his mother had an allegory for every house and none of them were very nice. he’d been told them when he was young, a bedtime story that always left a bitter taste in his mouth. now, the fables burrowed deep in his subconscious. was it that he wished to forget his mother’s cruelty or prevent it from tainting his own view? not tht junho was any saint to his fellow covens, just ask irina.
he remembered his mother speaking of spring the most often. of betrayal. he recalled warm sunlight and the prickle of cactus and rose thorns. they’ll deceive you. she insisted, pressing a young junho’s thumb against a stem as he resisted. they’ll bleed you dry. just like this, little by little.
daphne had no thorns. as far as he could tell, anyway.
he imagined she’d suit a throne, the queen of spring if they practiced court hierarchies. the head of house was fitting, he was admittedly overjoyed that they had miraculously avoided another stoner sitting on top (after all, junho and avery were already more than enough). even better, he was glad to call her a friend.
‘ hey daph ! ’ he easily catches her hurrying figure in a few swift strides. ‘ how ya doing? i’m so glad i caught you before the meeting today. we must pregame. ’ a pause. ‘ in a discussion sense, i mean. i’d never come to a meeting- well, you know. i want to hash some things out. ’ @oprintemps