Castle of Cards

" Huuuh? " the singular vocalization drawls. " What are you going on about? - I never had such things coming out of my head! " He retorts, delving both extremities within pockets. " We're about to go on a mission. ----- At least pretend to be more professional, will ya. "

"Sure you didn't," he mumbled and rolled his eyes; too lethargic still to engage in the round two of this nonsense his peer had been involving himself in with their teacher. Upon the mention of the word 'mission', however, his groan grew significantly less withdrawn.

"Baaahhh... Never a day of taking a proper break with you folks, huh...," palmed pressed against sluggish eyes, the boy stretched his torso backwards—desperate in his attempt to knock his brain out of its slumber. "This whole thing better come with a nice sukiyaki dinner later, or else..."

The pout upon his peachy lips were more than enough an expression to wrap up the seemingly unfinished sentence.

" -- About time you showed up here, Idiot. Wait ... Did you just roll out of bed? Your hair is a complete mess. "

"Well, I'm sorry I wasn't born with thorns coming out of my head—AND tongue, apparently—the way you were."

"Whose fault was it that I had to wake up so suddenly for some...spite-fest or whatever the hell this is, anyway???"

► Give Sanemi a hand-crafted flower crown, Kanae! Make a man feel bonita~

A light smile, soft and warm, shapes Kanae's features as her fingers intertwines stems together. Years of practice make the motions second-nature. From bandages to weaving cloth and bouquets, she's found pleasure in many talents and hobbies over the years. As skilled as her hands are with a blade, she ties the flowers together with ease. Gentle hums as she weaves and bends with mastered craftsmanship. This is a typical spring activity among the ladies of the manor.

“ Shinazugawa-san, I have something for you. ” She muses, presenting the flower crown on the palms of her hands. Her smile beams as brightly as the lilies that wind among the wisteria.

“ I thought these colors would suit you best. ” White and purple. Maybe he would have preferred green, but that's captured in the stems that lace together all the crown's components.

He was not born for pretty things—or so he thought; for it's not easy, being the brute that he is—with trails of tortured past painted in blood, his mother's tears, and the bruises his father proclaimed his ownership upon her—to even picture himself basking in the luxury of what little delight this cruel world has got to offer.

And yet, there she was, the Flower Hashira herself—the embodiment of every definition of beauty that was so far out of his reach—standing before his undeserving glare; a wreath made of woven florals that matched his dimmed gleam of violet, alongside the very color (or the lack thereof) representing purity, within her blossoming grip.

How could he ever deny the wholesome goodness that she is? When even the growing pace of his own heartbeat goes numb in his ribcage, replaced by the nervous flaps of metaphorical butterfly wings that turn his innards upside down, each time he sees the soft smile that graces those delicate-looking lips of hers?

"...sure. Why not?"

He didn't know how long he had been caught gawking before his stupefied tongue unknotted itself as hefty hands took the present and did their due diligence to fulfill her simple wish.

"Well...? How do I look? If the answer is 'terrible', I'm expecting you to take full responsibility."

Rays of sun kissed the boys skin, before any doubt of his humanity crept within the minds of wind and snake. But the child did not burn.

For 3 long years he survived in darkness, starved of any warmth or care, and yet he remain human.

His blood remain human.

Right when iron rot came to touch his lips, with every ounce of strength he cut the fingers of Upper One to be caught in the arms of Senami Shinazugawa the moment before he could crash into the unforgiving floor. Days unconscious, his form cradled against Shinazugawa chest, his sleeping state is met with the dance of the butterfly girls.

A flutter of movement, checking over his health, it was clear he was suffering from severe dehydration and malnutrition. But for the hell he’d lived through…

Nothing short of a miracle.

How many days have passed? Or is it weeks? Months? How long has he been knocked out of his senses? Feels like it's barely more than a couple of hours...

Is this the afterlife? Has he been reincarnated? Then why is he looking at the exact same ceiling he once woke up to after the nightmare that took his brother away?

...oh wait.

Pools of mint fluttering back to life, the young swordsman's train of thought only came to a halt once the one person his soul had long yearned for entered the silent monologue.

Right... Yuichirō— He—

A sudden wave of panic set in, the Mist Hashira moved his body way too fast; too soon—completely dismissing the stiffness that had nestled comfortably within whatever little contractile fiber he'd got left after his drawn-out slumber; minuscular figure unceremoniously struck the cold, hard floor underneath with a thud that was a hundred times louder than the pained whine that follows—cracking with every bit of powerless attempt to once again vibrate the teenager's vocal cord.

"Dam—mit..."

He's a fighter—he always has been; an identity Muichirō refuses to let go, no matter how close he stands before death's door.

So fighting for a way out of the prison that was his very own physique, he went; dragging his torso inch by inch, guerilla-style to accommodate the numbness lacing his midriff and all the way down his lower limbs, to this other bed that seemed to be hosting yet another patient—knowledge of his company having been bearing the exact same face he wore remained far beyond his grasp.

"H-help... Please... Help me..."

Droplets of sweat the size of steamed kernels painted rivers down his trembling arm as it reached for the furniture with the last sliver of strength and hope he could muster.

S tealth was one of the multifarious aptitudes he'd honed since his youth, before his present days in that rundown orphanage, always meddling in his late father's projects in his bureau without obtaining any ounce of chastising or punishable consequences. Not so effortlessly seen, he was, and he had been proud of such accomplishments. -- Nowadays, however, such knacks of survival were occasionally ineffective; he's been seized in the midst of purloining a baked delicacy from an obnoxious woman's Diner, Teal eyes opposition hers as teeth gritted. Cornered between her and a wall, he scoffs.

" Get out of my way! ------ Don't think I won't push you just cause you're an old hag! "

While bustling business meant bustling extra banknotes from generous tips for the blonde bombshell's generous rack, it also put an emphasis on the increasingly-bustling need for vigilance among staff members on duty; given that it would be far from their virgin rodeo at this point if, once again, some naughty hands decided to lay their dirty fingers on said merchandise and run with it. A prestigious baseball final was currently taking place at a stadium barely a train ride away, after all—and thieves... Back when she'd, too, got to scrape the tank as a young bottom feeder herself just to ensure she would've seen the sun rise yet again, Rangiku had known all sorts of aces up a swindler's sleeve when it came to seizing a seasonal opportunity like this.

Not that she could've done it on her own—but that was another story for another day.

She had warned the others ahead of time not to display their mouth-watering pastries so out in the open on such a busy afternoon; only to have her words fall on deaf ears—while the waitress, now spitting a quiet hiss of an "What did I fucking tell you!" at her peers on her way out, was eventually left to be the one to tail the glimpses of this young boy, height barely visible from across their serving lane, who'd seemed to think he'd been slick in his attempt to fool her pair of muted robin's egg blue and escape unscathed with a piece of "free" sweet treat.

At least that was, until her wanton frame and the layers of bricks behind him had the kid entrapped.

"Who are you calling 'old hag', you stunted midget..."

The remark clearly struck the model a nerve, for she was quick to emit a murderous aura that had not been there when her intention had remained purely to retrieve the unpaid commodity within the stranger's grip. With one vigorous swing of a slender arm, she willfully entered a contestation of force to see who would prevail to claim the rightful ownership of the damned morsel.

"Where are your mom and dad?! I'm going to make sure they'll be giving you a good spanking back home for this unacceptable behavior!!!"