Work Text:
Feet sink slightly into the damp earth of the path, each step deliberate as the river comes into view ahead. Your gaze stays forward, scanning for the familiar outline.
There she is, same as always, out on the short pier. Powder-green hair barely brushes her shoulders beneath the straw hat. Two horse ears flick once, poking through the wide brim. The old overalls hang loose over a faded light-green shirt, one strap slipped halfway down her shoulder from how she’s slouched forward, elbows braced on her knees. The fishing rod rests easy in her grip, line already cutting a thin diagonal into the slow current.
You settle beside her without a sound, boards creaking once under your weight. The morning air carries the cool metallic scent of water and faint algae.
“Anything biting yet?” The question comes out low, almost casual.
Seiun Sky doesn’t turn right away. One ear swivels toward you first. “Not a nibble, Trainer-san. Fish are as lazy as I am today.” Her voice rolls out slow and rough around the edges, the kind of drawl that belongs to someone who’s already decided the day can wait. Legs stay crossed at the ankles, bare feet dangling just above the waterline, toes occasionally flexing against nothing. “Switched to a different bait, though. Smells worse. Feels promising.”
You let a small breath of amusement escape. “Soon as you hook one, I’m cooking it.”
She huffs—half laugh, half challenge—without lifting her eyes from the float. “You’d better. I’m not releasing a trophy to someone who burns it.”
The line jerks once, sharp. The rod tip dips hard enough that her shoulders square instantly, lazy posture gone in the same heartbeat. Her grip tightens, knuckles paling for a second against the cork handle.
“There we go,” she mutters, more to the fish than to you. Ears pin forward, focused. The water below the pier ripples outward in quick, startled rings.
The fish comes off the line in a clean arc, scales flashing silver under the morning light as Seiun Sky lifts it free. You take it from her outstretched hand, fingers closing around the still-twitching body. Solid weight settles in your palm—heavier than it looks, plenty for two without leaving anyone wanting. Her eyes flick to yours, golden-brown and knowing, the smug little tilt at the corners of her mouth saying she’s already tallying the meal in her head.
“I’m starving,” she says, voice low and pleased. “Grill it with carrots and rice? You know how I like the skin crisp.” The straw hat tips back slightly as she straightens, one overall strap sliding farther down her shoulder. She doesn’t bother fixing it.
You heft the fish once more, letting the confidence roll into your answer to match hers. “Sure. Guess you’re heading back soon anyway. Want me to gut and fillet it now, or save the mess for the kitchen?”
“No hard work today.” She says it firm, almost fierce, ears flicking forward like she’s staking a claim. “Caught it just to eat with Trainer-san. That’s the point.” Pride sits plain on her face—no apology, no hesitation—just the quiet certainty that you’ll go along with it because you always do.
A few minutes later the pier is behind you. The path back winds through thin trees, sunlight dappling the dirt in shifting patches. She walks close enough that her arm brushes yours every few steps, casual, unthinking. The fish dangles from your fingers by its lower lip, tail occasionally giving a weak slap against your thigh. Her bare feet kick up small puffs of dust; every so often she flexes her toes against the cooler ground under the shade. The straw hat stays on, ears poking through, swiveling once toward a bird that darts overhead.
Your place comes into view soon enough—the low roof, the narrow porch, the faint smell of woodsmoke still clinging to the air from last night’s fire. She pauses at the threshold, glances sideways at you, that same small, satisfied curve still on her mouth.
“Rice first,” she says, already stepping inside like she owns the space. “I’ll start the carrots while you handle the fish.”
The kitchen door swings shut behind you with a soft click. Morning light slants through the single window, catching dust motes above the worn wooden counter.
Seiun Sky moves straight to the corner where the rice bags lean against the wall. One strap of her overalls still hangs loose, swaying slightly as she bends to scoop a generous handful into the wide ceramic bowl. Grains scatter across the counter in a faint patter; she brushes them back in with the side of her palm, unhurried. Water runs next—cold enough that her fingers curl inward for a second—then she swirls and drains, repeating the motion twice more. Ears twitch toward the sound of the knife you pull from the block.
Across the narrow space, the fish lies on the cutting board. Scales glint dull silver under the overhead bulb. Blade slides behind the gills first, a clean scrape, then down the belly. Guts come out in a wet heap; you fold them into the compost sack without looking. The weight of the fillets separates easily under steady pressure—thick, firm, pink flesh giving just enough resistance. A pinch of salt, a light dusting of whatever dried herbs are still in the jar, fingers pressing the seasoning in so it sticks. Low humming starts in your throat, barely audible over the water she’s draining again.
Her gaze flicks your way every so often. Not staring—just checking. Each time, the bowl in her hands pauses mid-motion, water dripping from the rice back into the sink. The straw hat sits pushed back now, one ear folded slightly under the brim from how she’s tilted her head. She sets the cleaned rice into the pot, measures water with a practiced dip of her hand, then lights the burner. Flame catches with a soft whoosh.
Carrots next. She pulls three from the sack under the counter, rinses them under the tap. Knife in her grip moves in short, efficient strokes—chunks rolling across the board, uneven in size but all roughly the same. Steam begins to rise from the rice pot, carrying the faint sweet smell of wet grain.
