Brought on by a conversation about perfection my friend and I were having.
Perfect, Yukino had learned, did not mean as it was commonly used. It did not mean smartest, prettiest, ideal, flawless—no. She knew what perfect meant, and knew exactly what it was.
It was Haruka, hand rested lightly on the curve of her hip as she inspected the situation, bring the hand up to her chin to contemplate, because she could only strike the pose to the tune of her thoughts, just in case someone was wondering. It was Haruka as she screamed and shouted and stumbled over words and overreacted, because it was just too cute, and she couldn't help but correct her.
Yukino knew more examples of perfection.
Haruka, standing strong as she faced down an enemy that wasn't even hers.
Haruka, as she offered a hand of support.
Haruka, as she was covered in her arms, lost in a hug she didn't admit to returning.
But it wasn't quite perfect.
Perfect wasn't flawless, best, everything in one. Perfection wasn't what everyone thought.
Perfection was complete.
The only time Yukino felt that was with Haruka.
The only time she felt complete.
Woah. I finished something. I've been trying to write for days.
Guess the day off did some good then. Solitaire has lost its hold on me!
((Mahjong has it now.))