—
two—charm.
—
As a rule, Haru always strives for simplicity.
In her designs, it comes out in swirls of pastels and gentle, but vibrant breaths of color. In her life, it's in the soft, delicate smile or the modest curve of her lips as she faces the sunlight streaming in through the window. In her eyes, it's the feathers of the warmest amber within the depths of smoldering cinnamon, resonating with the full strawberry-hue of her glossy lips. She lives her life as simply as possible—no drama, no complex numbers or systems, just going by what her heart tells her and where her desires lead her.
And at this moment, her heart is ordering her to grab her sketchbooks from the small, girlish white table at the base of the windowpane and hide behind the stacks of blouses, skirts, shirts, dresses, and—dare she think it—corsets closest to her. But it's too late; the brunet's already found her—his caramel eyes meet her auburn ones over her cup of cinnamon-honey tea, the faint beginnings of a smile blossoming on his face.
It's been a long time since she's seen him smile as brightly as he is, and blushes in response. "Tsuna-san," she breathes.
Adrienne—the other girl working her shift at the same time as Haru—immediately turns her head to the object of Haru's fascination, and double take. Adrienne, ever the spicy romanticist, curves her lips up in what appears to be approval, before winking and gesturing with her thumb to Haru: "He's all yours, honey. You can thank me later."
Haru's heart pounds.
He's already crossed the room, gazing at her designs. She wonders how he knows they're hers: there's something affectionate in his eyes, almost proud?
There's almost a full minute filled with a clueless customer's relentless questions prodding at Adrienne, fraternal twins scuffling close to the door, the father's deep, ominous voice silencing that whole bloody business, before Tsunayoshi speaks, his gaze falling on the rack of pastel shirts and skirts Haru herself designed during her stay in Parsons Paris School of Art and Design. He touches the lace eyelets gently with his fingers, his eyes half-lidded, his gaze achingly gentle. She's out of breath when he turns back to her, the sun glittering through the sheer curtains just behind him, his fingers lingering upon the fabric delicately.
"Did you design this yourself?" he finally asks, caressing the seams of the patterns lightly. Every nerve in her body is in that blouse—it feels like her heart's bursting at her rib cage, threatening to unlock the birdcage door itself—rising against his fingertips. "Haru."
His voice is as gentle as she remembers—even though she knows he doesn't mean to cause her arms to erupt in chills at the sound of his voice, her senseless body does so anyway.
"Yes," she replies. He takes hold of the material in his hand, cradles it in his palm as if it's a delicate, fragile thing, before glancing back at her.
"It's beautiful."
Haru closes her eyes, and smiles back at him. "Thank you, Tsuna-san."
This time, he's surprised.
There is something endearing about him in this light: his amber eyes are gentle, brightened by the sunlight, his auburn hair is glittering with the soft, spring green hue of the wallpaper clinging to the walls, his face is sun-kissed and fragile in its modest, humble way, and Haru finds herself crossing one panel of wood, two, three, until she's close enough to plant a tender kiss on his cheek. His face warms at her touch, but he doesn't try to escape her.
"It means a lot to hear it coming from you," she adds, looking him in the eyes.
He leans his forehead against hers. "I've missed you too, Haru."
.
end.
notes: I wish I liked this drabble. I seriously do. I mean, because it's the happiest one I've written in a while. But, I'll leave it up to you guys to decide if this one's any good. Thank you for the feedback last chapter, please keep it up?