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“Describe it to me again.”
They were sitting together at the manor gardens. It was unusually quiet that day, but they did not mind. The weather was sunny and fresh, and the flowers were blooming.
“It’s nothing special.”
“That, my friend, is for me to decide. Go ahead.”
The taller man sighs, passing the vase from one hand to another, observing the plant that was blurred in his vision. He wishes he had his glasses, but he also knows they wouldn’t change anything, circumstances considered.
He did not need them for the task, however.
“It’s just a venus flytrap.”
“Mr. Ginger, I’m aware of its name.”
“Dionaea muscipula. It’s not a native specimen, here. It’s a carnivorous plant…”
“Luchino.”
He startles at the call to his name. Antonio does not usually call him so.
“I asked you to describe it to me.”
“Is that not what I was doing?”
“No. I want to know what it looks like.”
“... Green?”
Antonio cackles.
“Go on.”
”What is there to go on about?”
“Well. What do you like about it?”
“What?”
“It’s… It’s your favourite, isn’t it? You have told me before. I wished to know why.”
He swears he notices the musician’s face heat up a little bit, but he pushes the silly thought away. Instead, he carefully, ever-so gently reaches for Antonio’s stitched hand with his own, careful due to its puppet-like fragility, and guides it to the vase. His fingers brush against the delicate hairs of the flytrap, and his eye sockets blink in wonder.
“Oh?”
“There are these… They’re little hairs. They’re around the plant, and inside. When you touch it first, it sets up its trap, but it doesn’t close unless there’s more stimuli.”
“But my fingers are not food.”
“Hah, suppose not. But it doesn’t hurt it. I think. It’s only just getting ready to…”
Luchino stops, feeling the tips of Antonio’s hair reaching around his wrist with a gentle grip.
“...Antonio?”
“Yes?”
“Your hair.”
“Ah?”
“My wrist.”
“Ah!”
The hair recoils, with the violinist holding it back, wringing a strand in his hands in an almost violent manner. Luchino holds back a laugh in respect of the smaller man, but he did often find himself wondering if his hair had a mind of its own.
“I suppose your hair must think I’m food.”
Antonio tilts his head in confusion.
“I think I’m a little too big for you to digest, however.”
It takes him a second, but Antonio starts cackling, the sound of his laughter as beautiful and melodious as the music from his violin. Luchino smiles to himself; he felt like the musician’s smile could make even withered flowers bloom anew.
He stares once again at the vase in his hand, noticing the little hairs going back in place to set the trap once more.
He couldn’t quite place it before, but he feels like he has a new reason for why it was his favourite.