Scenic Route

Stan squinted at the sun.

His steps faltered at the door, barely crossing through. The warmth of spring taunting him to come forward; the wind spoke of winter's last breath. Light dappled from the trees and unto his skin, the shine falling over his countenance in brushes, in caresses, in a hand softer than that of his masters. The feline stood at the threshold for a moment, staring at the skies in such a way he could barb at the sun the way it did at him first.

It wasn't the heat that Stan minded in his lonesome—he was forged by fire, his throat sparked flames brighter than what summer could ever name. But the sun, he frowned, it was a little bit too bright today.

The feline's gaze swept past the foyers and the stairs, into the garden finally tended after the snow had thawed days before. His eyes then found a figure kneeling at the side of the path, in the middle of greenery not yet bloomed all. Stan could recognize the long, green hair everywhere even only by glimpses; even only by the shades. After all, they were created by the same embers that flicker forevermore; the matter of recognizing Bulb amongst faded hues was merely tracing the same lines that made Stan's hand.

And like a voyager now finding an intention, Stan's feet journeyed into the path circling the newborn garden.

Bulb lifted his head the moment Stan arrived at the end of his sight. He didn't shift, nor stand, but the corners of his mouth upturned into a grin that Stan had grown to be familiar with ever since they have man-shaped limbs, countenances; ever since they were remade into bodies that could walk on two feet like mortals. The creature beckoned for Stan to came close, away from the trail and into the rows of seeded flowers arranged beneath white-barked oak. There was a gleam of acknowledgment in his spring-painted gaze, in such a way Bulb knew what made Stan coming was a curiosity hungered to be sated, in such a way he knew there was only one thing that could smooth the creases folded upon the feline's eyebrows.

Stan crossed the grass, the flowers, raising his foot high so he wouldn't stomp on Bulb's leisure work restoring the winter-clung garden. He knelt by Bulb's side, peering at what the creature was working on now neither of them had orders to attend to from their masters. The feline watched on as Bulb dug a flowering plant with a small spade, his movement exact and precise; unlike when he chased after his prey; unlike when his appendages wrapped around a stranger's limb so tightly it ended up with a snap sharper than a stick.

Stan held his head over a palm, studying Bulb's movement some more before his gaze slipped away out of the impatience that Feruci woven between the amber that made his sinews. His gaze found the shapes of shadow casted by the tree just beside them both, the lines falling upon the dew-leaden grass below. Sunlight blinked through the branches, and Stan closed his eyes as the hands of wind weaved through the leaves, rustling across the garden with whispers no louder than summer's chatters.

It wasn't quite bad; this leisurely filled gap. Stan relished at the warmth spilling unto his skin past the gap of boughs, the quiet mansion empty of their young owners running around doing what they did the best: Brewing troubles. He thought about the breeze, the damp ground, him crouching down beside Bulb as they both studied the rows of flowers like it was weapons, like it was something worth to be mused about despite neither of them held any life higher than their masters.

When Stan opened his eyes, his gaze met Bulb who studied him the way Stan studied his movement just a moment before. The creature smiled—one that not unlike every other smiles that would press upon his sharp-angled countenance. He offered a hand, his unstained digits wrapped around the stalk of a single flower; the petals opened in colors more vivid than winter's sunlight overhead. He nudged the flower toward Stan, more of preposition than a suggestion; like he was presenting instead of showing; like it was a gift.

Stan stared at the flower. His eyes slipped onto Bulb's smile, then back to the flower again. Why flower? Stan had no need of one. What a feline could do with a plant, anyway? Stan turned the other cheek, his refusal sharp despite the quiet. At his answer, Bulb let out a breathless chuckles—his laughs had no sound but amusement. The creature pulled back his hand and mused over the nameless flower, caressing the petals with the care a hunter could only ever show to those that was made of the same things of his fangs.

Stan listened to Bulb's humming-shaped drone, a wisp of breeze pondered with their hair with warm edges. Underneath the canopy of shadows, Stan turned his eyes to the skies, and yet again squinted at the sun.

Spring was coming five steps faster, it seemed.

Commission Story Written by shorehail on AO3 / hyperrealbekasi on Twitter