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Every life must come to an end, and when it does, he will be there for the transition, for death itself is a transformation.
The body is meant to wither and decay, things that are deemed as natural, but he suspends the process for his mercy is not like the god of death —he is far kinder to his subjects. He exalts them in passing, makes their souls project into heaven at their most perfect, readying them for heaven so that they may greet the feathered angels looking their best.
His name is Dimitri Alexander Blaiddyd, and he is a funeral director.
When asked what he does that is all he says, never entailing the true purpose of his calling. He believes himself to be a mediator between the living and the dead. He beautifies the bodies, preps them for viewing so that their last appearance on this earth is a kind one. He gives closure to the living, and eternal rest to the dead. He arranges the services, gathers the priest so that he may conduct the ceremony upon holy land. This is what he does, and he does so to aid others in the grieving he never got to properly experience.
It is no simple task but who better for it than a man who is most often plagued by death. His parents died in a carriage accident, the bodies to this day remain at the bottom of a river. Other members of his blood have perished as well, through kinder means of old age, others from sickness, and others through fighting a rich man’s war. He is the only one who remains, the last bearer of the Blaiddyd name. His bloodline will end with him, and he has no qualms against his sorrows. Dimitri does not pursue life because home is where death is. The silence the dead bring is more comforting to him than the ruckus of the living.
This is what he thought as he laid a young girl to rest. She died before the cruelty of this world seeped into her veins and poisoned her, perhaps a blessing in disguise, considering the suffering she would have endured otherwise. The girl’s appearance remains fragile even in death, and he will accentuate that, preserve her everlasting innocence with soft pigments.
A brush, fine fibers coated in a rosette balm, he fills in her lips with gentle strokes. Each gesticulation is meticulous as the color brings vitality to her whitish face. He fills in the lines of her lips, colors the center with a richer, warmer tone, while the edges thin out into a lighter color. Next he bathes this body in blush, a vast amount of product speckled atop her cheeks to give the color she lacked. Pink is femininity-- pink matches her rosy lips, and cheeks just as equally decored, vibrant like a blooming spring. She was as beautiful in life as she is in death, his only hope is that his interpretation appeases her spirit.
The finishing touch, a white orchid, set upon her hands. He rearranges her fingers so that she may cradle the stem, allowing the petals to radiate purity upon her sleeping body. Her body will forever be preserved by a wooden casket, and immortalized with the garnish of a white flower.
“Ready yourself, Dimitri,” Familiarity comes in the shape of a priest, he walks much like a man he knows and sounds like him too, ordained by the church he refers to himself as Seteth.
A hand comes to his shoulder in affirmation, urging him to accept that the time has come, that there is no longer anything he can do for this lost soul. “For our maker will shortly welcome her upon her kingdom.”
Dimitri listens but acts as though he had not. He proceeds on his work, arranging the hair in a way that flatters her. His hands move behind her, cushioning the padding that will keep her sitting upright for the viewing.
“Dimitri,” Seteth speaks, firm yet kind in the way he directs himself at the funeral director. “Her family is here and they will take her to where she will be buried.” The weight on Dimitri’s shoulder ceases, but only because the hand redirects to the casket, where slowly, he begins to push the header of the casket to a close. Dimitri watches as the last bit of light fades from the casket, submerging the girl in the darkness of eternal slumber, where she will never wake again.
“Will you join me on the walk there?” The priest inquires, patient as he awaits on the answer that never fluctuates.
“I’ll meet up with you there.” The sound of Dimitri’s voice is monotone, impartial to company, just as he’s always been. “There is still much work to be done,” he’ll make it to the site before the rite ends, he always does.
“But of course.” The priest accepts the reply, he always does. This is not the first time this exchange has occurred, nor will it be the last. Their dialogue is doomed to repetition and never once does it become stale.
Dimitri keeps true to his word. He breaks many things but his word is not one of them, and even in letters where they are tangible, he does not dare shred them. He locks his place of business, sets the key to his pocket, and makes haste to the cemetery. His presence is not as important as the priest, but no less required.
As he walks the cement path he comes to find a young man around his age, prim with the presence of flowers as they lay abundant in his arms. He’s never witnessed such a display of color. With how they are arranged, its flamboyance seems finite in the man’s strong arms. He carries a pep to his step, brown-haired tresses softly bouncing with every step that carries him Dimitri’s way. This man does not seem to notice any presence that’s not flora, as he seems too preoccupied with the bundle in his hands to notice Dimitri’s dawdling gaze.
Just at that thought, the stranger lifts his head, unveiling to Dimitri his pair of exceptional eyes. His iris is a garland of the most beautiful green, like pines from a tree. He is reminiscent of the forest’s wealth, an existence so full of life as he houses the flowers he holds.
It takes a second for them to pass one another, and another second to have this stranger call out to him. Dimitri turns with hesitation clearly etched on his face when his brows knit together.
