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metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:50 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2016-11-18 11:50 pm
Entry tags:
511;
Title: purple columbine
Characters: Ginti, Aligula
Rating: G
moral: make sure you're using the same flower book
Ginti doesn't give a damn about flowers, and before dying, neither did she—but Katniss taught her there were meanings in blossoms, and Inigo taught her there was romance in those secrets. She sits by the flower patch that'd been taking shape for the dearly departed before Katniss died, a hand ungloved and its fingers digging into the dirt, and breathes in the earthy smell. When she turns to consult one of the books she's brought from the library, she finds Ginti standing beside her, a hand resting on his hip.
Aligula stares up at him and decides it might be easier to explain things with something physical anyway, fingers curling around the edge of a page.
She begins with primroses, Ferid's favorite, because there are plenty in his now-unoccupied room and it has to be Ginti putting them there. I can't live without you is its meaning by Ferid's definition, and she tries to not be too upset when the name inspires a blankness that doesn't click back entirely. It's childhood and modest worth by others, gloved fingers fanned out over illustrated books while her other motions past the rest of the flowers to where the primroses are, and she knows he doesn't care about any of this.
But he waits and he listens, head tilted in that way she never stopped associating with Juri, and she forges on ahead without a second pause. Hopeless, not heartless for pedant amaranth, said in a way that makes his face do that thing it does because she means it for him more than she has any other flower, even the ones that had reminded her of him. She decides to talk about those three next; she's aware he knows what she's told him, but repetition never hurt, and she stands to find them in the greenhouse and present them to him one by one.
Unchangeable is what she meant for globe amaranth, but immortality and unfading love can be found there, too; unfortunate attachment for mourning bride, though there's the similar unfortunate love and unsurprisingly I have lost all as well; silence and falsehoods blossom out of deadly nightshade, no change to the meaning she'd given him.
He isn't looking at her when she finishes; he's looking at the flowers the same way he's looked at her other gifts (the few she's given him), and when he finally speaks, it's to ask her why she's suddenly so interested in this sort of thing. There's no judgement to his tone, and there's a weirdly genuine hint of curiosity beneath his usual grump, and Aligula clasps her hands behind her back with a hum.
She's not, she replies. She just remembered something while she was visiting the greenhouse today, and she thought she'd share with him while she had the opportunity. That's all, she finishes, softer than she usually might, and Ginti's gaze lifts to her and flicks away just as quickly.
It's obvious he has no idea what to do with any of this—anything that's happened in the last ten minutes. She can't fault him entirely (she barely knows what to do with anything that happens here, that's happened here), and so she kneels back by her books and collects them in her arms, pulling on her other glove as an afterthought.
Aligula gives him one of them after a moment, head tilted to the side as she tells him he has homework from their impromptu lesson: give her a flower, and really think about what it means before he presents it to her.
A sprig of tiny purple flowers gets unceremoniously tossed onto her desk; she turns her head to it, frowning, then turns around in her seat, arms around the chair's back. Ginti crosses his arms, then nods to the flowers when she doesn't say anything.
Heliotrope, he says, frustration lurking just beneath the surface. For the homework she'd given him, and she tilts her head again before she turns back to her books, skimming pages for its name. Devotion, and she props her chin in her hand, feeling both the lighthearted delight at its meaning and the sting of understanding that it isn't some sort of confession to her: it's something that describes her, the way she'd done for him. Nothing more and nothing less than that.
She thanks him all the same, delicately picking up the sprig and twirling it between her fingers, and pretends there isn't a palpable quiet settling over the room.
It's a bit before he speaks up again, and he sounds like he's genuinely trying when he states, not asks, that she's not satisfied. Aligula scrunches her nose and wonders when he gained the ability to read the atmosphere—then wonders if she's just that obvious.
There wasn't anyone he hadn't been able to figure out, after all. That included her.
She replies that she likes it, and that it works for her. He repeats his statement—that she's not satisfied with it—and adds that she'd been expecting something different. She squeezes the heliotropes' stem and sighs.
No, she answers, her voice soft: she hadn't expected anything different at all.
Every so often, he'll give her another flower, and she'll press them between the pages of books; she doesn't know why he's looking for one that'll suit her tastes when she said she was fine with what he'd presented to her before, and it's obvious he doesn't know why, either. Her heliotropes are joined by coreopsis (always cheerful) and bluebell (constancy), then by a single white carnation (disdain says one book, endearment says another with the specifics on its color, and Ginti corrects her with pride from the one she'd handed off to him). She almost thinks he might be making fun of her, particularly when he hands her a pale columbine (folly), but she puts that one between pages too and pushes down on it with as much force as she can muster.
