Title: chlorophyll Ship/Character: Alex/Masako Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: None Other Tags: plant people AU, alex is a citrus tree Word Count: 403 Remix Permission:See Permissions Sheet
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Masako’s no good with plants. Machines she can handle, changing the oil in a car or taking her motorcycle apart and putting it back together, fixing a sputtering combustion engine, replacing a battery, but she’s never planted a seed. Her scallion ends never grow when she places them in water on the windowsill.
Alex is not that kind of plant. She’s not dependent on anyone moving her towards the light, rotating her base, placing her somewhere warm, pouring water down her throat. Her leaves unfurl and stretch toward the sun in summer when she sits outside, tangled in her hair and extending from her arm, her shoulders, between her toes. She drinks straight from the tap sometimes when she’s more thirsty, but she goes for it herself, her leaves pressed against the edge of the sink and the counter. (In the autumn, when she’s in Akita, she stays indoors more and more, in the warmth and light, a little too dry but it doesn’t hurt her the way the cold air and darkness makes her wince and draw back, though she tries to hide it.)
The rustle of her leaves in the night, when she lies sleeping next to Masako, is calming, like sleeping with the windows open in the summer, listening to the wind blow through the trees outside. They’re soft to the touch under Masako’s fingers, surprisingly responsive.
(“Does shedding them hurt?”
Alex shakes her head. “It’s like shedding a hair. It just happens sometimes.”)
She blooms when Masako visits her in LA in the spring, the sun’s warm rays in the lengthening days coming down on the white blossoms curling out against her leaves and her skin.
“It’s because I’m happy you’re here,” Alex says, no hint of irony.
Masako doesn’t point out scientific explanations and growing seasons; she won’t poke holes in that theory (and she’s no biologist; maybe all of that’s irrelevant here). A flower falls from her hair and Alex snatches it out of the air and hands it to Masako.
“Keep it with you.”
She dries it out and keeps it on her desk at work, and it smells like Alex still, heady and fragrant, like the late spring far away. One day they’ll live together and she’ll no longer need it, and Alex will shed white petals every spring, and Masako will still keep the flower tucked away somewhere safe. It will still be precious.
Fill: Team Grandstand, T
Ship/Character: Alex/Masako
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: None
Other Tags: plant people AU, alex is a citrus tree
Word Count: 403
Remix Permission: See Permissions Sheet
***
Masako’s no good with plants. Machines she can handle, changing the oil in a car or taking her motorcycle apart and putting it back together, fixing a sputtering combustion engine, replacing a battery, but she’s never planted a seed. Her scallion ends never grow when she places them in water on the windowsill.
Alex is not that kind of plant. She’s not dependent on anyone moving her towards the light, rotating her base, placing her somewhere warm, pouring water down her throat. Her leaves unfurl and stretch toward the sun in summer when she sits outside, tangled in her hair and extending from her arm, her shoulders, between her toes. She drinks straight from the tap sometimes when she’s more thirsty, but she goes for it herself, her leaves pressed against the edge of the sink and the counter. (In the autumn, when she’s in Akita, she stays indoors more and more, in the warmth and light, a little too dry but it doesn’t hurt her the way the cold air and darkness makes her wince and draw back, though she tries to hide it.)
The rustle of her leaves in the night, when she lies sleeping next to Masako, is calming, like sleeping with the windows open in the summer, listening to the wind blow through the trees outside. They’re soft to the touch under Masako’s fingers, surprisingly responsive.
(“Does shedding them hurt?”
Alex shakes her head. “It’s like shedding a hair. It just happens sometimes.”)
She blooms when Masako visits her in LA in the spring, the sun’s warm rays in the lengthening days coming down on the white blossoms curling out against her leaves and her skin.
“It’s because I’m happy you’re here,” Alex says, no hint of irony.
Masako doesn’t point out scientific explanations and growing seasons; she won’t poke holes in that theory (and she’s no biologist; maybe all of that’s irrelevant here). A flower falls from her hair and Alex snatches it out of the air and hands it to Masako.
“Keep it with you.”
She dries it out and keeps it on her desk at work, and it smells like Alex still, heady and fragrant, like the late spring far away. One day they’ll live together and she’ll no longer need it, and Alex will shed white petals every spring, and Masako will still keep the flower tucked away somewhere safe. It will still be precious.