Chapter Text
Soles endlessly clicked against the pavement, hands occupied with a set of potted blooms he’d been tasked to deliver before the sun could set. Perhaps he considered himself an errand boy, especially when he chose to spend his free time helping others. He never once thought deeply about it, but maybe keeping a good image would help somehow—but for what? He never knew the answer.
Tuberose let out a muffled sound before arranging the pots in order, just as the elderly in the community had requested. He heaved a sigh, his gaze cast afar—fixated on a certain woman.
Her eyes were truly devoid of emotion, yet her gentle features belied the emptiness of her gaze.
If he were to remove his mask... he couldn’t help but feel a little envious. A face that refused to show sorrow or joy—no reflection even in his yes. He felt awfully sick of his reality.
He didn’t realize his fedora was sitting beside his shoe. He lowered himself—bending his knees—to pick it up, gave it a light brush to remove dust particles, then placed it on his head.
"I believe this is the last,"he said while checking his list for confirmation. He gave a brief nod toward the slim figure sitting on an armless wooden chair. Tuberose averted his gaze once more, letting it fall upon the same revered woman, before making his way out of the residence. His heart ached at the mere sight of The Oracle. He never knew why—but did he, really?
Uttering a few words might have sufficed, but instead he chose to offer a moment of silence within the confines of her private sanctuary. A soft knock on the door was the only sound he made as he stood there, waiting for her presence to grace him.
A black fedora nestled between his palms and fingers, its brim resting against his chest. His gloved hand combed through his jet-black hair, either to fix it or to savor the warm afternoon breeze. The surrounding flowers danced in delight, even the branches of each tree swayed faintly along. The breeze was still here, lingering—perhaps indulging every last bit of warmth before making its way to the chime hanging beneath the pale wooden garden arch. A familiar yet sweet tune sounded, as if it let out an audible giggle of joy when kissed by the wind.
Tuberose had little to no interest in such common occurrences, yet he couldn’t help but be entertained. He usually immersed himself in art or literature when he wanted time to pass. Lacking those, he had only a pen and paper—though reluctant to jot down what he found interesting. Sketching, of course, remained an option. But he only had one shot to perfect his work.
Perfect.
Perfect..
Per.. fect..?
The corner of his lips curled upward as his eyes remained glued to the empty parchment in his hand. He scoffed.
Only fools would drown themselves in an endless pit of agony in pursuit of "perfection."
A sudden tap on his shoulder jolted him back to reality. He turned his head quickly—sharply—to the source. Neither she nor he uttered a word as their gazes finally met. To him, this moment was far out of reach. A moment that should only exist in another universe. God, he felt awfully sick of his reality. It made his stomach churn.