  approve  so  immensely ,      let  alone  … )      pekoyama  retires  to  her  room  at  the  day’s  close ;      thoroughly  exhausted ,      but  with  an  enduring  smile .

even  so :      pekoyama  glimpses  the  package  on  her  doorstep  as  she  approaches ,      and  it  impedes  her .      her  hand  reaches  for  her  shinai    ——      to  swat  it ?      she  cannot  abide  complacency ,      even  on  such  perfect  days .      her  young  master’s  life  is  too  precious .

but  nothing  ill  comes  of  it    ——     nothing  at  all ,      for  that  matter .      she  perceives  harukawa’s  tidy  scrawl ,        ( always  an  instance  of  suspicion ;      of  lingering  doubt .      if  not  this  time ,      when ?  )        pekoyama  scoops  it  up ,      and  slips  into  her  room .

she  doesn’t  open  it  immediately :        sits ;      stares ;      unmoving .        nothing  of  it  changes  from  the  foot  of  her  bed ,      and  finally ,      the  suspense  is  too  much .        a  glimpse  over  her  shoulder  at  a  door  shut  tight    ——     her  fingers ,      tense ,      lift  the  box’s  lid  away .

——     and  finds  herself  unable  to  process  the  gesture .        the  thing  lying  in  the  box ;      some  relic  of  a  hazy  conversation  that  occurred  in  the  cooler  months .        ( ‘ should  we  do  something  to  help  it ? ’    /    ‘ i  would ,      but  i  fear  i  would  only  frighten  it . ’ )

a  strange  thing  to  remember    ——     but  harukawa  remembered  it ,      all  the  same .        pekoyama  reaches  into  the  box ,      chiding  herself  for  that  errant  thought  that  this  too  will  reject  you ;      it  never  does .        its  texture  is  welcoming  to  her  touch .

soft .        so  soft ,      so  fluffy  ...        she  wonders  if  all  cats  feel  as  marvelous  as  this  one ,      if  not  finer .        her  fingers  drift  between  its  ears    ——     its  face ,      legs ,      tail    ——     a  warm ,      humming  contentment  stokes  in  the  furnace  of  her  chest .

“Harukawa-san, it is not my business to bother,” but how could she not? A child caregiver should have a clean appearance around kids- after all, they loved to grab things and such like that. So the sight of Harukawa’s hair sitting on the floor whenever she took a seat, the way it dragged a little whenever she had bent down to grab something- brought uncertainty into the maid. Even though she cleaned those floors, it was definitely unsanitary to let something like that happen. But did Harukawa even take care of her hair that much in the first place?