She woke up to the smell of sunlight and coffee, the warm impression of another's physical body on the bed, and the familiar something vaguely resembling numbness towards her life choices. Oh, that meant she fucked up again, somehow. She just can't realize what now in this peaceful, sleep-filled instance. Let's list some examples.
Deciding to escape into the wonderful world of costume making after the death of her mom? Excused and encouraged. This one doesn't count. What about that time where she accidentally spilled an entire bucket of paint on her father's expensive suit? Maybe that time when she was holding a presentation on Fashion Design of the French Renaissance and her pants ripped? Or when she developed a crush on her café table neighbor and he turned out to be her visual arts professor and she slipped into third person? All these don't bring forth the familiar click when two similar types of fuck-ups resonate.
Hey, maybe she didn't fuck up so badly. All of them are relatively minor to the big picture, no matter how mortifying, right? This gradually sinks in and she relaxes, preparing to doze off into another nap, until it finally clicked:
A travesty is occurring in her apartment.
She jumped out of the bed and raced to the kitchen, only to find a hot stranger sipping even hotter coffee, curiously inspecting her designs and potted rosemary.
"You'll burn your tongue and soul in hell!" She shrieked in dismay. "I don't even have coffee!"
The hottest woman in existence smiled (Haru felt something that vaguely resembled both an orchestra opening and a heart attack), but she noticed that Miss Beautiful gripped the mug (her mug) tighter. That absolutely cannot do, otherworldly attractiveness or not. Sometimes, you have to rescue those who do not want to be rescued. This is one of the times.
In one breath Haru pushed forward the garbage bin with her left foot, positioning it underneath her lunge for the offending, still steaming beverage, and twisted the forearm so that she could slam the mug into the plastic container with a satisfying 'thump'. The handle broke, but it was a necessary sacrifice.
Silence ensued, underlined by her heavy breathing due to the physical extortion. But, Haru noted with satisfaction, none of the coffee has spilled outside and so she didn't have to clean.
She looked up from the mug in the bin, buried under fabric scraps and paper, towards the stranger. The stranger of hot she probably drunkenly invited back. It wouldn't be the first time, but this is definitely a milestone in her record. Drunk her did always have good taste.
The honey-brown eyes were already locked onto her, and heat rose to her cheeks involuntarily. "Well," she drew the word out, as if testing it on her tongue. Haru wanted to test if that tongue could still draw that sound in her mouth. Hopefully that already but happened, but...She was drunk. Drunk her doesn't have good memory. "That was simultaneously the most aggravating and sexiest thing I've ever witnessed. And I witnessed a lot. "
"Oh no," Haru said. "You meant sensible and healthy. I don't think this relationship can last if you continue beaning the black. I mean black beans hell. I mean...Name?"
"Kyoko," Kyoko laughed, and Haru wanted to rip her hair and heart out to stuff her mouth so that the chestnut-haired angel didn't hear her sob in amazement. Judging by the lidded look that sent shivers down her spine, that was not the case. Haru would like to perish this instance.
"Kyo...ko," Haru said, dragging each syllable out of her dry throat to make it last longer. It didn't taste like anything (why did she expect it to?), but it did make her curl her fingers against the hem of her top. "Meet to nice you. Please no coffee. I...Tea. It's in the cupboard."
"That'd be nice, thank you." Kyoko answered all perfect and princess-like, politely not bearing witness to her vivid fantasies of Haru strangling herself. She is probably a mindreader. Kyoko could tell Haru that she was the one who designed and stitched her seam by seam and programmed her to love her creator Kyoko, and Haru would believe it because it made perfect sense.
The only thing that prevented her ridiculous tangents taking over her still somewhat functioning brain was that, if Kyoko was a mindreader and her creator Kyoko and perfect, was the scent of coffee coming from the liquid sin between them.
"How ironic," Haru finally managed not to stumble, and of course it was by drawing on her drama expertise. "That the perfection I seek is made real by the fatal imperfection."
Kyoko wriggled her eyebrows, and Haru tried very, very carefully not to cry in the face of the cutest shit she has ever witnessed.
She failed, but Kyoko took pity on her and agreed on a date. It will be at the coffee shop run by her childhood friend, and Haru agreed to the location while still recovering from the humiliation. She was appalled and astonished. But then Kyoko wriggled her eyebrows again and she opened a new tissue box.
AN: There was a troll saying shit like 'let's make fanfic authors cry' and 'here's how you build a spam bot'. While I am all for Chaos in good fun (I'm Chaotic Good/Neutral), I detest that crap. :C
However, on another note, I'm cross-posting on AO3 under the same username. And I haven't gotten any request on Tumblr, which makes me slightly sad. I'm only planning on doing 25 chapters and at this rate all of them will come from my own brain.