brush back your hair, let me get to know your face

Usually, they like to sit up with Milton and entertain him the way a family should, the way they've very nearly got no choice to because Benny hasn't been down from Hyber in a while. They'll play cards, or sing songs, and get Vez and Mungo to join as gaily as anything, eating savory-salty-sweet snacks and being the most truly childish about things that they ever have been.

Usually. But, the new year's early months bring both chilly weather and a traditional festival of sacrifice folded into sacrament folded into sentiment, and though every time before Addam and Flora have elected not to use the fireplace down in the den for fear of unwieldy smoke, from marshmallow roasting or from not, they decide, just this once, to test it out. Milton grumbles only just as much as he should, but agrees to take the next go-round and let them have their fun now.

Into the pit go fluffy piles of Cotton Branch, stripped of any lingering Curious Rotting Leaves, because those, once burnt and even a little bit before, would make an absolute stench, and probably bring some unwanted hallucinogenic effects to boot. The purpose of the plethora of white, airy stuff is to avoid leaching up all the Muscle Branch in the supply shed, but Addam does think it appropriate to add some of the imported Deer Wood - just a few supple planks are enough to make the resulting scent absolutely approachably pleasant and full-bodied.

But enough about the fire. You're not here to gain instructions on how best to conduct an indoor bonfire with privacy and atmosphere assured. No, we want to know what the happy couple themselves are doing, sat just in front of the hearth, close enough to set their mugs of hot chocolate upon it but far enough away so as not to gain an unexpected tan in entirely the wrong hemisphere of the calendar.

"This is silly," Addam remarks, as he always does (or maybe he only always thinks it, and leaves the hackneyed pronouncement up to Flora).

"So? I like being silly," Flora answers, rocking back and forth on her haunches above crossed legs to make sure she's not sitting on an unnecessary fold-over of her skirt (the same pattern as always, though perhaps with a fresher tuck here or a freer hem there, this one slightly newer and stiffer in a paler pink than her favorite old one). "It's very cozy, is what it is."

Smiling sheepishly, Addam raises his mug to about the height of her nose. "I suppose I can drink to that." Well, that's what he says, and then promptly nearabout burns his tongue in the doing so, because he likes hot drinks hot and nearly always takes big sips far too soon.

"So, maybe I can't. But, more what I meant is...shouldn't we do something?"

"Like what?" She reaches over to inspect his thumb, well reddened from its foolish place propped for balance on just about the very center of the mug face while the rest of his hand holds the non-hot handle, and raises it to her lips for a quick kiss. "I think sitting here drinking cocoa is doing something."

"Yes, well..." He waves his opposite hand vaguely - embarrassedly - at the walls hung with uninteresting paintings and the mantle cluttered with ancient but miniature feats of engineering. Soon enough, his gaze lands back on her face again. The newest realization is easy, almost immediate.

"Could I braid your hair?"

An automatic, self-conscious cup of fingertips goes to where the normal prim plaits hang: "Oh, you scared me. I thought I had forgotten to do them today, somehow."

"Doing them, undoing them, it's all the same to me," says Addam, almost stupidly careless.

"Really?" Up goes the auburn brow. Still, the prince doesn't back down - maybe he'd never been intending to. "Why, certainly. You look gorgeous either way."

Cocoa temporarily forgotten, Flora leans slightly back on hands splayed against the carpet. "Gorgeous? That doesn't sound like me at all. I think you're crazy."

"The teacher wants better words, then?" Addam returns as he crosses his arms and leans forward, complementary. "Well. How about pretty, or beautiful, or darling, or...or regal."

Regal. "Regal?"

We can make quite a many attributions to Flora, and I certainly hope up until now, and far on into the future, they are, have remained and will remain, consistent. Here, we'll describe her as impervious, more immune, to the male gaze and all things swoon-related; she's quite constant, and self-possessed, and that's usually where her trouble comes in, because some changes - some inconsistencies - simply cannot be ignored.

So, again, here. If this, Addam's over-enamored, even over-wrought, adoration, is to be a continual reality, she's got no choice but to get adjusted to it. And it's...well, certainly not...certainly not a bad thing, all round, but it is a lot. Almost too much, sometimes.

In response, then, Flora simply blushes something awful and hides her pink-tinged cheeks in her hands. She doesn't say "silly" or "crazy" or anything quite so cliché. Addam's got her cornered, and he does love her so.

"Don't you know? Oh, you're such a lovely princess, Flora - even if you don't want to hear it, I'm telling you it's true. I don't think they could have found a better Lady of Aletta in all of Torna if they'd tried."

His further leaning in has quite definitely been an unconscious choice, so she reaches over to grasp at his ample forearm and give it a hearty shake. "You're smitten, Addam Origo. Now, is that good politics, for a prince? Shouldn't you keep your head up higher than that?"

Addam laughs, lips wide and teeth white as can be, and the joyful sound positively fills the cavernous room that's far too big and grand, even with all the ambient crud, for just the two.

