a man and his mittens

10

The week after Otakon, I took a bunch of photos of Genos (shoot photos here & Here) and after we were finished, I made yakisoba for dinner…and Genos took a bunch of pics while I was preparing the food. XD (Also, I don’t buy yakisoba sauce specifically for it bc I think it’s a bit redundant- the flavors and ingredients are almost identical to the Tonkatsu sauce that I already have. I just dilute it a bit with some soy sauce and a splash of water to give it a more liquid consistency when I add it to the noodles. :3)

The middle of me cracking up with the Anpan Man cookies is 100% because of this exchange:

Genos: “Here, hold a cookie like he is.” 

Saitama: “How’s he holding it? It’s just kinda sitting on his hand.”

Genos: “He’s holding it in his…little mitten or something. Hold it in your mitten.”

XD Anpan Man and his tiny little weird mitten hands. 

“Strawberry Pastry” - an L Lawliet fanfic

It was a slow day at the little English coffee shop on the corner.  The weather probably had something to do with it.  Not many fancied going out on such a cold afternoon, even if it was for a hot beverage.  A man sat in the corner with a newspaper and, at a table nearby, two women chatted casually, their coats and scarves still on.

The little bell above the door announced that another customer had arrived and the icy cold rushed in momentarily as the heavy wooden door opened and closed again.  The girl behind the counter looked up from drying mugs and smiled to greet her patrons: a grey-haired old man with kind eyes and a neatly-trimmed mustache and a little boy of maybe 5 or 6 (or was he just small?).  The man wore a long black dress coat and leather gloves.  He stood removing the gloves, one finger at a time, and then bent to assist the child with his small red mittens.  He was talking softly to the child but the boy did not appear to be listening.  His large, dark eyes were fixated on something, peeking out from between the scarf covering his mouth and nose and the thick, black hair that flopped every which way. 

Once his mittens were removed, he stuffed small hands into his coat pockets and the grandfatherly old man helped him remove his scarf.  But those wide, round eyes never moved and the man turned to see what the boy was looking at and chuckled.  "Do you want a pastry?“ the man asked kindly as he unwrapped the scarf.  The eyes moved to meet those of the old man and, seemingly impossibly, widened even more.  He did not smile, though, nor did he say a word.  But the man chuckled again and rose to his full height.  "Alright,” he said, approaching the counter, “We will take a hot coffee- black, please- and…” he paused to look down at the child who was standing with his tiny hands pressed against the pastry display, his breaths making foggy little clouds appear and disappear on the glass.  His face remained emotionless, though, save for those big grey eyes wide with anticipation. The old man smiled.  "…we’ll take the one with the strawberry on top.“

The girl at the counter bent to collect the pastry and for just a moment, her eyes met those of the little boy on the other side of the glass.  She smiled at him.  Quickly, he removed his hands from the glass, leaving little smudge marks, and dropped his chin to stare down at the floor.  His hands retreated to the pockets again.  The girl, quite taken with the small boy, placed the pastry on a plate and came around the counter to present it herself.  She knelt down before him and held out the plate.  "Is this what you wanted?” she asked warmly. 

The boy’s eyes darted to the pastry then back to the floor.  But he nodded, his black hair bouncing up and down.

“Well, here. Take it.”

Slowly, two thin, childish hands slipped out of their pockets and reached out to accept the plate.  Then he looked up and the girl looked into his eyes once again. They seemed sad close-up, somehow.  And tired.  So, so tired.  It was as if the eyes of someone who’d already lived a lifetime belonged to this little boy with the wild hair and the milk-white skin. 

The girl smiled again as he took the plate.  "You enjoy that, okay?“ she spoke sweetly. 

The wide eyes softened a bit but didn’t leave hers.  And it was almost undetectable, but it was there… a tiny and surprisingly low voice for one so small softy said, “Thank you. “ 

And then the eyes dropped again and he turned his attention to the treat in his cold little hands.  He was a good boy and waited patiently while the old man paid for the coffee and pastry. They moved to a table and the elderly man sipped his coffee while the little boy, sitting ever so oddly in his chair, ate his strawberry pastry.  When they got up to leave, the man helped the child once more with his scarf and mittens and they turned to leave.  He nodded politely at the girl behind the counter who smiled broadly and wished them a nice day.  She noticed the bundled little face with the wide eyes looking at her and she smiled even bigger and waved.  And, as they turned to leave, a tiny mittened hand lifted to wave back. 

And then they were gone.

Many years went by and the girl grew into a woman, a wife, and a mother.  She still worked happily behind that coffee counter.  It was a warm day and the coffee shop was a bit busier than it had been that day many years before.  The bell rang and she looked up to see a white-haired old man enter with a much younger man at his side.  There was something so familiar about them… and as they approached the counter, she suddenly knew.

Those eyes… those haunting dark eyes. 

The old man greeted her and asked for two black coffees with plenty of sugar on the side.  He began to add something to the order when she stopped him, grinning broadly.  She bustled over to the pastries and took out the one with the biggest strawberry on top and came around the counter.  She did not need to bend down this time, however.  The ever so wide dark eyes were now level with her own. 

She held out the pastry to the young man, who was standing rather oddly with his hands in his jeans pockets.  His thick ebony hair was as wild as it had always been.  She grinned.  "Is this what you wanted?” she asked. 

And those eyes lifted to meet hers, still so tired but a little less sad, and a brief look of surprise passed over the thin, pale face.  And then, the face softened and his skinny hands left his pockets to take the pastry.  "Thank you,“ he said, his voice low but now stronger and more sure of himself.

"Do you-” she began.

“I remember,” he said simply.

The woman smiled.

And this time, she received a small but genuine smile in return.

The kind old man and the thin dark-eyed boy never returned to the coffee shop.  But to this day, the woman behind the counter still smiles fondly whenever she places a strawberry on a pastry.

Frohana Week: Introductions

A fic! A fic for Frohana week! This is for the prompt ‘Getting to know you.’

Love and adoration and gratitude to counterpunches for not just helping plug the weak spots in this fic, but for listening to me blather on endlessly about a few other fic ideas that I’m working on <3 Thank you, Rachel! 

Introductions

Pairing: Frohana! 

Rating: G

Words: 2455

“What do we do now?” Olaf asked, sounding for all the world like a child at a fair and looking around with his big grin, ready for some new adventure.

“I…I don’t know,” Elsa said. She looked at her hands, at the sunlight glinting off the water of the fjord (water, not ice), then at the shore, where townspeople were gathering on the docks, staring up into the sky where the snow had vanished. On the wall of the castle she could even see the resident diplomats, ranged in a row like a Greek chorus. They were…cheering? Or shouting. She clasped her fingers together nervously. She didn’t even know how to get from this ship to dry land.

“We’ll figure it out,” Anna said confidently. She grinned, taking Elsa’s hands. “We’ll figure it out together.”

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For DestielChristmasMiniBang- prompt Fireplace. I worked with @ohmygodcas for this and we’re really excited about it!


He lives far out, away from town, further than is really sensible for a man who lives on his own.

Castiel left Sweden- home- two years ago now. He still speaks English in a stilted, uncomfortable way, his accent thick on his tongue. He could make words dance, back home. Here, he struggles, to make them move, to pull them into shapes.

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