Hardy har har.
What do you know? It looks like I can write again.
The prompt was 'thanks'.
She walks blithely, her Chucks worn from the love of three successive summers, a coin purse in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other, savoring the taste of cold vanilla on her tongue and letting the tiniest of content smiles sit upon her lips. She's eight years old, now; finally her mother has conceded and allowed her to take walks to the end of the cul-de-sac and back, and she giggles with the thought, throwing her head back and relishing her newfound freedom.
Her steps slow as she nears a tiny playground at the end of her street, the gate swinging weakly in the brisk breeze as though weary from years of children's misuse. She pushes it open just as offhandedly, skipping to the top of the nearest structure and letting her legs dangle over the edge of a high platform. Setting her ice cream on the step next to her, she braces herself with a deep breath and, with a high peal of glee, sails into the air, her small hands grasping the rope swing at the very last minute. She twists in midair with another laugh, keeping her eyes trained towards the clouds so she can watch them spin, and after a few moments that feel like an eternity, she finally feels herself wind to a stop, her sneakers grazing the woodchips below. She pants slightly, catching her breath after her adrenaline rush, then slips to the ground, keeping a slight hold on the swing to steady herself, and thinks absently--thank goodness I brought something cold to eat.
With that thought, she turns around, and realizes she is not alone.
There is a boy sitting on the topmost step of the play structure she had just vacated, his shirt neatly pressed and shoelaces tied tight, sky blue bangs flopping into tawny eyes that are fixed happily on the ice cream he is lapping at.
Her ice cream.
"Hey!" she gasps, eyes wide with unspeakable shock, and he looks up, alarmed. For a moment he seems confused--but then he looks from her to the ice cream and back, and his small fist seems to tighten around the cone slightly.
This sends her eight-year-old temper into a tizzy. "That's my ice cream!" she cries indignantly, and he hovers on his heels slightly, as though at a complete loss of what to do. "It's mine! I had it and now you got your boy germs all over it, and now it's gross!"
Now he sputters slightly, offended. "I do not have germs!"
"Yes, you do, you stole my ice cream and got 'em everywhere--"
"Take that back, you twerp!"
She stops short--and her eyes brim with moisture.
His jaw drops when the tears start to fall, and soon she has all but collapsed on the bottom step of the play structure, letting the tears drip silently down her cheeks, slender shoulders trembling. He hesitates for a moment, then slowly makes his way to where she is, holding the ice cream cone uncertainly in his hand.
Finally he is next to her, and after another second's hesitation, he thrusts the dessert away from him, in her direction. Her sobs subside with a tiny sniffle and she looks up at him dubiously, amber eyes shifting between his blushing face and her ice cream cone. "Thanks," she mutters after a minute, grabbing it quickly and holding it to her chest with a teary scowl. He frowns, perplexed.
"What for?" he asks bluntly, still frowning. "I mean, I...I stole your ice cream," he says under his breath, and she tilts her head to the side, her annoyance replaced by surprise. She recovers quickly and takes a bite of vanilla ice cream, slowly so he'll suffer, then peers haughtily at him.
"Momma always tells me to thank people whenever they give me stuff," she answers indifferently, taking another bite. His eyebrows knit together, confused, but finally he gives in, sits beside her and gazes longingly at the ice cream.
"You're welcome, then," he mumbles, and she gazes at him for another long moment, then holds the cone out towards him.
At the end of the day, they are best friends.
.
Hino Kahoko gazes absently at her vanilla ice cream, so similar to the many vanilla ice creams that have come before it, and remembers.
When Tsukimori walks by around four, violin case held stiffly at his side and gaze fixed straight and unflinchingly ahead, she calls him from under the shade of an autumn-speckled tree and offers him the cone.
He looks at her for a long time, then says softly, "Thanks."
He takes the ice cream. Then he leaves.
It's all she needs.
Listen to "Gando" by Isato Nakagawa and "Lovers' Carvings" by Bibio, they're like a portrait of autumn. I had them on repeat while writing this. :D
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