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Grasses are wont to bend with the wind, instead of breaking under it. And they spring back when they're stepped on, instead of being crushed and broken like a flower trodden underfoot. But the tallest blades of grass are often the first to feel the edge of the scythe.

Punie is beginning to like this flower-language more than she had ever expected.

"I'm glad you like it." Curiosity, as much as his offer, prompts her to tilt the foxglove toward him and offer him a flower from the stem in her hand. "I always look out for these, when they're blooming in the spring and summer."

Where Autor is from, grasses were presented to the conquering by the conquered, who gave up their rights live on and be interred in their homeland. He's not about to tell her that, and he'll never give her grass again. I declare war on you, he thinks. I will fight you every step of the way.

"I do," he says, accepting one of the bells. "Very much so. And I'm happy to have met with one in the early spring."

Then he grins at her. "I'm glad you like the greenhouse."

"If I'd known it was open to everyone, I'd have suggested that we come here sooner." There's real warmth in the smile she gives him. "Flowers are so much nicer when you have someone else to share them with. Especially someone who appreciates them, and knows so much about them."

Flattery? Yes, perhaps, from the way it sounds. But like her delight in the flowers, it doesn't ring false at all.

And now he's unsure if she's just sped up his heartbeat or plans to stop it entirely. The boy is certainly overcome by the former effect, which happens to be directing blood straight to his cheeks.

"Ah, I had help," he says, indicating the book under his arm, "and an interest. Had I known you liked flowers"--he didn't know, but he'd guessed--"I would have liked to come with you. They are indeed lovely with lovely company."

After encoding the book back into his sylladex, he scoops up his shears. "I am pleased you seem to appreciate their language as well. There isn't one in Magical Land, correct?"

Punie shakes her head. "Not for sending messages, no. Except for some of the messages that are probably the same almost anywhere, like the ones for roses. Pink roses for someone you like, red and white roses for someone you love." She glances down at the bouquet in her hand. "But everyone thinks roses are pretty -- and there are other plants I like much more, even though they're not so popular."

Belladonna, for one. Aconite. Strychnine. Castor. Not so pretty, but far more useful.

Still holding her bouquet, she takes a few steps to one side, admiring a small trellis with a young climbing plant twisted around its latticework. "There are a few plants that I've seen on Earth that are a little like the ones I know from home, but they're not quite the same -- like the mandrake." She looks back at Autor. "You don't have to wear earplugs to collect mandrake root where you come from, do you?"

"I'd like to hear about which ones you favor sometime," Autor says quietly, toying with his shears. Probably ones specific to Magical Land.

He keeps a respectful distance from her, encouraging her to enjoy the scenery. "No, our Alraune only shrieks in stories, all of which are fairly detailed with regards to collecting the plant," he says, smiling at her question. "The root can look like a little person, though, and I've heard that it has hallucinogenic properties."

Her attentiveness to the blossoms amuses him. "I suspect I'll find you here as often as you'll find me in the library?"

Punie sighs, a little enviously. "That sounds so much simpler, even if it isn't magical. Digging up mandrakes, hunting for the best matsutake mushrooms...magic doesn't always make things easier."

She cheers up, though, at the thought of returning to the greenhouse. "But yes, I'll certainly be coming out here whenever I can. Everyone needs a place to hide away -- and a place where they can be found."

"Some things are easier, true," he says, tapping his chin. "But a lot of the magic I've found in Milliways and elsewhere has been terribly convenient. I'm looking forward to having more of my own to experiment with."

Autor grins at her statement. "But if the greenhouse is your hideaway and the place I can find you, doesn't that defeat the point?"

The library used to be that way for him, but now people are predicting his patterns. It's a little unnerving.

"You might know where to look for me, but you'll still have to find me." There's a twinkle in her eye, gently teasing. "And that will depend on how good you are at locating me -- and, for that matter, whether I want to be found."

Fortunately for him, she's not often one for hiding.

"Oho!" Autor says, pleasantly surprised. "Is that a challenge? My first guess would be nowhere near the roses."

The boy is fairly certain that he wouldn't be able to find her if she didn't want to be found, though that's part of the game, too.

He sets the shears down on a shelf and steps a little closer, inclining his head. "I look forward to meeting you via happy accident or otherwise, of course."

And quite possibly startling her.

"It's only a challenge if you're willing to accept it," she replies, with a small but gracious nod of her own head in kind. "But I don't mind happy accidents, either. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities for those as well."

Though considering their relationship, any sort of accident is liable to require a broad definition of the term "happy".

Autor narrows his eyes, and his smirk is nearly predatory. "A lady's challenge is the only way to earn her favor, is it not?"

