Work Text:
This was your third attempt.
You were exhausted from the day of training, your arms were sore from sparring in hand-to-hand combat, and your shower only served to further make you tired. Still, you were a few hours from when you usually fell asleep, so you mingled in a common area even though the only other person awake was Floch Forster in an armchair by the window. The fireplace was burning slowly, warmth licking at your bare legs where your dress didn’t reach. You were sat on the sofa near the fireplace, trying to braid your still-damp hair, but you kept messing it up.
Ribbon between your teeth, you focused on your task as you reached the end of your hair.
You felt along your braid, and you huffed out a frustrated sigh at how it was uneven again .
A slower, more patient sigh came from the opposite side of the room. You looked over at Floch, who stared at you with mild annoyance.
“Do you need some help so you can stop complaining?” He asked with an unimpressed expression. Even in his night clothes—a plain grey long-sleeved shirt and black pants—he kept a cool air about him, amber eyes zeroed in on you.
Your face felt hot at the offer; you and Floch didn’t exactly spend a great deal of time together outside of necessary trainings, despite your efforts to try and be friendly. Occasionally you sat at the same table during meals, but you always had the distinct feeling he didn’t care for you. Perhaps it could just have been how he was with people—you had heard that the Shigansina mission three years ago had changed him drastically from before, in the Garrison.
“Sure,” you finally nodded.
Slowly, he approached and sat beside you on the sofa. You shifted so your back was presented to him, and he didn’t wait for you to speak before he lifted his fingers to card through your hair, undoing your last attempt at a braid. As he pulled your hair free, untangling it, you were taken aback at how gentle he was. He was careful not to let any strands snag, and he brushed through your hair with his hands a few times.
Floch started at the crown of your head where he sectioned your hair, and with practiced hands, he began to slowly weave together a pleat.
You dared to break the silence. “Where did you learn to braid?”
“My kid sister,” he said quietly, after a moment. He waited, as if he expected a snide comment, but you weren’t about to tease him for such a thing. “My mom’s hands weren’t so great, so I had to do her hair in the mornings.”
You hummed in reply, not wanting to interrupt.
“It’s been years since I’ve done her hair, now that she’s not a kid anymore, but muscle memory, and all that,” Floch rambled on. He had a tendency to do that when he was nervous—just talk, his voice eventually wavering when he realized what he was doing—and you wondered what he could possibly have been nervous about.
“How old is she now?” You asked curiously.
He reached the base of your head, where the braid always becomes easiest to finish.
“She’s twelve,” he replied simply. “I need that ribbon.”
You held up the requested ribbon, and after a moment, he took it from you. Quickly, he tied your braid, and then he dropped his hands.
You looked over your shoulder, catching his amber gaze. “Thanks.”
He shrugged, and wordlessly moved back to his armchair. You felt oddly disappointed, until he returned to sit beside you on the sofa and picked back up where he left off on the page.
You smiled to yourself, and he snorted.
“Dork.”
“Hey. I have a question for you.”
You looked up at Floch from your spot on the floor, pausing the stitches you were sewing in your torn cloak. You waited for him to continue, though you saw the mischief in his amber eyes.
“Can you read my palm?” He asked, his tone full of a challenge.
Unable to deny indulging him, you laughed quietly. “What makes you think that I can?”
The grin that he flashed you made your stomach flip. “There’s always been rumors about people from the valley. Fortune tellers, speaking to spirits—“
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop you there,” you waved dismissively, but you still approached him at the table and took the seat beside him. He turned to face you, and your knees knocked one another’s. “I’m no medium, and I can’t tell fortunes. My mother could, and my Gran made a living using all of her talents, but I can manage a minimal palm reading.”
You cocked an eyebrow and held out your hand; Floch looked smug as he placed his hand in yours, palm up. With your other hand, you opened his hand further, straightened his fingers, and you examined his palm.
The silence that fell between you became thick as you traced the lines of his palm, and then the length of his slender fingers. There were calluses just below his fingers, indicative of how he gripped the ODM gear handles. The lines of his palm were interesting, and you struggled to remember the lessons your Gran gave you as a young girl in her cottage.
“Your skin is dry, and you have long fingers. You’re an intellectual person, but sometimes your emotions get the best of you—however, you internalize them.” A glance up showed that he was unimpressed so far, so you huffed and continued. “This is your life line—the one everyone usually knows,” you told him, dragging your index finger along it. “It’s long.”
“Does that mean I’ll live a long time?” Floch asked with a teasing tone.
“No,” you snorted. “It doesn’t tell the length of your life, but the journey . You’re life is heavily influenced by those around you. You’ve been through a lot already, but you may have more… experiences to come.”
Your words hung in the air; it was common knowledge among the Scouts of Floch’s role in Shigansina, but you referencing it made him quiet. The sarcastic attitude was dropped. Not many addressed the topic with him, but you wanted to know more about him—about what he was like, before.
You glanced up at him.
His eyes were focused on you, patiently waiting for you to continue.
You looked back down, touching another crease near the center of his palm. “This is your head line.” You brought your fingertip to the spot where it separated into two lines. “The break usually tells of mental strife. Or, sometimes it’s positive—meaning you’ll reach a breakthrough in whatever struggle it indicates.”
Floch was silent, apparently unwilling to comment. He seemed to get stressed easily, so his reluctance to comment didn’t surprise you.
You shifted your focus to another line closer to his knuckles; your fingertips ghosted over the divot, and you noticed another separation in the crease.
“This is the love line,” you told him softly. “It’s not particularly short, or long, but there’s a tiny break right here.” You tapped the spot gently. “Breaks can mean a few things. Sometimes it means there will be heartbreak, or emotional trauma, but sometimes it can be transformative.”
“What does that mean?” Floch asked, his voice barely above a whisper. You met his gaze, and were taken aback at how close he was.
On the bridge of his nose was a tiny scar, and underneath were a few freckles. His cheeks were tinged pink, and you felt your breath catch.
“It means…love can change you. You may not love all your life, but it will mark you forever,” you murmured.
His fingers curled around yours, and you wondered if he could feel your racing pulse.
His gaze lowered for a second, and you licked your lips, though you were too anxious to move.
Floch seemed to notice, for he inched forward in his seat, and he closed the short distance between you.
Your noses bumped, telling of both your inexperience and nerves, but he tilted his head so he could press his mouth to yours. His lips were a little chapped, but you didn’t mind because he was warm and he didn’t instantly try to pry you open. He broke away to breathe and lick his lips, only to kiss you again. His free hand came up to your cheek, sliding back to your hair; you were reminded of the times he braided your hair, speaking easily of your pasts before the Walls fell. Before knowing the truth of the world.
Before everything became complicated.
“You’re shaking,” he muttered before he pulled away. His eyes were fixed on you, serious and burning. “Is this okay?”
You felt dumbstruck, and your face burned with a blush. “Y-Yeah.” You didn’t know how to tell him that you hadn’t kissed anyone before, but luckily, he seemed to understand.
His expression softened, and he glanced down at your hand in his grasp—the one he felt trembling.
“I wanted to kiss you for a while, now,” he admitted, and then raised his gaze back to yours.
You swallowed the fear of rejection that remained lodged in your throat. “Then kiss me again.”
He smiles fondly, and then he kissed you once more.