#sidrae

he’s just taking a moment of reprieve, finding himself in a quieter corner and seeking akaashi out for some different energy levels. ‘ they’re so noisy, aren’t they ? ‘ he gives a good natured smile, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘ do you ever lose your patience like i do ? ‘ 

@sidrae​ said:  " nodding off... " haru and agnès thank u very much (sleepy meme)

For somebody who likes to swim so little, Agnès has always found a peculiar charm to water. When conjuring memories of her childhood home in Miyagi, she recalls her father’s workshop, and the hills behind it, and the clear water streams running in sinews at the foot of the trees whose company she’d keep. She remembers dipping her bare feet in the current, looking at the distortion of flesh and rocks and soil beneath through the water and staring for hours without ever getting bored.

The sea is a new companion she has yet to tame, but that she finds equally compelling. In the turmoil of new life, new places, new people, she has grown fond of the new experience that comes with observing the current, instead of steady streams; of the glitter of shards of mirror when the sunlight hits the waves as they break or roll onto the shore. If she were to reach out into the water, perhaps she could grasp at one of them; seize it in the cusp of her palm. For now, though, it is in the lens of her camera that she is trying to catch it; the apparatus resting on in her lap after a few first attempts, guided by Haru’s quiet pointers (this is the best point // this is where the water looks best).

They sit on a bench by the beach, facing the endless sea stretching to the horizon, and Agnès has lost track of when either she or Haru have said a word. He is a quiet one, that boy; full of silent murmurs and absent gazes -- until he absorbs himself in his latest artistic adventure, she gathers. Agnès likes to watch all things, and she likes to watch Haru, whenever he stops by the shop. From behind her counter, grey eyes follow and peek as he peruses through whatever it is that he needs this time, or when he sits and slouches over the workbench to try out something new. He never says much, and that is fine by her - she has never been much of a talker either, but there is something of a language, maybe, in the muted spark that lights up when he busies his hands with wood sculpture or whatever else takes his fancy. 

He doesn’t say much now either - and a light weight suddenly pressing down on her shoulder soon explains why, Agnès blinking out of her thought to glance at the shock of raven hair spilling over her coat. See. Haru is so quiet, she hadn’t even realised he was falling asleep. For a moment, she hesitates; should she move, would she wake him up, startle him like a bird from rattled branch? 

No - that wouldn’t do at all. She values her own tranquility too much to ruin that of another; especially that of someone who, she has sometimes caught herself thinking, never seems... quite at home, quite settled, quite attached, like an anchor set loose. Grey eyes fall to his hands, to the sketchbook threatening to slip from his laxed grip; slowly (veeery slowly) she reaches and takes the precious sketchpad to secure it in her own lap, under the camera; and, after checking that he is still breathing peacefully, lets her head tilt to the side, her cheek press light against his hair.