Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Adhésifs de Marque
Posted July Seventeenth, 2008
Kyoko's sweet, sweet words are flavoured with strawberry-candy-bubblegum intentions and innocent thoughts. She's a girl with nothing better to do than form sticky, warm dough into much-appreciated feats of culinary concoction: delicate twists of chocolates and vanillas, sprinkles of matcha and diced peaches, soft icing and powdered-sugar wisps. Elbows resting against flaking, painted counters and bare toes sliding, shifting against the floor, the summer heat hasn't yet fulfilled potential, so her skirt rests neatly at her thighs and her tennis shoes have been left on the landing.
Flour decorates her camisole (mint-green frogs and yellow daffodils, screened against a plethora of sky-coloured polka dots and pink static) with splashes of white, sleeves rolled to thin, smooth elbows. A patterned dishrag lays on standby near the edge of the kitchen sink. Sunlight, and the swell of traffic greet her from the open window to her left. She tries to practice her Spanish, glad that the phrases she has learned come easily to mind, talking in some too-loud volume reserved for empty rooms and introverted guests. A disk plays, muffled euro-pop and upbeat drumming from the adjacent room. Awkwardly mispronounced, she doesn't notice and is pleased, so pleased.
"Esto es un regalo para un amigo. No pagaré más que lo que indica el taxímetro. ¿Dónde está la oficina de las cosas perdidas?"
With cheerful enthusiasm she begins to chant the days of the week, then the months, mixing miércoles with martes and dropping a clump of halfway-melted butter onto the countertop - soft, oozing drips of liquid yellowing from their prior baby-shade hues, slurring into strong, wet golden-browns against the paint. Chipped and flaking. Wooden spoon suspended in mid-air as she leans forward to wipe away the mess. Her grin is molasses-thick, hair kept at bay with bright plastic clips and an old, worn elastic band that serves to tie remaining strands into a lofty gather, debonair and fresh. Sleeves rolled up, shoes on the landing, cell turned off. There's not quite enough oatmeal, and the scent of cloves fills the room, and she wishes she could remember to buy an electronic mixer because the lumpy, heavy mass is hard to stir with just one hand: the other occupied with bracing the cool metal of the bowl against her chest.
The oven beeps repeatedly, informing her that the previously-set temperature has been reached.
She smiles wide, wide. As gleamingly bright as the greased sheet in front of her. Knife at the ready to carve pretty little hearts, to carve moist and edible engravings into the sugary mess at her disposal, pupils engorged. Twenty-four cookies, twenty-four years. Happy birthday, Tsuna.
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No prompt for this one. I was striving for a "Kyoko's kinda insane" thing. Considering what we've found out in the last, oh, hundred chapters or so - at the age of twenty-four, with the current results of that timeline, there isn't really a reason to be making him birthday cookies. Also, I made her to be learning Spanish because it's close enough to Italian - of course, she isn't mixed up in all the mafia stuff, so I figured they would make her try a different language instead if they could convince her. Plus, I don't know Italian.