ｃｈｒｙｓｓｉｅ

Grayson took one look at the sky, and immediately knew that something positively awful was going to happen.

It was just some sort of instinct - something that had always been there. Though it wasn't exactly an uncommon feeling, only on rare occasions did he feel so sick to his stomach with dread about what was to come.

To be completely truthful, he considered turning the car around, and he would have if Chrysanthemum wasn't so damned excited to go over and see Kingston.

(Her feelings were much more important than his.)

So, he kept driving, ignoring that tug at the pit of his stomach that told him he was doomed. It became more persistent as the ancient building came into sight, but he quickly wrote it off as simple nervousness, parking the car and turning the engine off.

However, instead of getting out, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Reaching over, he placed a hand on his flower's knee, squeezing tightly. She placed her own hand over top of it, her fingers twisting and slipping between his.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, and he could feel her eyes on him, looking him up and down.

A bout of laughter was held back, caged behind tight lips. When was he ever really okay? Okay was a fantasy - an unattainable reverie that only perfect people like his flower could believe was a reality.

But he said none of that.

"I'm fine."

She smiled, pulling her hand away, like she thought he didn't need it any longer. Like a parent would take a safety blanket from a child.

Of course, he did need it, but he just climbed out of the car, following her up the stone steps. A snowflake was in her hair, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Stop going so fast," he complained as she walked hurriedly through the lobby, easily catching up with her and grabbing her hand again. "You don't even know where they live."

"Sorry. Just excited, I suppose," she murmured as he led her into an elevator, pressing on the button leading to the second floor. They waited for a few minutes in silence until the elevator dinged, and he took her hand, leading her down the hallway to the fifth door on the left side.

(The one with the horrid peeling paint, but he wouldn't mention that.)

He didn't even have to knock before the door was thrown open and his Chrysanthemum - keyword, his - was swept into a hug of massive proportions by Kingston.

His lip curled.

That boy had never been good with boundaries.

"I'm so glad you're here," Kingston said, sweeping sandy hair out of his eyes and releasing Grayson's flower. "To be honest, I wasn't even really sure that you were gonna come."

"Of course we were going to come," Chryssie murmured as they stepped inside, unbuttoning her jacket and placing it on the coat hanger. "Why wouldn't we?"

"Oh... I don't know," Kingston replied with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, James should be back any minute, he just stepped out to take the dog on a quick walk."

"That's nice," Grayson muttered, slinking over to the couch and taking a seat on the left side, where he always sat.

"Cheese or pepperoni?" his Chryssie asked softly from the counter, her white dress swirling around her legs as she moved in that perfect, fluid way of hers.

It was the same dress that she had stabbed that man in, but he was glad that she had decided to wear it once more, as it framed her perfectly.

(If he really concentrated, he could still see slight staining near the hem, but that didn't matter.)