it’s so quiet here. it’s not the city itself, that much she knows— no capital cities are ever quiet, regardless of the time, as she’s witnessed again and again. she’s been to london precisely once before, she recalls easily: it was late may, the air already humid with the premise of summer, and she was settled in a hotel similar to this one, sat in front of her bedroom window, overlooking a park, and patiently waiting for nightfall to come so she could leave the room, venture out into the crowded streets, and follow the orders she’d been given— ever dutiful.
it’d been a bleak place, then — almost stale, insomuch as a city can be, its memory lingering unpleasantly — but it had not been quiet.
sakura brings her hand up to the window and presses her palm flat against the glass. she can’t see into the outside from where she lays simultaneously spread out atop and half buried in shoko’s bedsheets, but she imagines the scenery — the stale, humid, proper summer air superimposed upon it — and wonders where it is that all those vast, assorted droning sounds of the city captured in her memories could have disappeared off to.
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she hums, shallow in her throat and voice purposely airy, gaze drifting languidly from london’s cloudless skies to shoko’s face pillowed on her stomach. ‘ yeah, okay— bossy. ’ she huffs, all faux offense, and reaches out with her other hand, gently tracing the curve of shoko’s brow. ‘ lucky you’ve got this face. ’