He is presented with a flower, saturated with warmth as if cultivated from the sun itself. A fully matured flower, peaking when its petals spread for him, waiting for his fingers to embrace it. “For you.” He speaks, the softness in this man’s voice a conflict for Dimitri to overcome.
“Why would you give me a flower? You don’t even know me.” Dimitri is incredulous to the best of intentions, so he meets them with diffidence.
“You look sad.” The man before him responds, honesty not entirely in the wake of his eyes, and yet, he speaks only of truth. He doesn’t mock Dimitri, nor does he pity him, instead, those eyes of his flock to the flower, his eyes glowing a tinge softer when they do. The flower twirls upon his digits, a mesmerizing dance to invoke the feeling of fondness, and Dimitri is unsure whether the feeling of fondness he starts to feel is for the flower or the man who captured it.
“Though I suppose you’re right, it is a bit much to give a stranger a flower.” Gentle is the smile that graces his lips when he tucks the flower alongside the others. “From now on I'll reserve my flowers for a friend.” He pinches one of the petals and twists it off. As he holds the petal between thumb and forefinger, he extends it to Dimitri as an offering, “And my petals for a stranger.”
Petals for a stranger? How absolutely mind numbing that phrase sounds to Dimitri’s ears. Even though this man offers the morsel to him, he does not take the initiative to grasp it upon his hand. In its stead, he stares at the pert bit with confusion.
“Hm,” the stranger’s hum lacks patience as he tucks the petal inside Dimitri’s vest pocket. His fingertips make slight contact with a pocket watch, and unintentionally, pushes it deeper, rattling the chain that drapes from above.
“If you ever need me...” the ends of his voice paces for a slow stop, as if focused elsewhere. His vision so fixated on the chain lingering from the pocket, shiny with silver links casting his reflection in multitudes. This stranger pulls his fingers out, and allows his arm to rest in the air when bent at the elbow. “...Come find me.” He looks up at Dimitri now, engaging him with his gaze alone. The expression in his eyes is so vibrant, something to contrast the softer curves of his smiling lips. And just like that, it is farewell between the two of them.
He begins to leave, body turning the opposite direction to carry him a distance far away. The longer ends of his hair rebel, turning swiftly into loose locks that ruffled with the wind. It’s hard for Dimitri to understand why something so mundane has captured his attention. Just what does this gentleman exude that compels him to follow in his footsteps? He almost does, but reason gets the better of him.
The gentlemen’s posterior angles reflect confidence, and with it, carelessness as he continues to roam free beyond the vicinity. Dimitri lacks confidence, and thus, he casts his gaze downwards. Shy when his eyes escape the thralling vision of the man walking.
What he finds when he looks to the ground is a petal, picked raw from a flower and discarded on the ground. Then another petal, and another - a whole gathering of them trailing the same path the mystery man left behind. He’s leaving a trail for Dimitri to follow, but he cannot distract himself with nonsense, he has work to do. However, it’s not every day that an encounter like this happens, so he wagers on the opportunity.
Time seems to diminish, he does not have the opportunity to think things through, not when the estranged footsteps of passersby perturb the trail. Petals begin to scatter in the direction of footsteps, only to be carried a further distance with a slight breeze. Disorder— his path no longer laid out for him as neatly as it was, and because of it, he feels at a loss.
His footsteps kick in without his knowing, ushering him forward before the path ahead becomes unknown to him. It is automatic, with no thoughts to reassure him of his wrong doing. He’s walking away from his responsibility to see something he does not quite yet understand.
He steps where he recalls, gathering the stray petals into his palm and once he reaches the street corner, he looks around for any trace of yellow scantily pressed on to the sidewalk. To the right of him he spots one, so he turns to that direction, and handpicks it for his collection. Dimitri does not run but he comes quite close to a sprint. As he tries to figure out where to head next, he catches a glimpse of the mysterious man. Dimitri thought about calling out but he has no name to call out with, only a fist full of petals.
The stranger blends into the crowd, his figure suddenly becomes obscured by the vast quantity of people crowding the streets. Dimitri moves against the crowd, opposing the very direction they walk in, and nearly stumbles out of place but manages to regain his footing at the last second. He’s completely at a loss to where this stranger might be but soon clings on to hope at the sight of a petal.
With this reappearance he is back on track, at least that’s what he tries to convince himself. He follows this trail not knowing where it will lead, and for the first time in years, his spirit bursts with vitality. He’s wandered into places he’s yet explored, whereabouts he’d deemed too unnecessary to divulge in. He is a man of routine, and to have deviancy is unusual for him.
Eventually the trail of petals leads him into a garden of flowers and that’s where he finds his stranger, knee deep in the flower beds. When seeing someone on their knees he is reminded of prayer, never would his mind envision someone tending to a garden. The garden in question is a beautiful landscape contrived of distinct greenery that sprouts from the tender ground. Organic matter takes many forms, some of them are vines that snare around branching trees, and from them, miniature flowers bud to accessorize the trees. Though, what he most commonly finds with his curious gaze are hedges taller than he can reach. Hedges brimming with the rustic yellow of drying leaves, and whose archways form entries to more secluded parts of the garden.