His stride is smooth as he approaches her, though he does stand back just far enough to bow. "I appreciate your spending the day with me, Miss Tanaka," he says softly, and turns his split knuckles down, offering his fingers to catch her own.

"It's been lovely here. And I did interrupt your work, after all -- taking you away from those poor damaged books. I hope you're able to find what you're looking for in them."

She switches the little collection of flowers, foxglove and all, to her left hand, as she holds out her right hand for him to take.

He sighs, wistful. "Thank you. I hope so, too. Though this interruption was well worth it."

Ever the gentlemen, lifts her hand from below and brushes his lips against her knuckles, feather-light, but quite possibly lingering a little longer than etiquette deems proper. If her skin tingles when he pulls away, well. That would be Lunarian giga wasp venom he applied while she was absorbed in the trellis.

It's a very courtly gesture. Enough to make her wonder if he's been practicing in his spare time.

When the odd feeling on her hand doesn't fade after he lets go, she lifts her hand and flexes her fingers carefully. Her eyes narrow a bit, puzzled but not (as yet) alarmed.

"Had you anything else in mind here, before we go back inside?" She flexes her hand again, more slowly this time.

"I'll have to return the shears eventually," he says, stepping back to lift them from the shelf. Once armed, he notes the movement of her fingers--he was looking for it, after all--and starts counting down the minutes in his head.

"Were there any other flowers that interested you?" he asks politely, and tucks the foxglove bell she gave him in his breast pocket, to free up his other hand. He still has grenades, but he'd rather not use them due to the glass.

"Nothing in particular," she says, with a slight shake of her head. "I'd rather not pick too many all at once, you know -- there'll be plenty of time for that later."

She hasn't moved to follow him. She's standing quite still, as a matter of fact.

Then, quietly:

"Did you pick something else beforehand, without telling me about it?"

Autor's knuckles sting as he clenches the handle of the shears. He didn't intend to fall for Punie. Nor did he intend to trip into Karkat shortly afterwards. Scheisse. The boy has known for a while which one he had to let go.

"There are many plants in a greenhouse," he says carefully. "There was a certain fungus"--resilience, loneliness, solitude, disgust--"that I was interested in, but it could not compete against cherry blossoms."

He glances at her grass bracelet and waits for her to strike him down.

She's still not moving. In fact, she may be starting to tremble. It's very well controlled, but she shouldn't be holding herself quite so still as that.

Softly, as if she has to fight to keep her voice under control as well: "Even if those don't last very long?"

The light in her eyes is fever-bright.

"Transience of life is beautiful," he says, and takes another step back. She may look like she can't move, but that is absolutely no guarantee that she won't charge. "Is it not?"

He's fairly certain he should just run. But where's the fun in that?

"Firecrackers last for such a brief moment, but their sparkle is glorious."

Finally, she does move, as if to take a step -- only to sway on her feet, and come to a dead halt again.

She doesn't let go of the flowers in her left hand, even when she briefly presses her shaking right hand to her mouth. And when she lets her hand fall, to clutch at her pendant, she is still smiling through gritted teeth.

"...I wouldn't ever want...to disappoint you...in that."

When she finally crumples, it's soundless, as her skirts pool around in a strangely graceful fall. She might have knelt down to get a closer look at one of the nearby flowerbeds, if it wasn't for the slump of her shoulders and head.

Roughly thirty-nine seconds later, Autor regrets this decision. He'll never see that smile again, but it will be burned into his memory forever. Forty-two seconds after she falls, he decides that he doesn't mind regrets.

And now to check if she's actually dead. Hm. He considers throwing a rock at her, but rejects that idea out of hand based on crudeness. He can't check her pulse; he's convinced that even after death, she'd find a way to break his wrist.

Perhaps, he can get close enough to her to see her face from a crouch. He wouldn't mind that. Plan decided upon, he brandishes his shears and kneels down a little ways away.

Edited 2013-04-30 04:09 (UTC)

It's quite possible that he shouldn't have waited so long.

It's also quite possible that the air around her has started to shimmer faintly.

Autor surely knows enough stories to be aware of at least one or two where a person's death triggers a chain reaction of magic that cannot be stopped until the spell has run its course.

He may not remember those stories at this particular moment, but the shimmering is... well, it exists, and it exists around a dead or dying Punie, and he just potentially killed her, and also, wait, aren't there stories about this?

There is only one acceptable response.

"How very curious," the says, and bolts like a bunny, if he can.

He can, and his efforts do not go unrewarded.

He makes it about three or four steps before something grabs hold of his ankle, and uses his own momentum from the subsequent fall (and a well-timed twist) to neatly flip him over and onto his back.

The impact will likely knock the breath out of him at least, but he'll definitely hear a soft giggle as he falls.