You slide the seasoned fillets onto the grill pan. Oil sizzles on contact; the skin shrinks and crisps almost at once. Heat licks up your forearms. She steps in beside you without a word, shoulder brushing yours. Shorter by half a head, she has to tip her chin up slightly to watch the fish. One hip leans against the counter edge, weight shifted so her bare foot hooks loosely around the opposite ankle.
Rice finishes first. She lifts the lid—steam billows out in a warm cloud that brushes her face—stirs once, then folds the carrot pieces in. The chunks sink and settle among the grains. Another stir, lid back on low heat to finish softening them.
Fish comes off the grill golden and fragrant. You plate it beside the rice-carrot mix. The portions look haphazard next to each other—fillets overlapping one corner, rice mounded unevenly, carrots half-buried—but the smell pulls everything together: salt, char, faint sweetness from the carrots, the clean earthiness of the rice.
She reaches past you for two sets of chopsticks, arm brushing your side again. The loose overall strap slips farther; she doesn’t fix it. Instead she nudges the plate toward the small table by the window.
“Looks like us,” she says, voice still carrying that lazy satisfaction. “Not pretty. Works fine.” Ears flick once toward the open window where a breeze carries the river smell back inside. She pulls out a chair, sits, and waits for you to join her.
Plate in hand, you cross the short distance to the table. Steps stay easy, unhurried—the floorboards give slightly underfoot, familiar creak following each one. No performance, no hurry. Just the quiet rhythm of moving toward her.
You slide into the chair beside Seiun Sky. The wooden seat settles with a low groan. Heat from the food rises in faint waves between you, carrying the crisp edge of grilled skin and the soft steam of rice.
“Works pretty well,” you say, setting the plate down. “And cooks a mean meal too.”
She leans in the instant your weight settles, shoulder pressing warm against your arm. One arm loops loosely around the back of your neck, forearm resting along your shoulders like it belongs there. The loose overall strap brushes your sleeve; her bare shoulder grazes your shirt. That smug satisfaction sits plain on her face—eyes half-lidded, mouth tilted in quiet victory.
“Let’s see who eats better one-handed,” she declares, voice carrying that bold, lazy edge. The words come out almost like a challenge wrapped in comfort. Chopsticks already in her free hand, she balances the plate on her thigh for a second while she adjusts, then lifts a piece of fish toward her mouth without shifting away.
Her weight stays leaned into you, steady and unapologetic. One ear flicks once toward the open window where the breeze moves the thin curtain. The arm around your shoulders doesn’t tighten—just rests, thumb brushing once against the back of your neck in an absent, easy rhythm. She takes the first bite, chews slow, eyes sliding sideways to watch your reaction.
Your own chopsticks move next. Fish flakes apart under the slightest pressure, skin crackling faintly. Rice clings warm to the carrots. The table sits small enough that your knees nearly touch hers beneath it. She doesn’t pull back. Neither do you.
Plate balanced on the edge of the table, chopsticks in your free hand, the small space between you and Seiun Sky feels smaller still. Her weight rests easy against your side—warm shoulder to your arm, the faint rise and fall of her breathing syncing without effort to the slow rhythm of eating. One of her ears brushes the side of your neck every time she leans a fraction closer to snag another bite.
Fish flakes clean under the chopsticks, skin giving that last satisfying crackle before it yields. Rice clings just enough to the carrots, sweet and soft from the steam. Each mouthful lands simple, perfect in its messiness. Heat lingers on your tongue, salt sharp against the faint earthiness underneath.
She chews slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring more than just the food. The arm still draped around your shoulders shifts once—fingers curling lightly against the fabric over your collarbone, then relaxing again. No words needed there. Just the quiet scrape of chopsticks against ceramic, the occasional soft exhale when she finds a particularly good piece.
Sunlight creeps farther across the table, warming the wood, catching the pale green of her shirt where the overall strap has slipped completely now. Bare skin presses against your sleeve; she doesn’t seem to notice or care. One foot hooks loosely around the leg of your chair, toes brushing your calf in an absent rhythm.
The meal disappears steadily, unhurried. Plates empty in tandem. When the last carrot chunk vanishes from hers, she lets out a long, satisfied breath—almost a sigh, but too content for that. Head tips sideways until it rests against your shoulder, powder-green hair tickling the side of your jaw. Straw hat tilts precariously but stays put.
“Lazy day done right,” she murmurs, voice low and rough from the food and the quiet. The words vibrate faintly where she’s pressed close. “No rush. No nothing. Just this.”
Her thumb traces one idle circle against your shoulder before her hand drops to rest on the table beside the empty plate. Eyes half-close, golden-brown lashes casting thin shadows. The river breeze drifts in again through the open window, carrying the distant sound of water over stones.
You set your own chopsticks down. The table sits quiet now, only the faint creak of the house settling around the two of you. Her breathing stays even, relaxed, the kind of stillness that says she’s exactly where she wants to be. And in that moment, with her weight solid and warm against your side, the day ahead stretches open—empty of plans, full of nothing but her lazy, irreplaceable presence.