Pigment fills the grayscale areas of his life. Each color morphs into a flower that buds from the ground up. Some stems are long while others remain short, with this observation, he knows which ones are the newest. And just like that, with a snip, one of the flowers met its premature end. His guess is that it had been further along in life, however, upon a better look, he spots a bit of rot. The flower was sick, so it makes sense to isolate it before it rotted the others.
It would appear that even flowers follow the same principles that humans do.
The stranger lifts his head, stalling his work for a few precious moments to marvel at whoever came to disturb him. Once he’s done looking at Dimitri, he returns to his work. He is of blithe tone as he cuts away decaying parts with his handy tool, “I didn’t expect that you would come.”
Seven words. All that it takes to set him off because it meant that he was sent on this journey for nothing. He’s missing out on work over a man so facetious. A man who managed to capture him with a wreath woven by petals. Frustrated by his own foolishness, Dimitri opens his fist to reveal the petals he’s gathered. “You planted your traps on the small chance that you’d capture me?” He questions the stranger incredulously.
The man of green eyes turns to look at Dimitri’s hand and at the offering of wilted pieces. They are mere scraps, but still, his gaze upon them reflect such fondness that he’s envious that he himself was not looked upon with equivalent feeling. As if his significance was lesser than a torn flower (perhaps it is).
“Traps sounds distasteful. I think the term invitation is best suited for my concocted scheme.” The smile he offers, although cheeky, is enough to sate Dimitri’s frustration for a moment.
Glancing back into the center of Dimitri’s palm, the stranger’s lips begin to silently voice numbers. He counts each petal, the numbers are never actually vocalized, still, Dimitri manages to read his lips. Counting, just as he does, watching as his lips softly move, drawing his focus deeper with each aperture.
Whoever this man is, he sets his tool aside and begins to dig a hole with his fingers. Nails grimy with the soil, he continues to dig a deeper pocket into the earth for reasons not yet known.
“You appear to be quite interested in flowers.” Awkward— Dimitri speaks of the obvious, always taking apart noticeable traits so that he cannot be disputed upon. In theory, it should make for a decent conversation starter, but not when executed so poorly.
His commentary was not judged too harshly seeing as how it caused the unknown man to chuckle. A name, he should ask for a name, but then this man reveals something of himself that doesn’t surprise him in the least. “I’m a florist.” He says, projecting pride in his profession.
So yes, quite interested in flowers.
“And you?” He asks this of Dimitri, subtly angling his head to gauge his expression as he awaited an answer.
“A funeral director.” Dimitri answers plainly.
The florist stops his digging momentarily, taking into account the similarities of their jobs, and how they both must dig to bury and preserve matters within the earth. “That’s depressing.” He mimics Dimitri’s nonchalant tone. Dimitri can’t help but feel slighted by the remark.
“It’s good work,” he doesn’t know why he’s justifying himself to a stranger, but he feels the need to clear the air. “When you properly bury the dead, you help their spirit move on. They won’t be left wondering the earth confused and lost. In a way, I am helping them.”
The stranger doesn’t have anything to say, he continues to urge his focus on the hole beneath, prepping the walls by padding it with his fingers. “I never said it wasn’t good work, just that it’s depressing.”
This man never had any qualms about pointing out Dimitri’s inherent gloominess. Quite bold really, and frankly, rude, he knows nothing of Dimitri to make such idle comments.
“Besides, you help the family. Funerals are for the family, to gather them and help them say their final goodbyes.” By the appearance of it, he is done digging his hole and allows his hand to rest on the margins. Then he continues to speak with ease, “But it’s redundant because the dead never truly die.” With his opposing hand, one untarnished with dirt, he takes claim of Dimitri’s wrist. “They come back.” This takes Dimitri by surprise, and comes to find that he doesn’t fight against this stranger when he begins to guide his hand down. He bends down at the hips, lowering himself near the hole with relative ease.
The stranger presses his thumb against the crease of Dimitri’s wrist, adding slight pressure to spring his hand open once more. Dimitri carefully unfurls his fingers, showcasing the petals in all their wilted splendor.
“Reborn, much like flowers do.” He teases Dimitri’s hand, leaning it in a way so that the petals naturally fall into the pit. He lets go and begins to add the remainder of the carcass into the hole, leafs, stems and all.
“You speak dangerous thoughts.” This lack of heaven or hell, where is the judgement in that? Dimitri cannot wrap his head around it. “You compare the deceased to flowers. Being surrounded with so much beauty and life has warped your understanding of reality.”
The florist starts shoveling the dirt into the hole he buried. He does not seem too concerned with Dimitri’s remark. “Flowers are a living life form just like humans, of all shapes and sizes —growing— just like humans do.”
Dimitri’s thoughts have never been as intricate in regards to flowers. His only care towards them is the significance they possess. Every arrangement gives the send off a different feel, a different meaning.
