' Until we meet again, Y/N. '
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Having spent your life as a florist, violence and war had never introduced itself to you. That is, until you met them.
You came as a distraction, and you liked it that way. Single nights spent in simplicity a...
content warning: this chapter contains graphic depictions of sexual interactions (18+)
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It makes me wonder if they'll walk through that door, asking for another funeral arrangement. Or if they'd be the one in need of that floral farewell.
"Do you have time for a commission?"
You couldn't tell which emotion was more profuse; relief or consternation. Both of those emotions bubbling through your blood stream, only heightening your worry in fear that those air pockets would send your body into shock.
Wouldn't that be the cherry on top of it all?
You think to yourself, an image of you fainting before Hange's return. Why not add a heap of embarrassment to it all? Why not add a concern for your physical health to the weight now dragging your shoulders down?
This house once hollowed out with heart break now fills with promise. A gleaming ray of light that stands in the door frame. The black patch protecting their blinded eye sitting in contrast to the glow illuminating their face. A glow shining like a flashlight into the dark abyss your home had begun to feel like. In search of anything still living, still breathing.
And that smile. In its carefulness, it erupts a rage inside you like you've never known. An angry frustration aimed with a red dot to your own temple. But you can't sit at this table and hate yourself in silence. Your guilt had just walked through your door, and you'd be damned to let them wait a moment more.
"Of course." You rush, standing from your seat as your straightening legs push the chair out from beneath you. An awkward stance as your eyes can't bring themselves to look away. Questioning now if Hange was truly there, or, if you were to place a hand to them would your fingers seep into their apparition.
"Have a seat." You gesture a hand to the chair opposite yours, finally prying your eyes away from them, landing on the notebook splayed out in the open air.
The tear drops from your previous entries staining the pages, dark circles abrupting the sea of milk white paper. Some landing directly onto written words, splashing the ink with emotion and allowing the indigo hue to bleed.
Quickly, you move to close that notebook, shutting it as if those delicate thoughts could be riddled away with the sealing of the pages. But that heart ache scribbled into that book lingers in your chest as you replace those melancholic papers with your work book, turning back to the table to find Hange already sitting; patiently waiting with their arms crossed over the other atop the table. Their eye staring blankly at the quill left haphazardly on the wood, a small pool of ink puddles beneath its tip.
