Even in hot water, your fingers are numb. Steam and soap and bubbles aside, you feel nothing as you scrub at plate after plate (claw at brick after brick) with reddened fingers-
"Fai-san! That's, that's boiling water- you can't just put your hands in there!"
"Ahaha, don't you worry about me, Sakura-chan! My hands are just fine, see?"
-and each sound your fingernails make when they scrape over (frozen stone) wet glass makes you sick to the core.
You can't quite smile as Sakura dashes back and forth from the cafe proper, tottering under loads of cups and saucers, cutlery and crockery, Mokona hopping after her and spitting up loads of soiled napkins and tablecloths to bloom across the kitchen benches and spill over onto the floor- but you keep your hands from shaking, even as the ache reaches your wrists, and that's the important thing.
Afterwards, he watches when you polish the glasses; broods at you over the lip of his sake bottle as you buff and wipe and make use of three different cleaning cloths, and you pretend red eyes on your back don't mean a thing. It hurts all the way to your elbows now (stone, dirty, frozen stone, scrapes your fingers bloody and raw and your arms burn as you slip down once more), but your grip is steady and your fingers barely tremble against the thin and fragile glass.
It's only when he leaves the room (leaves you unwatched) that you let yourself shake, press your palms flat on the polished bar and let the ache burn up your veins like ice. You can't even stand to clasp your hands together to warm them up again- even your own touch (cold, cold, cold) is all but unbearable.
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"Fai-san! That's, that's boiling water- you can't just put your hands in there!"
"Ahaha, don't you worry about me, Sakura-chan! My hands are just fine, see?"
-and each sound your fingernails make when they scrape over (frozen stone) wet glass makes you sick to the core.
You can't quite smile as Sakura dashes back and forth from the cafe proper, tottering under loads of cups and saucers, cutlery and crockery, Mokona hopping after her and spitting up loads of soiled napkins and tablecloths to bloom across the kitchen benches and spill over onto the floor- but you keep your hands from shaking, even as the ache reaches your wrists, and that's the important thing.
Afterwards, he watches when you polish the glasses; broods at you over the lip of his sake bottle as you buff and wipe and make use of three different cleaning cloths, and you pretend red eyes on your back don't mean a thing. It hurts all the way to your elbows now (stone, dirty, frozen stone, scrapes your fingers bloody and raw and your arms burn as you slip down once more), but your grip is steady and your fingers barely tremble against the thin and fragile glass.
It's only when he leaves the room (leaves you unwatched) that you let yourself shake, press your palms flat on the polished bar and let the ache burn up your veins like ice. You can't even stand to clasp your hands together to warm them up again- even your own touch (cold, cold, cold) is all but unbearable.