This man continues where he left off, not a beat out of place. “Flowers start off as a seed, then with time they splinter into maturity, until they wither and die. How is that any different from us?”
He plucks a petal from a nearby flower. “I could pluck all the petals from this flower until there’s nothing.” He holds it up to Dimitri before allowing it to pillow down into the rest of the hole, which is now halfway filled. “I could bury its body into the ground, know it will decompose and give something back to nature.”
He gathers the last of the dirt and piles it until it forms a small mound. “But this petal here is the soul, it will give life again, it will regrow under the right conditions.” With his palm the man continues to press down, flattening the earth. Against his better judgement, Dimitri nudges the man’s hand away with his foot so that he may proceed to compress the soil with his foot.
The kneeling man looks elated with Dimitri’s contribution, no matter how minor.
“I feel as though a partnership between the both of us would be a benefit.” Dimitri starts off. Their viewpoints may not align but there is much he could learn from this man. Much in terms of flowers and in what arrangements they need to be, to provide a better service for the passing, something more meaningful.
“You want to buy my flowers?” A direct question, cutting straight to the chase.
“I would like for you to supply them, yes.” Dimitri’s answer is more hesitant, expressing trouble when it comes to something he wants. “You have more... variety... than I am accustomed to seeing.” This garden is filled with beauty. Delicate and strange pieces that rekindle his appreciation for smaller lives.
“Let me think.” Is the answer Dimitri is given.
With mild ease the florist comes to pick up the shears and snips away at one more flower. It is of the same kind in which he tried to give him earlier. The nameless stranger then rises to his feet, dusts off his knees and proceeds to hand Dimitri the flower he currently holds. This time Dimitri accepts. While taking it, their fingers brush slightly at the transfer.
Petals among strangers, flowers for a friend.
The man briefly gathers the bouquet he was carrying earlier. Steadily he fondles the reaching petals with the edge of his thumb. He caters to them, as if they too had a pulsing heartbeat, and considering his choice of words, this man truly believes they are alive just as they are. Life is precious no matter how small, how inconsequential.
The man looks at his collection of flowers with great fondness. The smile on his lips is just as sweet as the blossoms smell. “Before we’re able to call ourselves business associates, we must first be able to call each other friends.” He speaks like velvet, soft in the texture like the petals skirting so close to Dimitri’s nose.
He takes a whiff of the mild fragrance and finds his eyes drifting to a close. Soothing . He feels warmth traverse through his being when the shadow of an archway branches above to keep him cool.
“Do tell, what is the name of this new friend whom I just have acquired?” Dimitri’s lids pull open, his vision blurry by the softness he feels within. He studies the flower. Balances its weight in between his fingers, marveled by the ounces of life at his grasp. He’s so used to tending to the dead and the dullness that comes with it, that he’s become unaccustomed with the vibrancy of life.
He sheds a frail smile behind the flower.
“Claude.” Dimitri’s new friend is Claude.
“Claude.” Is the name Dimitri utters when the florist appears at his funeral home. Astonishment ties his tongue shut, that means he can do nothing else but gawk in sheer silence as Claude saunters in, cradling an excessive amount of flowers. Despite the impromptu visit, Claude is not an unwelcome presence, however what he does find unnerving is how Claude was able to figure out where he works. Dimitri never disclosed that information. So then how?
“How did you find me?” Is the first thing he asks because it’s the first thought that occupies his mind.
“I asked around.” Claude stops an inch short of reaching the counter, his eyes immediately zeroing in on the flower he’d given his friend. Presently perched on a desk inside a glass vase, cosy enough to house a single flower. The flower slants forward, hanging its head low. The isolation got to it and now weeps petals into the pit of the glass. Shriveled petals are dehydrated, as is the rest of the flower, no wonder its life ended when it did.
Dimitri is unable to meet Claude’s eyes due to shame. He mismanaged such a precious gift, and because of it, Claude will surely rethink his company. Though the thing about this florist is that he always manages to curve his expectations.
The flower is plucked from the vase by a brown hand, and soon enough, it lays to rest on the desk’s surface. Some of the petals fell in the process but that was expected, considering the frail state that it was in. Then Claude’s hand moves to the vase and flips it, emptying it before pressing in a fresher flower: a rose. He follows by adding an additional rose so it won’t fall to the same melancholy its predecessor did.
The florist spills the flowers encased within his arms over Dimitri’s desk, the surplus of flora nearly topples the vase, fortunately, Dimitri did well to catch it before it shattered. Layered upon his desk he recognizes the white roses and hydrangeas, but there are other plants thrown into the mix, such as gyp and myrtle to add color to the couplings.
Claude settles his hands on his hips triumphantly. He looks onward, admiring what little he had accomplished, pride carrying his voice alongside subtle determination. “We have to liven up the place! It feels like a morgue,” he speaks aloud, musing mostly to himself.
