Chapter Text
It was a slow day. Most days were—owning a small flower shop/nursery in a seedy part of a relatively small city (nestled in a little corner just off the interstate) never came with the the expectation of glamor or accolades. It was a humble existence, but one that Qui-Gon much preferred to the purposeless monotony of his last job—a humble 9-5 as a meager paper-pusher. There were still some monotonies in his humble little nursery, but they came with the added benefit of feeling less like burdens and more like peaceful pleasures.
He had just returned from a quick stop down by the greenhouse to water the pallets of new-sprouted tomato seedlings, when the front door chimed an in walked a rather handsome looking, put-together sort of man. He wore a neat button-down shirt, a crisp pair of jeans, and walked with a heavy limp, relying heavily on a walking cane to support more of his weight. He had short cropped hair and seemed fairly young—somewhere in his mid to late 20s.
“Hello,” Qui-Gon said, dipping his head.
The man’s sunburnt and lightly freckles cheeks flushed, and he dipped his head sheepishly in return. “Hello,” he said quietly, and turned his attention towards the row of glass-cased refrigerators, carefully admiring the varieties of bouquets and delicately cut flowers within.
“Looking for something in particular?” Qui-Gon asked.
The man hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the cuffs of his button-up shirt. (Considering the high heat of the early August afternoon, Qui-Gon was a bit surprised in his patron’s choice of long sleeves. Still, it wasn’t his business, so Qui-Gon didn’t say anything about it. He looked like a businessman, somebody who cared terribly about unimportant things like finances and appearances and business cards and suits.)
“Ah... yes, actually. There’s a certain, special message I want to send to someone,” the man said, shifting uncomfortably before looking up to meet Qui-Gon’s eyes.
Qui-Gon couldn’t help the little smile that spread across his face. “Well, in many cultures, certain flowers have very specific symbolic meanings. Put together, a bunch of flowers could be used to send a special message,”
The young man’s face lit up. “Yes! That! The language of flowers! I... Ah, I knew about that. That’s what I was hoping to ask about but I wasn’t sure... ahem, how to phrase it. I didn’t want to come bursting into your store, demanding you write me a message coded in a secret language of flowers. I didn’t... I didn’t want to seem like a loon,” the young man said.
Qui-Gon couldn’t help but to laugh. “Yes, very understandable. Probably a wise decision—I made the same mistake once, except, instead of a flower shop, I was at a butcher. Imagine the look on his face when I requested the man help me craft a secret message out of pork chops and beef tenderloins,”
The young man looked up at him, wide-eyed and almost unsure. It wasn’t until Qui-Gon winked that the young man’s face split into a huge grin and he laughed , tossing his head back. And Qui-Gon found himself unable to stop himself from grinning because it was an rather infectious laugh.
“So then, about that message,” Qui-Gon said. “What do you want to say? A declaration of love? Marriage proposal?”
This was certainly not the first time a customer had come with the such a request. Bouquets were typically given for romantic reasons—Qui-Gon assumed that the young man’s request would be the same.
It was not.
The young man froze totally still, and his sunkissed cheeks flushed red, all the way up to his ears.
“Ah... no, no. Nothing like that,” he said.
Definitely not.
“Alright, then. So what are you looking for?” Qui-Gon asked, and the young man looked up at him and flashed the most brilliant, shit-eating smile Qui-Gon had ever seen.
“I’m looking for something that says a hearty ‘ fuck you’,” he said, sounding nothing short of pleased with himself.
Laughter erupted from Qui-Gon. He couldn’t help it—he was starting to like this man more and more.
“Of course Mr. ...”
“Ah! Kenobi. Obi-Wan Kenobi. You can just call me Obi-Wan, I’m really not one for formalities,” the young man—Obi-Wan—interjected quickly, shifting the cane to rest precariously against his hip and sticking out his hand.
“Qui-Gon Jinn. I’m not one for formalities either,” Qui-Gon said, taking Obi-Wan’s hand and clasping it right within his own. “Yes, I believe I have the perfect thing for you,” He turned his attention back to myriads of flowers and carefully went down the line, opening up refrigerator doors, plucking flowers from their vases, and neatly gathering them up in his arms before continuing on down the line.
“Tell me, Obi-Wan. Is this for an ex-lover? This has ex-lover written all over it,” Qui-Gon mused, carefully arranging the flowers into a neat bouquet.
Obi-Wan laughed, then his face twisted up in disgust as he considered the mental image, then he laughed again.
“No, no ex-lovers. Just one very grumpy old man,” he explained.
“Neighbor?” Qui-Gon probed.
“Ah... client? Patient? I’m not sure what I would call him. Well... a royal pain-in-the-ass, but I’m sure that’s not the answer you’re looking for,” Obi-Wan said. “I work at a nursing home,” he began, carefully following behind Qui-Gon, keeping a firm grip his cane as he limped forward. “There’s this guy, Palpatine—we just call him Palps—he’s this real crotchety old fuck. Complains about everything, says lots of racist things to my poor Mon Cala colleague, Bant, always demanding this or that, cheats at bingo... he just very... high maintenance. And I’m the one he takes it out on because I’m the one who blends his food up and gives him sponge baths,” Obi-Wan huffed. “Lucky me, right?”
“Sounds like a very frustrating job. This-“ he gestured to the half-finished bouquet. “Is certainly a very unique way of telling somebody how you feel about them. I admire your tact,” he smiled genuinely at Obi-Wan, and noted how Obi-Wan’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed, before he averted his gaze. Qui-Gon’s cheeks flushed, too.
