"I garden if you aren’t remembering correctly,” he answers like she’s mustered up the most baffling thing. “Thyme, heather, and even those stubborn orchids you see there. Why be nervous around someone like that?"
Goodness, she must really be sick. Then again, with Darlene leant against her palm, face ruby-flushed and lids at half-mast, she doesn’t leave much real estate for trifling arguments. Strange, though, Cường supposes, fingering out a bottle twined shut and sparsely filled. She’d been so vibrant and mystically doe-eyed. She came like misty lakes and daydreams in the summer--golden, butterfly bloated and a page out of fairytales, but now, she’s fumbling, and something ugly’s crawling up the sides.
Odd. It hits him like a stray breeze. He uncorks the bottle, walking up toward her. He thinks this is chronic, and over her breaths, there’s the whispers of something warbled and twisted--
Of dying. Or hurting. Or maybe tremendous grief, long smothered to choking and painfully hidden. Oh. You’ve got yourself some history, don’t you? he thinks, eyes meeting hers.
Cường, like a shadow, looms over. His free hand meets her shoulder to guide her to a chair, and the smell of summer-berries yet lingers on his mouth--from her platter, all strawberry-sugar-like. It blends strangely with the oil, pepperminty and strong on his fingers. “I make things flower,” he reminds. “So, how am I going to let you die on me? Don’t insult me. And don’t be dramatic. Look up.”
He fingers her temple. The whorls are slow. She sounds so... “This happens a lot, doesn’t it?”
@bethelbound, continued from here.