“Well what do you fucking expect,” in comes a tertiary voice from the far off end of the building. A lean figure rose from behind a wooden stand, his long hair swept to the side and combed into a high bun. He had always preferred to keep his hair out of the way when working, it’s no different that he would choose to do so now when working on a less strenuous task. Dimitri had forgotten about Felix’s presence, mostly because he had been so quiet working up to this point. There was no strike of a hammer, no mulling of a saw, just inspecting that the furniture had been kept proper.
“This is a funeral home, you won’t exactly find rainbows and sunshine here.” Felix approaches them, and once he stills he places a hand to his hip, partly mimicking Claude. His sunset eyes dig at Dimitri pointedly, still jarred from taking over his duties during the previous ceremony.
Felix is a carpenter, this boy builds coffins, and everything in between as long as it involves wood. He’s present at the funerals for quality assurance only, if a coffin for any reason becomes damaged, he’s there to fix it. Although he’s emotionally intuitive, he’s not the most tactile at expressing grievances. Dimitri would never willingly place his friend in a position in which he would have to, unfortunately, decisions he had made had put Felix in an uncomfortable predicament. Though, if he has to be honest, Dimitri doesn’t regret it, he doesn’t regret meeting Claude.
“Or flowers in that case.” Felix pics up one of the roses, wrist slack as the weight inconveniences him. He looks at the rose like it's inconsequential before discarding it back into the pile without care.
As a follow up, Claude picks up that very same rose, twirls it around his fingers, taking in all its beautiful angles before sticking the flower between Felix’s lips, fitting perfectly inside his small mouth. “Something to pretty up that ugly mouth of yours.” A sly comment seeing as the carpenter cannot respond.
The corolla tips slightly outward due to the weight, giving it enough of a push forward to make it easier to spit out. Which is what he ends up doing, straight onto the floor, where it then becomes flattened under his heel. This is his defiance towards Claude. His eyes are brightly ignited; Felix is drawn like a moth to a flame with heated arguments, which is why he retaliates in such a fashion. He is a man who is always on the defensive, except today apparently, because Claude got through with only just a flower and shattered his ego.
“ I don’t have time for this nonsense.” He speaks with vitriol and drinks it just the same. It cycles through his blood, giving him life until the end of his days. Felix begins to walk away, and bumps his shoulder against Claude’s. Dimitri, who knows Felix well, understands that Felix accepts him, accepts his defiant spirit. Felix is not a man who minces his words and plenty of people find him off putting because of it. He needs people who can see beyond that, people who understand that to get through to him, that actions worked better than words.
“Well, once you have the time, come find me.” The very same thing Claude had once told Dimitri, he now repeats to his childhood friend, Felix.
“Shut up.” And then a slam of the door. The sound of slamming wood echoes through the halls, bringing a smile to Claude. Another one of Claude’s victories, Dimitri thinks, another one to add upon many others. Though, he’s happy that things ended the way they did and that he didn’t have to intervene. He doesn’t want to imagine what it would have been like to pry Felix’s fingers loose from Claude’s neck, or worse, arranging another funeral.
“Why have you come?” He can’t imagine why Claude would seek him out. He didn’t think he left a good impression, at least, not good enough to become business partners. Perhaps that’s why he’s here, to tell him his answer. He did tell him that he’ll think about it, and now enough time has passed to tell Dimitri all the reasons why this partnership wouldn’t work. “Are you here to give me your answer?” Dimitri braces himself for the inevitable rejection. Claude’s flowers are too lively for a place like this. He’d never be willing to part from his flowers and leave them at a dreary cemetery, where all things dead come to be.
“I thought my answer was obvious.” Answer? As far as he recalls, there was no word of yes or no exchanged between the two of them.
“I’m afraid that I don’t understand.” Dimitri places his palms on the desk, fingers strumming nervously along the edge, baiting time as the seconds come to pass.
“I had told you, ‘before we’re able to conduct business, we must first be able to call one another friends’.” Claude starts as his hand drifts to a nearby hydrangea, snugs it gently between his fingers and lifts it. “And right before that I gave you a flower,” he passes this next flower to Dimitri, “the flower was me saying yes.” He takes a brief pause prior to continuing. “I reserve my flowers for my friends, remember?” Claude sets his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at Dimitri. Eyes high on him, he studies Dimitri with intense focus. The curve his nose makes, the soft lines of his lips that match the edges of his face, delicate in a broken kind of way. And just like Claude looks at him, he too looks back at Claude with redeemed focus. In the end, it is Claude who breaks the silence. “And then you left before you even told me your name or where you worked.” He leans back, straightening his back on the opposing end of the table. “I asked a lot of people many different questions to try and find you, which led me to many different places. It only took a couple of days but I finally found you.”
Dimitri’s face burns bright with embarrassment. He then uses his bangs as a veil, hiding his gaze behind long strands of hair. “I'm sorry for the inconvenience I've caused you, I'm afraid that I'm not good with riddles." He looks over the flowers, and starts gathering some in his hands, something to preoccupy himself with.