“I do like it there. And I don’t hate Palps, per say... he’s just frustrating,” Obi-Wan said softly, fidgeting with his sleeves once more. I don’t want you to think I’m a bad person. The subtext seemed to read and Qui-Gon merely chuckled.
Carefully, perhaps nervously, Obi-Wan continued to fidget with the cuffs of his sleeps and ultimately ended up giving in and simply undid the button and rolled his sleeves up to his elbow, revealing two sleeves of very meticulous, geometric tattoos crossing up and down his forearms. There were words and names along side the intricate design, written in a language that Qui-Gon wasn’t familiar with.
Obi-Wan must’ve got Qui-Gon staring at them, because he flushed once more and sheepishly tugged down his sleeves. But the florist reached out and put his hand over Obi-Wan’s, a gesture to leave the fabric alone. His hand lingered there, perhaps just longer than it should’ve.
“I like them,” he said. Then quirked an eyebrow and pointed at one design in particular that rested on the inside of Obi-Wan’s forearm. “212?” He asked, reading back the number penned into the skin.
Sheepishly, leaning more on the desk for support than on his cane, he covered up the tattoo with his hand, a gesture halfway between trying to hide the mark, and touching it affectionately. His eyes were far away, only for a moment.
“Ah... it’s... nothing really. My battalion number,” he said softly.
Qui-Gon’s eyebrows lifted once more. The young man was certainly full of surprises. “You served?” he asked, earn a smile that was torn between wry and wistful.
“I did. 212th battalion. It was... a long time ago. I didn’t serve very long—fourteen campaigns over three tours. On my last campaign, I got caught up in an explosion. There’s... really not much you can do for the army when you’re down one leg, so they let me go,” he explained, patting his thigh.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Qui-Gon said with a frown and Obi-Wan merely shrugged.
“That’s alright. I don’t regret it. Not at all,” His focus was back down to his tattoos, eyes gently tracing up and down the lines as if they were something sacred, something to never be forgotten.
“And what does that bit say?” Qui-Gon asked, pointing to a little bit of text that peaked out just below his bicep.
“ Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum,” Obi-Wan read off in a language that was very much not basic. “It’s Mando’a, a remembrance. ‘ I am still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal. ’,”
Below that a handful of names were transcribed—Waxer, Longshot, Wooley, Fives, Tup, Cody—presumably the names of deceased comrades.
Obi-Wan was quick to clear his throat. “I-I... apologize. Like I said, it was a long time ago, it hardly matters now,” he said with a brilliant grin that somehow felt a little less sincere.
Qui-Gon returned the smile, softly, gently, and got up, abandoning the hate-bouquet, and retrieved a few stalks of some kind of yellow flower, and a few sprigs of small blue flowers. He assembled them into a little bouquet while he returned to the front desk.
“Here,” he said, pressing the little bouquet of flowers into Obi-Wan’s surprised hands. He let his own hands linger around the young man’s, holding them tight. “Daffodils, a symbol of good luck, happiness and new beginnings,” he began, reaching up with one hand to tap one of the yellow blooms. “And forget-me-nots. A sacred promise to always remember; a symbol for deep love, the kind that will never fade with time—even after death,” He tapped one of the little blue flowers, then returned his hands to Obi-Wan’s giving them a little squeeze.
“I had a Mandalorian friend once,” he began. “‘ Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la ,’ he would always say. ‘ Not gone, just marching far away.’,”
Obi-Wan ducked his head, a bit at a loss for words. “I couldn’t possibly-“ he began.
“No, it’s alright. It’s yours, free of charge. I understand the sentiment—sometimes losses continue to ache even long after the fact,” he said, and turned his attention back to the hate-bouquet, where he carefully maneuvered the last stalks into place.
“Now as for your distinctive message of ‘Fuck you’ I think this will do nicely,” he said, holding up the bouquet. “Geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet for uselessness, yellow carnations for disappointment, and orange lilies for hatred. Quite striking if I do say so myself!” Qui-Gon said, looking rather smug.
Obi-Wan laughed. “Oh yes, absolutely. I couldn’t agree more,” he said, absolutely beaming as he took ahold of the second bouquet. This time, it was his fingers that brushed against Qui-Gon’s and lingered. “Th-thank you!” he stammered, shifting weight as he reached for the wallet and paid for the bouquet of flowers.
“Of course,” Qui-Gon said, dipping his head. “I... very much appreciated talking to you. It gets lonely here sometimes, it’s nice to stop and chat, even for just a moment,”
That stupid, cocky grin was back on Obi-Wan’s face, albeit a little sheepish. “Then I’ll have to come back sometime,” he offered.
Qui-Gon smiled and, much to his chagrin, felt his cheeks grow warmer and warmer. “Please do. I’m very eager to hear how the hate-bouquet goes,”
Obi-Wan nodded eagerly. “Of course!” he exclaimed, shifting his grip on his cane. “It was very nice to meet you, Qui-Gon,” he said, hiding his smile behind his flowers. “I’ll be sure to come back sometime,”
And just like that, with a wave and a nod, he was gone. Qui-Gon shook his head and the smile fell from his face. What a strange man. And stranger still: the shop felt suddenly empty in his absence. Or perhaps, he had simply been so lonely for so long, the sudden absence of somebody else simply left the room feeling colder than it had been.
Qui-Gon hadn’t needed anybody in a long, long time. Which is why he found it so strange when he found himself hoping that Obi-Wan would keep his word and return again.