"Hey there… honey?"
Blake Belladonna pauses and looks up from her book, startled by the jovial feminine voice that has snapped her back to the bustling reality of the early morning madness of the local weekend farmer's market. Her cat ears – her distinguishing faunus trait – swivel toward the source of the intrusion into her private world. Her initial annoyance is overruled by curiosity at the simultaneous clarity and confusion in the inflection of the call. It was phrased like a question, but the delivery had traces of flirtation, almost like…
A catcall. Of course.
She sighs, reaching a frustrating conclusion as her eyes follow her ears to the source. She could ignore it and move on, but she has already acknowledged it by pausing – and frankly, she thinks to herself, catcalling a cat faunus is too low to let go. Instead, she mentally queues up her usual deflective phrases, and prepares to exhibit her typical disinterested body language, and feels her arms and fingers tense in preparation for some more obvious gestures, just in case. Whether it was obnoxious flirting or outright mockery, she had dealt with it enough before to know the quickest ways out, and the most concise ways to return the favour before making a getaway.
Slouching in annoyance, she turns so her eyes can search where her ears can only estimate, initiating her search with an exaggerated eye roll that ends as she faces a simple wooden table, shaded only by a ratty, faded yellow umbrella, nestled among the rows and rows of booths and covered market stalls and back ends of trucks and trailers she had been meandering through for the last twenty minutes. As she hones in on the person sitting behind the table, preparing to tell them off, she pauses once more.
Seated at the table is a young woman with what could only be described (appropriately, given their location) as a bushel of golden yellow hair, casually held back in a ponytail that falls comfortably below relatively broad shoulders shrouded in a comfortable-looking orange flannel shirt. The top three buttons are undone, showing the neckline of a white undershirt and the edge of a metallic amulet of some kind. Despite their own meandering, Blake's eyes are quickly drawn up to the other woman's shining lilac irises, which gaze back in her direction with uncertain tension, amplified by a tight-lipped smile and clenched jaw. She sits strangely still, save for the gentle wriggling of her ponytail in the breeze.
Blake's mouth, halfway to a scowl, simply slackens into a stunned "oh," and the rest of her body follows suit, similarly slackening as the anticipation of confrontation melts out of her and into the dusty gravel beneath her. Every word, every phrase, every movement, every gesture meant to deflect or dismiss – all of it, forgotten, in the sun-reddened face of this casually enrapturing young woman.
"Oh, uh… um…" Blake barely manages to vocalize, before another voice booms bombastically from behind her, alarmingly close (particularly for her cat ears).
"Ha-HAA! What an excellent sales pitch! Just for that, I'll take a look, honey!"
The blonde woman blinks a few times, her own jaw slackening, as a rather robust-figured older man with a neatly parted bowl of grey hair strides confidently past Blake, narrowly avoiding grazing her shoulder with his own wide frame. As he nears the table the blonde's eyes are locked onto him, and she fumbles with a jar in her hand before setting it down in front of her, completing a row of small, ornate jars cutely decorated with cartoonish bee-patterned ribbons and labels of various colours. Substances of varying shades of golden brown fill the insides, some even reflecting more captivating colours.
She hastily gestures to her wares, eyes wide and unblinking as if afraid she might lose her customer if she looked anywhere else. A practiced, radiant smile blossoms on her face, and she chuckles slightly as she enters into polite conversation with the man. Given her composure moments earlier, her voice is oddly relaxed; a palpable positivity singing through her smile.
Blake stands there a moment longer, still recovering from the aural impact of the man now separating her from the honey vendor. With the woman's lilac gaze interrupted, Blake hurriedly straightens up and hides her face in her book, storming off in a flustered frenzy, determined to distance herself from this disastrous social dilemma.
"Hey there," starts Yang Xiao Long, but immediately falters as she registers just who it is she's talking to.
A loose torrent of jet black hair gently waves its way down the pale woman's shoulders, which, along with her bangs, shrouds most of her face that isn't already turned down towards a visibly aged book of some sort. Her form is obscured by an oversized purple sweater, and her posture is reserved – almost defensive. But her eyes are what give Yang pause above all else: intensely focused and complemented with a clear, angular trail of lavender eyeshadow, her small irises glistening gold… almost like…
"…honey?"
Yang feels her face heat up as if she were opening up the oven at home to check on her sister's cookies. What was normally a simple, earnest question, had somehow managed to voice itself with a little more playfulness than the situation warranted – less like a question, and more like term of endearment, but… suggestive. Flirty? Her breath catches in her throat as she registers what just happened.