"Is a riddle what I am to you, something to figure out?" Claude asks smugly and Dimitri has no other way to answer that other than yes. But he doesn’t verbally provide an answer because his silence is as good as it gets.
After Dimitri gathers all the flowers and cradles them (similarly to the way Claude does), he begins to walk around the desk to where Clause currently stands, just to be closer, to feel his uplifting energies. “I appreciate you bringing these beautiful flowers to me, as thanks, I suppose I owe you my name.”
The florist places his hands behind him, huddled together in the small of his back as he shifts his weight on to one side, awaiting for the sweet release of a name.
“Dimitri.” Claude’s expression softens upon hearing the name. Such a perfect expression makes him at a loss for words, without adding much, he swallows timidly and then clears his throat.
“Well, Dimitri, how often do you want me to make deliveries?” A good question. The business of death is complicated. A person cannot predict when someone will die next, so it’s hard to anticipate how frequently he’ll need flowers. It wouldn’t be a problem if flowers had a limitless lifespan, but since they wilt fast, stocking up wouldn't be a smart investment.
“Actually, I’d prefer to come to you whenever I am in need. Do you have a shop somewhere?” After the question Claude briefly looks down in thought then up at Dimitri again.
“I sell flowers from my friend’s shop.”
A friend’s shop? “Where is this shop located?” They will not repeat the same mistakes of the past. He will ask Claude all that he needs to know where to locate him.
“Figure it out.” Claude replies as he begins to walk away. Dumbstruck, Dimitri can only watch him go, his plaid pants stretching firm across his body as he makes his exit. Only when his hand comes to lay on the door’s frame does Dimitri try to stop him.
“I’m not good with your riddles.” He says, his last attempt to get Claude to reconsider his foolishness.
Claude opens the door, turning his head back so his voice directs to Dimitri. Rays of sunlight shine from the outside and bathe Claude in their warm essence. “I'm confident you’ll figure it out.” He says, the warmth Dimitri feels is the result of Claude. Claude then takes his leave.
He turns to the small vase then. Looks at the flower implanted within and takes a hold of it. He finds appreciation in the flower’s delicate nature. It reminds him of himself, and other kindred spirits who share the same fragility as him. He smiles when looking upon the flower, even holds it under his nose to intake its aromatic fragrance. He’ll give it water, he thinks, it’ll live longer that way. For too long has he given himself to the dead, it’s due time that he does the same for the living.
A few days had passed since Claude’s last visit, and since then, he has not been able to locate the young man. Already he’s had to purchase floral arrangements from elsewhere because he couldn’t get a hold of his florist. Granted, Dimitri could try a little harder to put in the same effort Claude had placed into finding him. It’s just hard for Dimitri to find time throughout his day to play a very evolved game of hide and seek. He’s too awkward and too unsociable to be asking strangers if they’ve seen a beautiful man with flowers walking about. With no leads, today is yet another day that surmounts to nothing, though, not all needs to be considered as wasted time.
One of his friend’s birthday is approaching, his dearest Ingrid. He’s known her since young and finds her to be a rival of all things lady-like. Ingrid is a woman who listens, not to everyone, but always to her heart, even if it means going against the grain. He respects that about her, adores it to the extent that he wishes he could set aspirations for himself other than the responsibilities and expectations that have been entrusted to him. All for his own happiness.
But he finds himself incapable because his happiness is not something he’s explored. Finds it too unfamiliar to try and understand. He’d rather aid others in their happiness, which is why he’ll buy her a gift, something that will make her comfortable inside her own skin.
He spots a shop from across the street showcasing beautiful dresses from behind the windowsill. He decides that it will be the first shop he visits in hopes that he’ll find a suit fit for a lady.
“You don’t need to breathe, you just have to look nice.”
When he opens the door he finds Claude being fitted for a dress by two women. The quieter one of the two, a woman with blue hair, measures the length of his sleeve, which ends a few inches short from reaching his wrist. She silently nods to herself, making a mental note of the number. She then moves to measure the distance between his shoulders, then turns the tape longitudinal to measure the distance to his waist. Beginning from the waistline, the skirts lay over the folds of the hoops. The first layer is a black, silk petticoat which he can see from the side opening of the skirt, and on top of that, there’s a third layer of floating fabric that drapes over the front and sides of the dress to give it both texture and fullness.
“Suck it in!” The woman of pink hair is quite vocal while referencing Claude’s stomach. Speaking of who, finds himself visibly straining under a bodice that attempts to reshape his waistline into a smooth and slim shape. Once the bodice has been tightened into place, she comes to button the top of Claude’s dress.
The dress is black in fullness, the only thing varying is the various degrees of the color. One of his undershirts, matches the petticoat both in color and texture, and that reaches all the way to his neck, concealing what the rest of the dress couldn’t.
“Claude.” He calls out, mouth dry when viewing him. His green eyes the only drop of color on an otherwise monotone sight.
“Dimitri!” A sense of surprise overtakes Claude’s visage. The two ladies turn their heads towards the door, only to find a lonesome man present, sporting an expression of utter bewilderment.