"Should? Why should I care about should? Everybody has a million different definitions of should. Zettar thinks I should be excommunicated, Father thinks I should be exiled, Mo- the queen thinks I should be a girl, your mother-- Oh, well, I don't even know what she thinks. Even, most 'normal' people think I should be so much more set upon which I am, from day to day, and maybe I should and maybe I shouldn't - oh, there, I've bungled it again. But Flora, don't you see?"

He reaches over, slips his fingers beneath her returned palms to cup her cheeks, and she has to purse her lips twice as furiously to contain her ever-growing happiness. "I love you, and I could never stop, no matter what anyone - not even the Architect! - thinks or says I should be doing."

So maybe the dim den isn't too grand after all; it certainly doesn't feel it, right now. "And what do you think you should be doing? I assume you know, after all...?"

All is quiet as Addam's thumbs pass ever-so-softly over the apples of Flora's cheeks, and she can almost swear she hears the sound of his heart in the silent room. Is he thinking? Does he have to? Does he ever?

"I think I should be getting to know you better," he admits at last. "I'd like us to always be ever so much closer, so that we don't just have to talk about who we are to each other all the time. Do you know what I mean?"

Love isn't a four-letter word, and strung together with a couple of pronouns it's not either, really, but it can seem to be damning in over-frequency. Why is that? Isn't that such a shame?

"I suppose I do. I'm quite happy when we can talk of things of...well, 'substance', I suppose it is. It's so easy to get caught up in our silly little life here, and then look at the other women I see on occasion and find that even though I think myself so stable, so much of what I subsist upon is internal, and I don't bother to be matter-of-fact with you."

"Ah. Well." Frowning, but only in a contemplative sort of way, Addam lets go of Flora's face, dropping his hands with hers into her lap, as ever. "There's a time and a place, I think. You shouldn't have to worry about that now. Not so much as you obviously do, anyway."

Oh, obvious, am I? Flora thinks it, but only for a brief second, of course, and then nods. "You're right. Here, why don't you do what you'd asked about? There's enough substance to that - and if there isn't, well, that's just tough."

Tough! Oh, indeed. Large but nimble fingers go swiftly to the ends of the braids, unwrapping the elastic ties and depositing them into Flora's waiting hands, because they'd never in a thousand years fit around Addam's wrist without being wholly distorted and distended, far past the point of usability for such small sections of hair.

He should hesitate about undoing all her careful work of the prior morning, of course, but he doesn't, instead taking it slow only in service of being able to run his fingers through the collarbone-length strands with as much attentiveness as possible.

"Does that feel nice?"

"Mmm. You're cute."

"Is that all?"

"You'll get your adjectives soon enough, don't be greedy."

"I love you," he says again, coyly, almost like it's bait. But, Flora just closes her eyes, gives a single shake from side to side, and exhales a contented sigh.

"Thank you for letting me know." (I won't tell you which one said it - take it either way you like.)

Once all is said and done, with the portion of hair usually kept swept behind her back with a matching navy ribbon undone and joined with the rest, Addam feels suddenly unequal to his assumed and even requested task.

Flora notices, smiles but doesn't titter. "Oh, you don't have to put it back if you don't want to, I'd have taken them all out soon enough anyway."

"No," Addam insists with a firm shake of his head. After all, why should he be daunted? A lack of experience is nothing to be afraid of, when the stakes are low. "I want to - but, maybe I'd better just do the one."

"Alright." She shuffles around, turning her back to him, and picks up her cocoa, just now at her perfectly preferred temperature, and lets him on with it.

Once again, I won't go into the specifics; you don't need me to walk you through the process of braiding hair, and you definitely don't need the play-by-play on one Addam Leigh Origo's unbecoming confuzzlement as three pieces of hair that he had thought were completely equivalent in size and shape suddenly morph into being completely disparate in all the same.

He backtracks only once, to attempt the ubiquitous layered style, as smaller sections added one by one and little by little will definitionally make for less abrupt variations from one clump to the next. Then, at the bottom, he ties the whole affair off with both ties and the ribbon on top. Of course, he knows Flora will look just as gorgeous and regal as he had proclaimed no matter the state of her hair, but, well, it never hurts to be an overachiever.

(What's that all about?)

"Finished?" Now free to tip her head back as she likes, Flora drains the last dregs of hot chocolate and whipped cream before pivoting to face Addam again and raising a hand to her crown. Pat once, twice, three times...

"Hm. Not bad. But there, that's the silliest thing of all - how come you've never done this before?"

Addam isn't really paying much attention to the cosmeticological aftermath, all things considered. He's busy taking in the curves and angles of her face again, reaching forward to sweep her bangs aside of the center of her forehead and plant a gentle kiss there.

"I don't know," he answers mildly after enough time has gone by that he really needn't have bothered. "Maybe if I had longer hair, we would have."

Flora tries to imagine it, just for a moment, then shakes her head, returns the kiss on his silly little birdie nose, and lies down with her head in Addam's lap, listening to the crackling of the fire until it smolders itself out.

Usually, they like to think that it's a weakness, to fall prey to petty displays of affection and the constancy of a pat response - where are his adjectives, after all? But usually, a husband doesn't love his wife as much as Addam loves Flora. And usually, that's enough.

But not here. Not when they're sitting in dusky darkness, finding new ways of expression and celebrating love, at home.