#lila is a spookily observant queen no i don't take criticism

[madhyanas]

fact one: i should be reviewing my lecture notes

fact two: i am a Hoe for lila, always have been

fact three: whatever the fuck that was about poly florist-baby fic, it made me a Hoe for all three of them

PLEASE MAAM WOULD YOU CONSIDER, IN YOUR HEART OF HEARTS, TELLING US MORE?

ehehehe marina you know ily for this thank you for the validation, take this lila-centric snippet i recently Scrampled together

warning(s): none! very mild language at the end. hoes can have a little pining and banter and Crush Panic™️ as a treat. it’s me, i’m hoes. pretentious flower meanings because i’m a fool <3

also uh @wickedlyemma not to bother you but you might be interested in this :)

———

You turn around, like she hasn’t already seen your grin. You’re not really focusing on the moment, too taken with the fizzling, girlish feeling in your chest. Her calloused fingertips drumming on the counter — nails bitten down to the nubs — make for a pleasant rhythm to exist with. 

It’s so scarily easy, around Lila. Easy to let go. To stand without fidgeting, talk without thinking.

Honest, thoughtless, and too heartfelt. Of course, that’s when it comes out.

“Your boyfriend’s a lucky guy,” you toss over your shoulder.

The drumming stops. Screeches to a halt, tyres skidding on the highway. A sudden, violent reduction in velocity; a hawkish narrowing of attention.

Then you realise what you’ve said, and you freeze, too. Your smile drops.

“…oh?”

Her voice is languid, dragging out the pause before she speaks. You can picture how her eyebrows are raised — curious, just a touch indulgent. But you don’t think about that right now.

You’re thinking that Lila’s never been so short, so vague before. And you’ve certainly never been so bold.

“I, uh—” You half-turn towards her before your gut sinks, and you realise you don’t have the courage to face her properly, so it’s an awkward, jerky twist to your right, then back to facing the potted displays on the shelf— “I just mean that…”

“Yeah?”

God, you still can’t place her tone. She must be displeased, that cold sort of indifference that arrives with people sticking their noses where they don’t belong. She can’t sound… intrigued. No. She can’t.

You exhale slowly. As quietly as you can, so she can’t tell that it’s really a sigh. But — and you have learnt this, by now — Lila notices everything.

“Well, you know,” you offer weakly, plucking a pot of red begonias off the shelf and tracing a finger across the petals just for something to do, hoping she’ll fill the gap. Make up some half-hearted excuse so you don’t have to.

“I don’t, really, no.” Her fingers resume their tapping. Slower, this time. Ticking in place of the broken clock by the fridge.

You never realised how much you depend on how she looks to gauge how she’s feeling. Her eyes burn through your clothes to your back, right between your shoulder blades. Clear and cunning. As they have been since the day you met her.

Then, miraculously, you get an idea.

“The— The flowers!” Your voice is just a touch too close to shrill, and you don’t turn around. But it’s something. Bingo.

“And…” she starts dubiously, dragging out the vowel, “Which ones are those, again? You’ll need to specify, you’ve got a lot of them around here.”

It’s strange, that. How nimbly she plays your nerves like marionette strings. A few lines and suddenly you’re huffing out a laugh, Lila’s lazy attempt at a joke putting you at ease.

You could jab something back. You could. She likes it when you do that. But you need to resolve this before your face gets any warmer.

“The flowers for your boyfriend, I meant.” You chance a glance back at her, fleeting and chaste at the sobering reminder of why she’s even here in the first place.

“Not many would buy flowers for their guy, I just— I thought it was sweet. So he’s lucky. That’s all.”

You’re still talking to the begonias. And you’re overcompensating.

“Oh. I see,” Lila says simply. That’s what I’m worried about. “I’ll tell him you think so, then. He’ll appreciate that.”

The two of you fall into silence. You continue organising the shelves, even though you did it yesterday; she keeps drumming, even though her fingertips are starting to go numb. Not awkward.

She probably doesn’t think anything of it, you convince yourself.

Behind you, Lila is thrilled. She grins, slow and syrupy. Like the cat that caught the canary. And you are one pretty, pretty bird.

Diego’s going to lose his shit.

———

Begonias: beware, being cautious of new situations.

———