Here's Sonic, finding his place behind Shadow so he can begin to gently and skillfully place randomly assorted flowers in his quills.
|| @livelyblur
He hears him coming, of course, and is able to feel his hand interacting with his striped quills. Red eyes don’t look up from the book in his hands; instead, he’s more inclined to let Sonic continue with whatever it is he’s doing. A floral scent eventually wafting in the air finally clues him in. Ah, he’s decorating him with flowers.
A faint, and subtly strained, smile touches his lips.
He’ll never say it out loud, but he can’t help but remember a blonde-haired and bright-eyed young girl once doing the same so long ago.
He chooses not to speak. His permission is expressed by his silent inaction. Maybe, to him, such delicate and beautiful plants don’t belong on someone as war-torn and battered as him, but Sonic manages to see that differently. Just like he always does. It never ceases to amaze him.
As a page is turned, the slightest hint of a purr can be heard rumbling from his throat.