She knows everything about this is a mistake. Staying here, liking him, expecting him to understand things—all of it. But if there was anyone who could manage it, it'd be her. Chitoge had said as much. She breathes in deeply, holds it, then lets it out slowly, and when she's back to normal she rejoins him at the bar, taking her usual seat on it instead of at it. He glances at her and greets her like usual, no bite and no bark, and Aligula reaches up to let her hair down.
She pulls it to the side before he can reach to take any, inspecting for split hairs (though that probably wouldn't really be a problem here) and hums when he asks if she wants her hair braided. It's not a yes but it's not a no, and she squawks when he reaches over and tugs her hair out of her hands. She scoots back with it, irritation hopefully clear enough for even him to see when she flicks his hand off of her hair, and after a moment she lays her hands back in her lap and feels him gently pull and twist her hair the way he usually does.
It's relaxing, and she can feel her frustration melt away with every soft movement; when he asks for her bow, she holds it up for him, fingers curling in the air when he unexpectedly brushes a kiss across the backs of them.
She asks about the columbine, rubbing the spot he'd kiss when her hands return to her lap. He's quiet, and she almost starts to ask him again when he gives a long sigh and gives her a little push to indicate he's done.
He won't look at her when she turns around, and there's a current of irritation—not at her, probably—beneath his words when he tells her what the book she'd given him to use said: I cannot give thee up.
Aligula stares, playing with the end of her braid, and laughs.
It meant folly according to everyone else, she replies when her giggles have mostly subsided. Red and purple had their own meanings (Anxious and trembling and Resolved to win respectively), but anything other than that was totally an insult. Ginti glances back to her, rests against the counter, and agrees when she concedes his meaning sounded like folly anyway, for them.
Neither of them still give too much of a damn about flowers, though Aligula definitely has an interest—it's romantic, if not direct enough for her, she doesn't want to have to sit around looking through books to find some stupid meaning that might not even be the same!—but from time to time she puts one in his glasses for him to find, and he threads them into her braid for her to admire when he's done.
Characters: Ginti, Aligula
Rating: G
moral: make sure you're using the same flower book
Ginti doesn't give a damn about flowers, and before dying, neither did she—but Katniss taught her there were meanings in blossoms, and Inigo taught her there was romance in those secrets. She sits by the flower patch that'd been taking shape for the dearly departed before Katniss died, a hand ungloved and its fingers digging into the dirt, and breathes in the earthy smell. When she turns to consult one of the books she's brought from the library, she finds Ginti standing beside her, a hand resting on his hip.
Aligula stares up at him and decides it might be easier to explain things with something physical anyway, fingers curling around the edge of a page.
She begins with primroses, Ferid's favorite, because there are plenty in his now-unoccupied room and it has to be Ginti putting them there. I can't live without you is its meaning by Ferid's definition, and she tries to not be too upset when the name inspires a blankness that doesn't click back entirely. It's childhood and modest worth by others, gloved fingers fanned out over illustrated books while her other motions past the rest of the flowers to where the primroses are, and she knows he doesn't care about any of this.
But he waits and he listens, head tilted in that way she never stopped associating with Juri, and she forges on ahead without a second pause. Hopeless, not heartless for pedant amaranth, said in a way that makes his face do that thing it does because she means it for him more than she has any other flower, even the ones that had reminded her of him. She decides to talk about those three next; she's aware he knows what she's told him, but repetition never hurt, and she stands to find them in the greenhouse and present them to him one by one.
Unchangeable is what she meant for globe amaranth, but immortality and unfading love can be found there, too; unfortunate attachment for mourning bride, though there's the similar unfortunate love and unsurprisingly I have lost all as well; silence and falsehoods blossom out of deadly nightshade, no change to the meaning she'd given him.
He isn't looking at her when she finishes; he's looking at the flowers the same way he's looked at her other gifts (the few she's given him), and when he finally speaks, it's to ask her why she's suddenly so interested in this sort of thing. There's no judgement to his tone, and there's a weirdly genuine hint of curiosity beneath his usual grump, and Aligula clasps her hands behind her back with a hum.
