[ maybe, maybe, on any other day that whistling would have piqued alois' curiosity enough to tug him out of his own thoughts, but this wasn't it.
he strolls with long-strides, almost purposeful, and scowls at the ground like it's doing wrong by him somehow. alois has learned, too, in the last couple days how convenient modern-day clothes are. ugly and tacky, but easier to tug onto yourself after having grown completely accustom to someone else doing it for you. he's a dainty thing engulfed in a sweater—hem down to his hips and sleeves coming down to the middle knuckles of his fingers—to battle off any chill, tiny white shorts, and black opaque stockings, and little flower-print ankle boots.
in the last three days nothing has improved, of course, and so he's decided today—he's going to plant himself, and he's marching for the garden. he's sick of being a boy, so he'll become a rose bush instead. pretty to look at, but harmful to touch. it's one of those He Hates Everything days. ]