Paisley-Hanna, {...}
Title: Paisley
Fandom: Hanna Is Not A Boy’s Name
Characters/Pairings: Hanna, {…}
Prompt: Trying to write the third person sample for Hanna’s Para app, hngh.
Word Count: 596
Genre: I dunno. A little angsty, a little introspective I suppose
Rating: G
Summary: In which Hanna doesn’t shop like other 24 year old males
Warnings: Spoilers for Chapter 2?
Author's Notes: I… don’t… think… this is the appropriate tone or style for an app, but fff I have no idea. Halp?
When Hanna Falk Cross buys clothes he does it like most boys do. Willy-nilly. He tosses this and that and the other into a pile, checks the sizes once or twice, not really minding if they’re too loose or too tight. He’s got nothing to hide after all. Everyone looking in knows the minute he feels he’s gotten a pile large enough, he’ll slap his money on the table and leave. And on the off-hand chance he overestimated his paycheck this week (you mean this month, Taiven might say with an exasperated sigh if he were there), everyone knows the boy will grab a pair of pants and a shirt at random and toss them. And he’ll keep discarding until he can pay, and then he’ll be off.
But, unlike most boys, instead of heading directly to the cash register, he suddenly turns and goes to the dressing rooms. He leaves the pants in a rumpled pile in the corner and then Hanna Falk Cross, male, aged 24, starts trying shirts on.
Everyone looking in will be baffled by this behavior, scratching at their heads. He certainly had the air of the typical boy finally forced to shop for himself, and yet here he has done the responsible thing. They will mutter amongst themselves and disperse and the moment will be forgotten for the other, more curious things awaiting them around the corner.
What they don’t know is that Hanna must try all of his shirts on. If he doesn’t, there might be questions he doesn’t want to answer about the long stretched taut skin of his chest and belly. Having to dodge Kingsley’s ever more insistent questioning is hard enough, much less an utter stranger’s.
The cotton cloth feels good against his arms, and the violently colorful paisley print makes him grin into his reflection. It’s a good shirt. It’s a very good shirt.
But then he lifts his arms and the edge rides high, revealing the puckered, irritated point of one of the wide brown stitches. The smile fades.
And then the very good shirt is hung up and tossed onto the dressing room bench.
He meets the mirror’s eyes, spreads a nervous hand over his chest, before his resolve returns. By the time he leaves, Hanna has discarded more the half the shirts and, by way of balancing it out, half the pants as well.
He pays, grinning all the while, and when he leaves everyone looking in will comment on what a nice boy he seemed. Even if his dressing habit were odd, he has nothing to hide, so they feel they can trust him.
Hanna would like very much for them to believe that as long as possible.
Malachi is waiting for him, gives him a sort of fond nod and offers to take the bags from him as he approaches. He shoves the bags at his partner, keeping a pair to occupy his own hands. He grins and laughs and chats about all the odd people who were watching him shop, and Boaz knows something is wrong, but won’t stop him long enough to ask. There will be time later, there will always be time later for those questions.
And because neither of them feel the need to interrupt the false positive, Hanna Falk Cross talks and talks, and forgets for a time that he cannot let his shirts rise above his hips for fear of the questions that might come.
This moment is good. Maybe even better then that violently colorful paisley print he had liked so much. Maybe.
Fandom: Hanna Is Not A Boy’s Name
Characters/Pairings: Hanna, {…}
Prompt: Trying to write the third person sample for Hanna’s Para app, hngh.
Word Count: 596
Genre: I dunno. A little angsty, a little introspective I suppose
Rating: G
Summary: In which Hanna doesn’t shop like other 24 year old males
Warnings: Spoilers for Chapter 2?
Author's Notes: I… don’t… think… this is the appropriate tone or style for an app, but fff I have no idea. Halp?
When Hanna Falk Cross buys clothes he does it like most boys do. Willy-nilly. He tosses this and that and the other into a pile, checks the sizes once or twice, not really minding if they’re too loose or too tight. He’s got nothing to hide after all. Everyone looking in knows the minute he feels he’s gotten a pile large enough, he’ll slap his money on the table and leave. And on the off-hand chance he overestimated his paycheck this week (you mean this month, Taiven might say with an exasperated sigh if he were there), everyone knows the boy will grab a pair of pants and a shirt at random and toss them. And he’ll keep discarding until he can pay, and then he’ll be off.
But, unlike most boys, instead of heading directly to the cash register, he suddenly turns and goes to the dressing rooms. He leaves the pants in a rumpled pile in the corner and then Hanna Falk Cross, male, aged 24, starts trying shirts on.
Everyone looking in will be baffled by this behavior, scratching at their heads. He certainly had the air of the typical boy finally forced to shop for himself, and yet here he has done the responsible thing. They will mutter amongst themselves and disperse and the moment will be forgotten for the other, more curious things awaiting them around the corner.
What they don’t know is that Hanna must try all of his shirts on. If he doesn’t, there might be questions he doesn’t want to answer about the long stretched taut skin of his chest and belly. Having to dodge Kingsley’s ever more insistent questioning is hard enough, much less an utter stranger’s.
The cotton cloth feels good against his arms, and the violently colorful paisley print makes him grin into his reflection. It’s a good shirt. It’s a very good shirt.
But then he lifts his arms and the edge rides high, revealing the puckered, irritated point of one of the wide brown stitches. The smile fades.
And then the very good shirt is hung up and tossed onto the dressing room bench.
He meets the mirror’s eyes, spreads a nervous hand over his chest, before his resolve returns. By the time he leaves, Hanna has discarded more the half the shirts and, by way of balancing it out, half the pants as well.
He pays, grinning all the while, and when he leaves everyone looking in will comment on what a nice boy he seemed. Even if his dressing habit were odd, he has nothing to hide, so they feel they can trust him.
Hanna would like very much for them to believe that as long as possible.
Malachi is waiting for him, gives him a sort of fond nod and offers to take the bags from him as he approaches. He shoves the bags at his partner, keeping a pair to occupy his own hands. He grins and laughs and chats about all the odd people who were watching him shop, and Boaz knows something is wrong, but won’t stop him long enough to ask. There will be time later, there will always be time later for those questions.
And because neither of them feel the need to interrupt the false positive, Hanna Falk Cross talks and talks, and forgets for a time that he cannot let his shirts rise above his hips for fear of the questions that might come.
This moment is good. Maybe even better then that violently colorful paisley print he had liked so much. Maybe.