She's not, she replies. She just remembered something while she was visiting the greenhouse today, and she thought she'd share with him while she had the opportunity. That's all, she finishes, softer than she usually might, and Ginti's gaze lifts to her and flicks away just as quickly.
It's obvious he has no idea what to do with any of this—anything that's happened in the last ten minutes. She can't fault him entirely (she barely knows what to do with anything that happens here, that's happened here), and so she kneels back by her books and collects them in her arms, pulling on her other glove as an afterthought.
Aligula gives him one of them after a moment, head tilted to the side as she tells him he has homework from their impromptu lesson: give her a flower, and really think about what it means before he presents it to her.
A sprig of tiny purple flowers gets unceremoniously tossed onto her desk; she turns her head to it, frowning, then turns around in her seat, arms around the chair's back. Ginti crosses his arms, then nods to the flowers when she doesn't say anything.
Heliotrope, he says, frustration lurking just beneath the surface. For the homework she'd given him, and she tilts her head again before she turns back to her books, skimming pages for its name. Devotion, and she props her chin in her hand, feeling both the lighthearted delight at its meaning and the sting of understanding that it isn't some sort of confession to her: it's something that describes her, the way she'd done for him. Nothing more and nothing less than that.
She thanks him all the same, delicately picking up the sprig and twirling it between her fingers, and pretends there isn't a palpable quiet settling over the room.
It's a bit before he speaks up again, and he sounds like he's genuinely trying when he states, not asks, that she's not satisfied. Aligula scrunches her nose and wonders when he gained the ability to read the atmosphere—then wonders if she's just that obvious.
There wasn't anyone he hadn't been able to figure out, after all. That included her.
She replies that she likes it, and that it works for her. He repeats his statement—that she's not satisfied with it—and adds that she'd been expecting something different. She squeezes the heliotropes' stem and sighs.
No, she answers, her voice soft: she hadn't expected anything different at all.
Every so often, he'll give her another flower, and she'll press them between the pages of books; she doesn't know why he's looking for one that'll suit her tastes when she said she was fine with what he'd presented to her before, and it's obvious he doesn't know why, either. Her heliotropes are joined by coreopsis (always cheerful) and bluebell (constancy), then by a single white carnation (disdain says one book, endearment says another with the specifics on its color, and Ginti corrects her with pride from the one she'd handed off to him). She almost thinks he might be making fun of her, particularly when he hands her a pale columbine (folly), but she puts that one between pages too and pushes down on it with as much force as she can muster.
She knows everything about this is a mistake. Staying here, liking him, expecting him to understand things—all of it. But if there was anyone who could manage it, it'd be her. Chitoge had said as much. She breathes in deeply, holds it, then lets it out slowly, and when she's back to normal she rejoins him at the bar, taking her usual seat on it instead of at it. He glances at her and greets her like usual, no bite and no bark, and Aligula reaches up to let her hair down.
She pulls it to the side before he can reach to take any, inspecting for split hairs (though that probably wouldn't really be a problem here) and hums when he asks if she wants her hair braided. It's not a yes but it's not a no, and she squawks when he reaches over and tugs her hair out of her hands. She scoots back with it, irritation hopefully clear enough for even him to see when she flicks his hand off of her hair, and after a moment she lays her hands back in her lap and feels him gently pull and twist her hair the way he usually does.
It's relaxing, and she can feel her frustration melt away with every soft movement; when he asks for her bow, she holds it up for him, fingers curling in the air when he unexpectedly brushes a kiss across the backs of them.
She asks about the columbine, rubbing the spot he'd kiss when her hands return to her lap. He's quiet, and she almost starts to ask him again when he gives a long sigh and gives her a little push to indicate he's done.
He won't look at her when she turns around, and there's a current of irritation—not at her, probably—beneath his words when he tells her what the book she'd given him to use said: I cannot give thee up.
Aligula stares, playing with the end of her braid, and laughs.
It meant folly according to everyone else, she replies when her giggles have mostly subsided. Red and purple had their own meanings (Anxious and trembling and Resolved to win respectively), but anything other than that was totally an insult. Ginti glances back to her, rests against the counter, and agrees when she concedes his meaning sounded like folly anyway, for them.
Neither of them still give too much of a damn about flowers, though Aligula definitely has an interest—it's romantic, if not direct enough for her, she doesn't want to have to sit around looking through books to find some stupid meaning that might not even be the same!—but from time to time she puts one in his glasses for him to find, and he threads them into her braid for her to admire when he's done.