ironing
She grew to enjoy ironing - the way her fingers brushed against the crisp, warm fabrics, the scent of the starch sprinkled on top of blouses and suit jackets and Galactic uniforms, the orderliness associated with the consistent routine of the process - and it made her feel whole.
She believed ironing alongside him made her even more whole.
They spent Saturday afternoons ironing their clothes, and every Saturday afternoon Jupiter couldn't help the small smiles that tugged at her lips. Cyrus didn't like to show his emotions and often recoiled from physical touch, even from handshakes or shoulder pats, but she could still somehow sense that on those afternoons he was at ease. Shoulders, usually so stiff and rigid, were slackened and moved back and forth with the ironing motions. Posture, always as straight as a ruler, bent ever so slightly to reveal the slight hump in his back. Face, usually so tense and distant, softened and kept concentrated upon the task at-hand…and it was during those times that Jupiter felt like she could almost understand him.
Someone as ignorant as Mars would probably think ironing was just a necessity, but Cyrus was more complex than Team Galactic's idealistic, emotionless boss. For she knew that, for him, ironing transcended necessity; it was a way to relieve tension. Beneath his talk and stern glances, he was a fragile man, and even he needed breaks from long hours of planning his vision. And even he appreciated the minimum presence of human companionship.
Often they would spend the entire time not saying a word to each other, so comfortable with each other's company that there was no need to break the silence. She kept telling herself that she was privileged to be invited into his apartment, a perk of being a commander, but Saturn only ever came here to discuss business, and Mars was never invited here at all. And, per Team Galactic regulations, they had to keep up with ironing their own uniforms as well…
Sometimes she offered to make lunch for him. Cyrus never ate much, and his cabinets were stocked with mostly soups and instant ramen bowls, but he never accepted her gestures. After he finished ironing, he shifted his clothes to their respective hangers and would wave her off whenever she finished with her own load. It would be a waste to spend time on mindless dawdling, and she understood that as well.
Once he stood closer to her than ever before, and she could feel his warm, minty breath against her cheek as he gently moved her aside and pointed out the unseen wrinkles in a leopard print blouse she had snagged at a thrift store. Grabbing his own iron, he decided to work out those wrinkles himself, and as he spent an extra few minutes fixing her oversight, without ever looking at her, he murmured, "I'm sure this compliments you well, Commander. You should be careful when eating messy foods while wearing it."
If she didn't iron alongside him, would she have heeded such advice so mindfully? For he was order, and yet he was her chaos, forever just beyond her reach.
(Original notes: nothing relevant)
Originally written May 5th, 2015 on tumblr. I've always imagined most of Team Galactic to have very loose...relationships, if they wanna call it that. Everyone has different standards.