𝐌𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 (𝐓𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐫)

✦𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬✦

ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛs ᴛᴏ: meowzfordayz

You laugh like the sun warming his face, slow and gentle in the morning, bright and strong in the afternoon, sunken far under his skin by the evening — far enough to see him through to the next and the next and the next.

“Whatcha starin’ at?” you grin, elbows resting on the porch’s fence, still in pajamas.

“You,” Muichiro snorts fondly, surrounding dirt patterned by his boots’ deep treads, a heavy and rusted shovel in his hands, “You could make me breakfast, since you refuse to help out here.”

Nose crinkling, you roll your eyes, intentionally wide yawn interrupting your retort.

“It’s past noon, I’m hungry.”

“I just woke up, and you’re already sooo demanding,” you tease, eyes twinkling, “You know dirt doesn’t agree with my complexion.”

“I know that you know that your complexion has nothing to do with it.”

Putting your hands on your hips, you stick out your tongue, “I hate blisters.”

“So I’ll dig,” he shrugs, “You can plant the seeds.”

“I don’t like gardening.”

“Ah, the truth finally surfaces,” he chuckles.

“Unlike someone's plants,” you quip, winking at his indignant gasp, “Maybe I should plant them.”

“Because your thumbs are so green,” he mutters, turning his back with a huff, shovel cutting roughly into the dry, rocky soil, “Whatever.”

Endearment propels your feet as you make your way to the scraggly patch of autumn’s leftover foliage, last year’s weeds, and a heap of gardening tools, seed packets, and mismatching gardening gloves. He doesn’t look up, engrossed in his methodical process of tilling the earth, envisioning tidy rows of flowers, vegetables, and lots and lots of chicken wire — rabbits are cute, and are also the worst.

“How can I help?” you ask gently, giggling at his startled expression, a careful hand settling itself on his shoulder before he can protest, marveling at the tension and movement of muscles.

“I already told you,” he grunts, “Make me breakfast or plant the seeds,” lips pursing in thought, “Or, preferably, do both.”

Nodding happily, you lean in to peck his cheek, your satisfied hum soft on his skin when he doesn’t reject your advance.

Sighing, he lets the shovel fall to the side, wry smile lifting the corners of his mouth, “You’re annoying.”

“And yet, you grow a beautiful garden for me, every single year,” you smirk, tapping his nose, “I must be more than annoying to you.”

“Nope, just annoying,” he declares, “Now get to work!”

And I'm just hopeless he muses, bending down to retrieve the shovel, watching you crouch and draw a crude rectangle in the dirt, seed packets spread and arranged, then rearranged, and arranged again.

“Do you care how I plant them?”

“I don’t mind,” because you're right.

It’s your garden.

Always.