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"what the hell are you doing, shouta?"
it's entirely too naive to think something as mundane as furniture shopping is something aizawa shouta can do with the one he loves, even for him who now finds his days consisting of sonnets and daydreams replaying in his head over and over again like a broken record.
and for obvious reasons, he's messed up in the head (that's what love does to you) but even he knows he can't possibly go out to just any department store, not in this weather.
'no not in weather,' he thinks, glazing out his classroom's windows in a sheet of murky dark with his head held up lazily by his palm and his lips chapped and bitten.
it's raining today, scratch that- pouring, but it's something new to occupy his ever loving decomposer brain because truly, it hasn't rained in the shizuoka prefecture in a while and if he had paid more attention to the weather, he would've been worried it took this long.
(but then that means some goddess is out there crying. crying overwhelming tears that are just too much for her to carry that they spill down from the heavens to his land, those powerful tears that could take down towns are pouring down here from her beautiful eyes and it is all the same gorgeous just as she is even in all this darkness.
thus, he sends out prayers because if it was his goddess crying like this, he'd appreciate them too. so, he reckons someone has to be grateful for them. after all, a goddess's tears are just as special as her smiles.)
nonetheless, in the classroom with only the rain to fill the silence and the smell of ink and salty chips so rich he could taste it, dreary monday kisses his eyelids with a beautiful promise of peaceful sleep and holds his face like a concerned lover, and for a second he's at peace.
though sleep can't come to the hopelessly deprived, for the thoughts of plush linens and smooth silk comes rushing back like a rough river, plaguing his mind like rotten candy haunts the mind of a child.
so, he sits.
sits with his eyebrows knotted up in the middle of his forehead, his mouth pale against the muffled light fighting against grey clouds, his back now comically resembling a decrepit curve, and his vision and face painted by bright blues.
he can't find ease in the many options.
nothing seems to be right!
he has the money (if not, he'd find it) and he knows she would be happy with even a step stool, but he can't justify this purchase being anything less than she already is.
