Author's Note: I got accidentally prompted to write a Kurt/Silk Scarf piece from the Scarf's POV. This is what came out.
Emma Stone and Easy A are to blame for the rather unimaginative title.
She has not been here for long. Her fine weaving and subtle colors are in high demand this season, and at the rate her inferior quality sisters are being yanked off the shelves, she won't be here for much longer, either.
She only hopes the Hands – rough and uncaring and just incredibly rude – won't set her aside for sales season. She is not nearly old enough to have been through one, but she has heard the stories, whispered in passing by newly settled-down last-season companions.
She peeks discreetly at every new batch of Hands and Eyes that walk by her shelf; there's no reason to look desperate, so she keeps to herself, demurely folded in quarters, a subtle fold on one of her ends betraying her true station. It will take a sharp Eye and a soft Hand to know her true value; to the lower ones she leaves shenanigans like hanging droopily from glaringly fake Necks and Hands, or arranging herself pretentiously on the nearest horizontal surface.
She waits.
It's taking longer than she had expected.
The time of obnoxious ruckus and grossly uncoordinated colors comes and goes; her sisters have now been packed and sent home to settle down and grow sloppy and threadbare, but she has stayed behind, pushed to the back and –
Forgotten.
She whispers the word to herself on the one night all the Hands are whisked away earlier. She admires herself on the shiny surface of one of those round things that permeates her home these days; they have them in green, red and silver, and the effect is as garish as the fuzzy silver and golden cords they insist to wrap around anything that forgets to move in time. She sighs quietly; she had always thought herself superior to most creatures of the same tailoring, but she can't help but wonder how would it be if her thread were thicker and warmer, if she had been made sturdier – would she have a greater appeal to the common Eye and Hand?
She sighs anew, and waits.
When it comes, she learns that old tales didn't prepare her for half the terror it brings.
The Hands are rougher than she ever remembers them being, pulling obscenely at her seams, pressing her to sticky, uneven Hand-fabric in order to ascertain her quality. Where she less of a lady, she would cry at those unruly creatures that she is worth more than all the pitiful rags they cover that fetid brown-cream hue Hand-fabric with. She is, however, quality; she doesn't budge when tinier Hands and Eyes push and pull at her from every end, then drop her unceremoniously on a strange shelf and gallop away.
She has been visiting curious and curiouser shelves as of late; she assumes it will broaden her horizons, but still wishes the Hands would just let her be. Settling down on some tacky reddened Neck isn't as appealing to her as it used to be.
Everyday her home grows emptier; it's a sure sign of the tastelessness of these uncouth Hands that they would take every oddity they bump Fingers with, but won't take a minute to fully appreciate all she has to offer.
She resigns to her fate; she is better off alone, after all.
Still, at night, in dreams, she waits.
He comes on the last day.
Newer, fresher pieces – arrogant as she never was, even when she was young and confident of her indubitable superiority – fill her home from top shelf to bottom, spreading themselves shamelessly over every available surface. She has overheard the Hands in charge grumble about leftovers and trembles from the very tips of one end to the other. That's when she feels it.
Only the tip of a Finger, cautious and unobtrusive. Gentle.
She had forgotten how it felt like to be admired, to be caressed in such a manner. She holds her breath, wishing she had taken the time to arrange herself better, to smooth out uneven folds, wishing she had known He was coming.
She feels His eyes on her, loving and knowing, and it's as if she is blossoming under his touch; she feels dizzy with pleasure, and when he finally takes it in His Hands to spread her open for Him, surrender is the only option. It has never felt so sweet.
He refuses the usual packing and asks for something called 'tissue paper' instead; He wraps her up Himself, and she shivers afresh under the now familiar touch.
She is not home anymore, but she is with Him and quickly decides that His home will do for her just fine. He has accommodated her amidst worthwhile companions; they never crowd her, even though she can tell they are burning with kindness.
He doesn't take her out as much as she craves, but she can understand; there are a handful of her new sisters much more deserving of Him than she will ever be; she can only wait for him, patiently now that she can dream of their next tryst.
When he does choose her, she is ecstatic beyond belief. Her sisters poke gentle fun at her, telling her to enjoy herself and to please him well.
She recalls with distant dread the damp, unwelcome feel of other Hand-fabric, but His is of a different kind. It's spotless and smoother even than the silk she was woven in; she stretches over it luxuriously, attempting to press every inch of herself to Him.
Every time He puts her away she cries silently through the nights, and spends the rest of her time day-dreaming about His exquisite, subtle scent; she can still feel traces of it on herself, if she tries hard enough.
It rubs her a little in the wrong way whenever those other Hands detach her from him; she sits closely beside Him, huffing crossly whenever the Hand-fabric of the Other covers her lover's. It will pollute him, she thinks, and wants to cry out a warning, but He doesn't seem to resent the Other, seems to welcome him, crave him even – almost as much as she craves Him.
He leaves them both alone sometimes, her and the Other; at first she keeps her distance, but her curiosity – she blames her broadened horizons – inevitably lead her to observe him from a closer spot, trying and failing to ascertain what is it that drives her lover to him. It is one of those times when she is most lost in thought that he picks her up suddenly, without permission. She is shocked and appalled when he holds her to him and breathes in subtly; his Fingers are not as gentle as His, but he seems to put every care in touching her – her much too full heart cracks open and simply has to let him in. From then on she forgives him his roughness, understanding implicitly his need to be closer to His Hand-fabric – there's not a better one in the world.
She waits, spread out and utterly shameless about it; waits for them to get as close as possibly and finally detach; He will eventually wrap her around Himself again; the Other will smile and call them both gorgeous, and she will acquiesce generously.
There are worse things than waiting for Him.