I cleaned the fic widget. It has needed cleaning for seven months and somehow I neglected it altogether in my procrastination. It is far more accurate and reflective of what projects I have planned. Progress bars are not going up fast, sadly, but then for 90% of the widget's presence I haven't updated it regularly. Shame on me, shame! Mea culpa. I'm 20 now and need to be more responsible.
I am so busy and going out of my mind with essays. This course has both made me happier and yet work my ass off so much that I actively had my immune system lowered out of stress the past week. I'm ill again hnnngh why won't colds go away
And as I promised, a totally contextless snippet.
"And that one-" Richard stretches his arm out towards a tiny bundle of leaves in a slightly-cracked pot. The plant in question is actually behind the counter, just out of reach, but that only means that he can lean towards the younger man, just so- "what's that
And then the magic is broken as Flake frowns at him and moves away, taking down the pot. "This one isn't for sale," he says, almost crossly, as he enters the small office and clears a space by the windowsill for the plant to go in; Richard has a full view of everything because the room is just that small and open, and even as the keyboardist sets down the pot and emerges he can see the sunlight streaking against its tiny leaves. "the shop doesn't deal in those, I found it abandoned by the road - I'd like to find out who did that and give them a good talking to, they're expensive in Germany."
"That doesn't answer my question, Flake."
The younger man gives him a slightly exasperated look, but his obligation as a florist takes over and he moves to lean against the counter again, deep in thought. "Begonia
," he says, peeling off his gloves and laying them (one atop the other) on the counter. His hands look softer and paler than the usual, somehow, perhaps by virtue of having been hidden all this time. "they aren't native to Germany or even much of the western hemisphere, I think this particular species-" his fingers tap out a slow, lazed rhythm, evenly-cut fingernails making a soft clicking noise with each tap. He can't keep his fingers still
, Richard notes to himself, paying more attention to his hands than the actual explanation that he asked for. He's a pianist and keyboardist first and foremost, he belongs with us, not here.
"-comes from China and Japan. So quite a rare customer. I'd be very disappointed if we couldn't save it. These are quite tender, they need plenty of sun and if you give them too much water their roots rot away and then they die."
Richard lets out a low whistle. "You knew all of that when you rescued it?"
"Quite a lot of work, this begonia. Though if anyone could save it it's probably you, what with you taking on so many responsibilities and still balancing them so perfectly."
Richard's principle is that to get anyone to do anything, one must always coax them into the mood; and really, why wouldn't
he compliment Flake? It's by no means false that he's being sensible and splitting his time between rehearsals and work, instead of gambling his everything into a band that's not guaranteed to succeed. (He has to grant that point, as much as he hates to acknowledge it.) Richard really has to wonder how the man even finds time to sleep, but at the same time, it is quite admirable. But time is running out, and he needs to decide. Either Flake joins, or they quickly discover a conflict in interests and can seek another keyboardist before it is too late. Richard wouldn't have dreamt of trying to take the florist job away from him if he was absolutely
reliant on it to survive (in which case that's fair enough that he won't commit to Rammstein) but he knows that this is not the case.
In his mind, this casual compliment is the first step to softening Flake's demeanor and eventually gaining a full commitment out of him. The reality is that Flake takes off his glasses and just surveys him with his own severe, icy-blue eyes in response.
"I know someone who's even more
of a piece of work," he says coolly. "I've answered three questions and that's quite enough from you, Herr, and I don't believe that you're here to buy anything. If you won't help me earn my living - well, then. Good afternoon. Hinaus!
Then he puts his glasses and gloves back on, and turns his back on Richard to help a customer who's just entered. The older man fails to get another word out of him afterwards, and leaves the shop five minutes later, flustered and very annoyed about being back to square one.