She's fairly used to empty boxes. After all, she doesn't even handle the bills for the estate; those go to the accountant who add them to the expenses to be paid by the state. Not an uncommon thing. But even on today, of all days, the metaphoric 'moth in the emptiness' seems a little strange.

Nothing. Not even a letter of scorn from Tolys, which is usually what graces the mailbox on St. Valentine's. Something about her not being Catholic and therefore doomed to fall like the snakes or ... something to that general device, she never understood Catholics. Especially those only using it as an excuse when it seems convenient for them. She shrugs it off, assuming he is finally busying himself with that pompous ass he calls a boyfriend as she returns to the house.

They have given the staff the day off to do as they will. Even Almyra has gone for the day. Unusual for the Head of House, who has been diligent in her duties for well over a century now. Without the stout Prussian barking orders and keeping the house in line, what's left of the color has drained from the house, the light inside feeling grainy, the pressure of quiet creeping in. It's always strange to not hear things in the halls, the dogs' movements muffled as they come sit at her feet. She should be doing work by now, but she can't really concentrate.

The morning passes by, lunch at noon. She eats in silence, sips her coffee, pats the dogs, and lays out a new plan for the day, not content to sit on the couch in the library and do hardly anything but take up space. The day kitchen is cleaned, a grumbling of 'why must the house be so damned massive' under her breath as she ascends the stairs to change into her gardening clothing, the dogs on her heels with waggling tails and siren-whines in their throats in their own excitement at being allowed to go outside for more than the bathroom.

She is exiting the stairwell to the second floor when the doorbell rings. She wonders at first if she should get it, though the dogs go flying back down the stairs toward the door, their joyous howling making up her mind with a raising of hands in defeat as she follows after them. The delivery guy for one of the local florists is almost confused as she opens the door, exasperatedly trying to keep the swamphounds from bolting out the door in greeting.

Finally under control, but no less expressing their greetings vocally, she looks up in time to accept a large vase full of various flowers, colored in the crisp of autumn. Gold, brown, bronze, red. The little card tied with ribbon around it betrays the sender as her councilmen of the parliament.

She gives a small thanks to the young man, intending to shut the door and find a place to put the bouquet when he puts a hand up.

"Actually, there's more." Before she can confirm his statement, he continues. "The entire council came into the shop apparently, and as soon as the other customers learned what they were doing, it became the thing."

"...The thing..." she repeats, mirroring the emphasis.

"Oh yes. The entire truck is strictly for you. This is just the one I had near me from the cab." He indicates the flowers she holds now.

"Oh..."

"Yeah. Should I ... bring them now?"

"Oh yes, please. I will put this somewhere and be out to help in a moment."

The entirety of the first floor is covered in flowers, vases keeping clusters contained, but not keeping them from touching or mingling among each other. Floral forests cover almost every conceivable flat surface that isn't a floor, a splash of colorful ribbons here and there with little paper cards attached with names and well wishes and holiday greetings written across them in various and sundry handwriting styles. The day kitchen is packed with meticulously-stacked boxes of sugar and cocoa treats, from those who sought to go an extra mile. In a race to not be outbid, one of the guest rooms upstairs has a good many boxes that contain other things not edible. She suspects scarves, mostly.

Four trucks followed the first, from different florists. She had been warned that the trend started up and took off so much that the first had to outsource customers to even competing companies. A cascade effect from there; the flood of those who knew what to do telling others as they went. She hadn't expected to see so much, to be honest.

Looking around in bewilderment, she surveys the volume of color splayed before her in every room. She will have to move some around to the upper floors to space them out a bit more. Beyond the confusion and shock that something like this could even happen with such raw ferocity, she feels something else. A familiar twinge, an energy. Gifts bought and sent selflessly in love, it swirls around her feet and legs, winds its way around her in an adoring embrace.

She is them, they are her. In their intent and motivation, she can feel the rattle of this strong residual emotion they left behind in doing this, moving through her veins, her chest. Tingling in her fingers and toes, the tip of her nose. They love her, and in turn love themselves. In that moment, she comes to a conclusion: it is alright to love oneself. There is no harm in that.

The thought that follows as she tries to wrestle a chrysanthemum out of Shuck's mouth is that as soon as these flowers begin to wilt, the maids are going to be angry.

The light of dawn peeked through the crack in the heavy curtains drawn over the bay windows of the bedroom, the sliver of pink-orange creeping across the ceiling until it fell on the bed and the two sleeping forms burrowed within the quilted comforter.

It fell across Zhemyna's eyes, causing her to blink them open and shift a little. The grog of morning was still heavy, her vision starting to focus enough to catch the tinge of pastel touching the tips of Gilbert's hair, the blaze of creeping morning sun causing the white of both hair and skin to alight as though on fire. Her senses were soon to reawaken following sight. The sound of him breathing, slow and shallow; the smell of clean bed linens, ancient plaster, and the undertone tang of bodies; the feel of his arm limply resting over her waist, his skin beneath her own arm draped at his mid-torso.

Her fingers twitched, her arm moved slowly until she rested the palm of her hand against his side. Even so slight a motion stirred him, the breath he took in loud and deep enough she could see it heave his chest, feel it beneath her resting hand.

Her eyes traced his body, along the blazing edge defined by the ever-rising sun's light. Over the shadows cast across his chest, his stomach to where the blankets covered him. Her hand moved again, the palm lifting to leave only the light touches of her fingertips to explore those pale hills and valleys that met her gaze.

Across his stomach, tracing over his chest, along his collarbone, over his neck and along his jawline. Her thumb brushed along his lower lip, her eyes tracing his face, committing it to her memory all over again. He was beautiful, peaceful in his sleep, and as she moved her exploring hand back toward the hinge of his jaw, she felt him stir more. His arm over her waist moved, his eyelids were beginning to flutter, his lips parted just slightly.

She leaned in slowly, brushed his lips with hers before meeting them. She felt the breath draw in, once more deep and slow in his chest as though the kiss were putting life to him, his arm shifting to rest the hand against her hip. It wasn't very long, lethargic. When they parted and she rested her head back to the pillow next to his, she caught sight of the red of his eyes slowly unveiling themselves to the world. They were still glazed with early waking, though he was certainly awake enough to offer a small smile to being greeted as such.

"Kaiils ankstaainai…" she offered to him, her voice stuttered and crackling from disuse. It didn't stop her returning the smile.

Once more, he heaved a sigh of a breath to set the normal breathing rate, his eyes starting to sharpen as he moved, shifting himself amid blankets and sheets so that he could bury his face carefully against her throat and collarbone. "…Your morning breath tastes gross…"

A/N: The first one is kinda personal to me; I went through a depressive spell and wrote that on a whim to make me feel better about writing and creating in general. It takes place quite a bit of time before Gil arrives in the picture.

The second one is clearly after he shows up and was an Ask Meme sent to me from my main Gil RPer on Tumblr.

Apologies for the sudden shift in perspectives; they're from two separate dribbles.