“Oh, you a friend of Claude’s?” Asks the girl with pink hair, who for now remains anonymous in name only. At being named, Claude steps down from the stool he stood upon. His support wobbles once he gets his first foot on the ground. Dimitri hears a click from a heel, sharp when it resonates with the wooden floor.
Claude lifts his garments centimeters off the ground to walk, his skirts softly swinging to the sides with each audible step. Claude walks with a certain skill, as if this is not the first time he’s adorned one of these dresses. Dimitri swallows nervously when Claude stands near him, trying his best to keep his eyes from roaming, but he can’t help it, he is a weak man. His eyes begin to roam downwards, taking in how Claude’s sides indent into a lithe waist.
“You’ve found me, just like I knew you would.” Claude speaks softly, one of his hands wading from his skirts to find purchase on Dimitri’s shoulder. His grip is subtle but still potent enough to rouse Dimitri with life.
Dimitri offers no verbal response, which leads to an awkward silence between the two as Claude awaits something from him -anything . Dimitri’s eyes detract from the waistline, following the trail of buttons upwards until Claude’s lips come into view. Hurriedly, he shifts his gaze back down to his waist again, where Dimitri puts a hand to the ribs, and motions his fingers downwards until he reaches Claude’s midline.
The florist gasps at the subtle flex of Dimitri’s fingers. The fingers on Dimitri’s shoulders twitch clear off in surprise, never expecting that a funeral director could be so bold.
“Your friend likes the dress, it has stupefied him even.” A comment from one of the ladies, he doesn’t know from who, doesn’t care who when Claude is the only one who occupies his focus. Perhaps it is as she said, it is the dress’ fault, it has bewitched him.
Dimitri can only hum in agreement.
Under his intense gaze, Claude begins to shift uncomfortably, shying his gaze away with redness settling on his cheeks. “Stop looking at me like that, you’re embarrassing me.”
Dimitri immediately removes his hand, and already he misses the filaments of the bodice beneath the dress. So many intricate layers to unravel, he doesn’t think he could get through them all in his lifetime. “I-I’m sorry.” His apology is his awareness of how tactless he’s been behaving.
“I give pardons to those with generous wallets.” Though looking at Claude’s smile, he knows he’s already been forgiven, the wink only affirms it. He begins to walk away from Dimitri, uncomfortable from the shoulders as his dress restricts his movements. Claude attempts to reach over the counter, but he can only stretch so far with his limitations. Being a witness to the struggle, the maiden of blue hair walks behind the counter to assist him, picking up a flower as per his instruction. Claude returns with a tulip in tow, still young at that seeing as how the petals have not yet outspread.
Tulips are often given as a declaration of love—
“Buy one and I'll release you from your guilt.” Still so cheeky, even when wearing a dress. He holds the tulip from the bottom of the stem, giving Dimitri ample space to take claim of it. He anticipates that Dimitri will purchase it, and he’s right, he’s just that intuitive. However, what he lacks is the knowledge that Dimitri has become bolder in these last few days, his actions more sporadic due to Claude’s influence.
“I’ll be purchasing all of them, for one flower is not enough for this radiant maiden.”
Claude is speechless, and honestly, it makes for quite the sight. His supple lips lay partly open, the exhaust of his lungs the only sound leaving him. He sounds breathless, as if Dimitri had stirred something deep within him. Claude then brings the tulip to his lips, masking the gestures he’s making with his mouth, all while shying his gaze from Dimitri once again. Dimitri comes to find that he fancies the high color red on those cheeks, a color that arises as a result of flattery. All the better knowing he’s the reason for its cause.
“Who knew I was in the presence of such a gentleman.” Claude’s voice sounds demure. It’s the first time he’s ever heard it sound that way, and most importantly, this is the first time he’s ever visibly seen Claude hide behind something. Dimitri’s guess is that Claude’s not used to the praise. With time he hopes to exploit this to enjoy more of his favorite blushing maiden.
“Claude if you keep this up, I might have you sell dresses for me instead.” The woman with a rosette high tail snuck into the backdrop, footsteps as elusive as could be in heels. Her big doe eyes were expecting, not of an answer, but for payment. She smiles at Dimitri, the gloss on her lips makes her appear delicate, but he can tell she’s far from it.
The woman comes to wrap her arm around Claude’s shoulder, her fingers locking on him in camaraderie. Claude appears comfortable with this, seemingly more accepting of her physical affections than Dimitri’s. He can’t help but feel dejected, considering that Claude’s reaction was to move away from him.
“Hey mister, since you’re being so generous, why not buy some of our stuff too. Do it for my dear ol’ Claude.” She says with the smile of a she-devil. Her hair may be pink, but pink is just a few shades away from red.
“Hilda.” The girl behind the counter says in warning, she had not moved an inch since then. So, Hilda is her name. This must be Claude’s friend, and the person who owns this shop, or it could be the other nameless girl, he doesn’t know.