The woman stops walking.
Oh gods.
A greeting and a question – that's all. It's a simple and foolproof formula that never fails to convey all the information that ever needs to be conveyed and either ends there, or in a perusal and (usually) a purchase. Yet Yang has somehow found a way to botch the formula, and she grits her teeth in frustration beneath a forced smile – then wishes she had had the foresight to stick her tongue between them before she had locked her jaw so tightly in place.
The woman lowers her book, and Yang registers the briefest glint of annoyance in the two quick blinks of the woman's eyes. While they could easily be mistaken as aloof, Yang knows well the expression of one lost in a good book, and those are the eyes of someone returning from some place far away.
Yang balls her fists beneath the table, silently cursing herself for breaching the other woman's bubble like this. As she does this, something in the woman's hair shifts – no, not something in her hair. Faunus ears. Cat ears.
Oh gods.
Not only had Yang just disturbed this visibly introverted young woman from her book, but she had just shouted a suggestive greeting – no, a catcall– at a cat faunus. Where normally she would rejoice at her own inadvertent cleverness, this was as perfectly inappropriate as any pun could ever be. She stares at the woman, suppressing her own growing horror at her callousness, and fights the urge to scream internally.
(Later, Yang would have to let out a sheepish chuckle about having also used a pet name as part of her catcall.)
The black-haired woman turns to face Yang, eyes rolling and posture shifting – likely to tell her off. Yang knows she deserves no less and is overcome with a distressing wave of disappointment, until…
"Oh… uh… um…"
If not for the breeze blowing in her direction, Yang might not have heard it, but the surprisingly soft notes of the woman's voice, tinged with uncertainty, cause Yang to breathe again, if only a bit. She tries to make sense of the woman's blank expression when a large, grey-moustached older man in an expensive-looking maroon suit catches Yang's attention with an unnecessarily loud call of his own.
"Ha-HAA! What an excellent sales pitch! Just for that, I'll take a look, honey!"
In the blink of an eye he marches around the honey-eyed woman, partially obscuring her from sight. Where did he come from? Yang wonders briefly. I'd better not look at her again – that might freak her out more, she advises herself, quickly locking her eyes on the man, who is now close enough to read the fine print on the labels through his beady eyes. Maybe she'll think I wascalling to him. That'd probably be for the best.
She swallows hard, choking down her frustration and disappointment and instead activates her sales persona, broad smile and all. Still shaking off her distracted state of mind, she nearly drops a jar of her sister's favourite strawberry honey, and has to ask the man to repeat himself twice. He is impressed by the variety and cites the health benefits of honey as one of the reasons he has remained in such great shape - waggling his bushy eyebrows suggestively for emphasis (to which Yang just smiles and nods as innocently as she can) - and leaves with two jars of her family's purest, unflavoured honey.
Recovering from her uncomfortable encounter with the man, Yang takes a hesitant glance at her surroundings. The faunus woman is nowhere to be found.
Yang sits back in her chair, a surprising amount of lingering tension finally dissolving as she sighs loudly.
So much for pretty kitty, she thinks, but quickly winces at her impulsive pun. Dammit, that's not cool. She'd probably hate that. She's more than that. She's… well, she's probably really interesting, and you blew it before you even knew it. She purses her lips, deliberating, and decides that her rhyme is inoffensive enough to chuckle at, which helps her relax again.
As the morning drags on, Yang modifies her sales pitch: "Hi there, would you like to buy some honey?" It's not as concise, but should prevent further confusion and embarrassment. Each time she cringes a little though, involuntarily replaying the woman's exasperated eye roll over in her mind. With her father at work, her sister sleeping in, and her few real friends likely also doing one or the other, she has little to occupy herself with via her scroll that wouldn't be overly distracting or disruptive in the intimate confines of the marketplace.
Instead, she carefully keeps a watchful eye on the dwindling crowds despite her earlier resolve not to look for the faunus woman. Maybe she could apologize if she found her? No, she left after I pissed her off the first time. She would probably prefer never to see me again.
Yang lets out another long sigh, and "samples" one of her own free bits of cubed and honeyed bread from the covered plate at the front of the table, noting (as she licks it clean) that her once-swollen right index fingertip is back to normal.
Another day, another dollar... right, Dad?
