Work Text:
When they caught up with spring she picked him wild flowers, cutting their stems with her knife while singing little songs with nonsensical words. She waved uneven bouquets in his face and he kept them tucked into his kimono until they became limp and soft like overcooked noodles.
Her hand when it snuck into his was stained with grass and sticky with sap. He held it as tightly as he dared without bruising her fingers.
These days, she cuts him heads. He prays for their souls and crosses himself until his shoulder grows numb from the motion. She curses instead of sings, and her hand when it finds his is callused and strong with dried blood under the nails.
He holds it just as tightly.