It’s easy to walk without expectations of humanity. Don’t perform. Just exist, and don’t think too hard about what that means. It’s so much easier than what they’ve been going through. I-statements and introspection and non-violent conflict resolution, as if they’ve ever had a say in any of this.
They shake their head somberly. “Until I’ve thrown my life away in pursuit of the perfect tomato plant,” they say, “it’s not talent.” They look at Mukuro. A nondescript facial twitch should somehow indicate they’re not serious about the statement. “Didn’t they teach you anything?
Her freckles seemed to have multiplied since last time they met. Or maybe it’s just been too long since they’ve seen each other in a world that isn’t so desaturated that everything tastes like chalk.
She gasps, hand on heart - (a little too much like her sister until she grips down, until the fabric of her skirt crunches under mock-shock) - and spins easily on her heel so she can reel back without breaking eye contact.
"You mean, you haven't thought about it?"
Her recovery has been easy by comparison, people she's never met in any way that matters congratulating themselves on drawing out a previously buried personality that laughs and jokes and socializes and all but damn well glitters. Mukuro half expects to look down and find her tattoo still in wrappings. That girl wasn't her either, really, though she seems to be a good enough halfway point.
"I don't know if I want to see a tomato that isn't worth dying for."
Here, though, she's blunt. Clumsy. Any camaradarie she tried to fake with Peko would fall apart in her mouth.
(Will they understand that she's joking? Should she explain it? Should she apologize? Was the garden off-limits? No. The uncertainty is gone as quickly as it reared its well-trained head. She's sure they understand that she's teasing. They've known her better than she suspects even Junko cared to. They won't be upset.)
(They smell like aloe. It’s nice.)