Rounding the corner of the central indoor marketplace and now safely out of sight, Blake slows her pace when she realizes she has read the same line four times in a row (Ugh, I'm not even on the right page) and lowers her book to focus on her thoughts.
It was a sales pitch. She sells honey. That wordplay probably wasn't even intentional. Then, remembering how the man had been right behind her, she sighs with relief. She wasn't even looking at me. No harm done. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Blake makes a point of buying a large chamomile tea from a nearby vendor, a quiet, balding man built like a toothpick and whose eyes lie hidden beneath a sagging brow and waves of wrinkles and crow's feet. He gestures for her to add milk and honey to it as she pleases – where normally she would take her time mixing both in to taste, she simply adds a modicum of milk and leaves abruptly.
She immediately regrets the decision, remembering her dwindling supply of honey for tea at home, but in her desperation to remove herself from the crowds she plows ahead anyways, and finds a free bench in the park between the market and the river.
Once settled comfortably – ensuring no one else in the vicinity seemed intent on sitting down near her before sitting lengthwise across its length – she returns to her book, but half of her tea and a whole chapter later she still feels anxious.
Should have worn the bow today, she rationalizes. Just because she hasn't caught anyone staring today doesn't mean it's not happening – she knows better than that. The mantra of an old friend echoes in her mind: "Always assume the worst; hoping for the best will disappoint you."
Blake sighs once more, resting her book in her lap with her fingers holding open the current page. She closes her eyes and breathes a few deep, calming breaths. The morning breeze whisks its way through the gnarled branches of the aged oaks lining the park and the pleasant twittering of a group of chickadees catches her ears. Focusing more intently on the birdsong, she takes note of a sudden chorus of incessant chirps from somewhere above her. After some brief interruptions, they relax – contented hatchlings, she decides, likely following a morning meal.
She opens her eyes and scans the branches above her, trying to find what she assumes to be their nest. Small hopping movements catch her eye, and sure enough, in a juncture midway up in the canopy, the mother chickadee appears to be settling into a tiny nest with her hatchlings.
Blake can't help but smile at this simple and endearing display of family life. It is a genuine, relieved smile – but warps quickly into a nostalgic, even tragic one. Memories and regrets cloud her mind and her smile fades.
Eager to escape the clouds on this sunny day, she dives back into her surprisingly sappy story, disguised by the author as a dramatic tale of espionage and political upheaval. She removes herself from the bench, taking the long way around the market, along the river, so as to avoid any further unnecessary interactions.
The walk home is calm enough, save for the frustratingly familiar buzzing in the back of her mind, the nagging of suppressed reminders of the unresolved. She finds herself rereading lines yet again, the story starting to feel superficial and contrived in the wake of real life. She gives up, tucking the book away in her satchel, and tries to enjoy her surroundings.
The semi-pastoral charm of this particular suburb of Vale rarely escapes her, and today the sun seems to be hitting things just right: the last of the morning dew shining back at her from the grass below, the mosaic effect of the light poking through the treetops, and the quaint gardening efforts of the local homeowners. In her many travels along these roads since coming to Vale, she had observed plenty of young families starting their lives together, and as such, lots of trial and error – but always, refreshingly, in earnest.
An internal cloud threatens to overturn her improving mood when her eyes settle on a small batch of sunflowers growing on the sunny side of a medium-sized bungalow. She pauses for the third time that morning, struck by the brilliance and abundance of the long yellow petals, and an absurd tingling in her stomach causes a bewildered chuckle to coax its way out of her throat.
Hey there, honey.
Failing to stifle her growing smile, she considers that being accustomed to disappointment doesn't mean hope is entirely uncalled for – besides, she would inevitably have to restock her home supply of honey somehow.
Hello!
What started as a simple and ridiculously corny idea is quickly turning into a beeloved AU idea of mine - and I hope you will agree. This is a welcome break from my slower, Yangstier fic, Unseen Beauty, which I've been stuck on in anticipation of V5. The impending Beeunion got the creative juices flowing for this one, though, and with V5 finished I think I have more to give for both fics.
I'm learning not to promise anything in terms of updates, though, so if you like where this is going I hope you'll understand and appreciate it whenever it gets updated! I do have some of the next chapter done already so it shouldn't be TOO long a wait. I tend to get overly ambitious with my creative projects so I'm hoping to keep this one relatively contained and generally cute and happy!
Any and all feedback is openly invited and highly appreciated, as this is currently a one-man operation. Please let me know what you think!
Cheers,
-kms