Hanakotoba

He's sitting on the ground, cross-legged and with his chin in his hand. The too-short yukata he's been forced to wear since his arrival in this era is bunched up indecently against his thighs. Katana has tried to tell him to sit properly, on his knees and with his legs closed, but this is much more comfortable, and he's never been one to be too modest. Besides, it gets her flustered, and she's kind of cute when she's angry. Not that he'll ever tell her that.

At the moment, though, she's far too distracted by her current task at hand to notice. She's sitting behind him, effortlessly weaving flowers into his mane. It's a nice change of pace, considering they spend a lot of their time bickering; they're both stubborn and thick-headed and set in their ways. Oddly enough, he finds himself in her company more than any other from her clan. Probably because she's the only one that isn't even a little bit afraid of the stranger that appeared out of nowhere.

"Let me do something with all of that hair," she had said, and while he personally saw nothing wrong with the state of his mane, she insisted. Deciding he hadn't wanted to start a squabble over something as silly as hair, he gave in with a sigh.

"Brooklyn-san, she said," he mumbled into his palm, elbow pressed into his knee, "it will be fun, she said."

By now, he's lost track of just how long he's been sitting here like this. It feels like hours, and his tail's started going numb, but he can't bring himself to move. He'll settle for complaining quietly under his breath.

Truth be told, though, this whole moment is fairly relaxing, and it brings him back to Wyvern, to quieter and happier moments with his brothers and sisters. He tells himself that's mostly why he hasn't move away yet, though he knows there's more to it than that.

Along with the flowers being woven into his hair, she's taken to making an actual wreath to place loosely around his horns. He can't see the flowers she's using, but he can smell them, and a few stray petals have fallen into his face and on his lap. He thinks she's chosen freesias, peonies, carnations, gardenias and, of course, sakuras.

"Every flower means something," she tells him, quietly, and it jars him just a little.

He tips his head back for a moment, looking at her upside down. Her hands are still in his hair. "I don't suppose you'll tell me what sort of secret code you've been weaving into my hair?"

She smiles at him, coy and playful before she shakes her head. "No."

"Didn't think so," he mumbles, and lets her push his head back into place. He resumes his previous position, pressing his chin into his opposite palm this time.