Then, all of a sudden, he hears a throat clear behind him. Dimitri turns around and all other vagrant eyes look towards the entry to find no one other than an unamused Seteth, who seems to perk a brow at Claude’s peculiar fashion sense. “Dimitri, I did not expect to find you in the presence of such uh,” He briefs his hands in front of him. Hands come together below his waist to think of the most appropriate term. “Interesting company.” The priest says bemused as his brows rise with the statement.
“Keep your reservations to yourself, priest,” Claude’s tone is playful at best, even as he approaches Dimitri to cling to his arm. Wait-- why is he clinging to his arm? “Dimitri just so happens to like this dress very much.” Claude stands so close to him that Dimitri can feel the crinoline press up against his sides, hard as it touches him. But Claude himself, on the other hand, is sweet on Dimitri. His fingers are lax when they wrap around Dimitri’s forearm, he can’t help but feel as if he were one of his flowers at this very moment.
“Besides, you have no room to talk considering you’re wearing a dress yourself.” Claude’s sharp tongue at times can feel as blunt as a club.
The tint of Seteth’s complexion turns ruby. A joke was made at his expense and this holy man will not take it in leisure. “These are the garbs of a holy man.” He’s not exactly yelling, but he’s making it clear with his tone that he is beyond the foolishness.
Hilda procures two dresses from a rack and begins to hold them up to Seteth’s figure, alternating between the two constantly as she’s doing visual measurements. “Since you’re here to pick up Lady Rhea’s dress you might as well upgrade your own wardrobe. I was thinking--”
“Miss Goneril!” He tries to cut her off but she still keeps talking.
Their bickering becomes background noise to him. Soon turning into an incomprehensible jabber once he feels Claude’s eyes on him. He’s wooing Dimitri with enticing eyes and the sweetest of smiles. His grip tightens when leading Dimitri to the back of the shop, to an exit that leads into the alleyway so they can make their covert escape.
Dimitri entered the shop with a specific goal in mind, how convenient that he can’t remember that original goal now, not when Claude’s hand ensnares him tightly like a vine.
Enough seasons have passed that the petals and other plant remains they planted on that eventful day have blossomed into beautiful flowers. An ode to their friendship that too has blossomed just as beautifully. Much like a flower requires sunlight, water and attention to grow, so do relationships. People require as much care, it is a balance, for if given too much or too little of something, a person starts to decay from the inside all the same.
Claude is explaining this to him right now as they’re seated in his garden. Here Dimitri knows tranquility, a certain semblance of quiet that he’s only found with the dead before.
The front of Claude’s fingers comes to sweep against a tuft of juvenile petals that seem to shrivel at his touch. He’s graceful when interacting with the earth, no wonder such grace carries through with him when interacting with the people who inhabit it as well.
Dimitri takes in Claude’s profile and finds that he’s running a slight shiver. His frame quakes slightly, and to keep warm, he presses his tights together, and rubs them lazily with his palm. He continues to carry on the conversation as if his dilemma is of no importance, the tone of his voice as light hearted as ever. Even so, Dimitri removes his coat and drapes it over Claude’s shoulders.
The shivering stops, as does the movement of Claude’s mouth. He has become one with the silence when he feels this foreign weight on him. To this day, gestures of kindness take Claude by surprise, as if he cannot wrap his head around the idea that he deserves to be tended to just as he tends to his beloved flowers.
Claude lifts the hand placed on his thigh and carries it to the lining of the coat, fingers flowing over the buttons like ridges. Once he gets to the lapel, he raises it to his nose to take in the owner’s scent. It smells of citrus oil, lemon being the most potent combined with a waft of orange blossom; a bit of sweetness to balance the bitterness, how fitting for Dimitri.
More relaxed, Claude allows the lapel to fall to its original composition. “As I was saying,” he announces with a tinge of delight in his tone, elated that Dimitri has given him his coat but trying not to be too obvious about it. “All flowers are beautiful, therefore all humans are too.” He sounds so confident, even when speaking sweet lies.
“I don’t think that applies to me.” Dimitri admits, his insecurity coming to the forefront of the conversation. “I am nothing like a flower.” He doesn’t speak with sadness, but rather, acceptance.
It is then he feels Claude’s hand over his own, clammy from nervousness as he slots his fingers between the gaps of Dimitri’s. “You are the most beautiful flower.” Claude speaks with so much sincerity, and yet, he cannot maintain his gaze on Dimitri for long. Dimitri knows why, he sees it, the vulnerability within his endless depth of mystery. This is more than just a compliment, this is honesty, something that Claude apparently feels uncomfortable exposing (to light).
When Claude looks away indefinitely, Dimitri begins to question what he was told. How could he be the most beautiful when he was currently faced with the most beautiful presence his life has ever known? Claude is life itself. Even the flowers that comprise the scenery behind him do not outshine him in beauty. To Dimitri, Claude is the most beautiful, nothing in life could ever compare.
He expresses this in a kiss, tenderly pressed high on Claude’s cheek. He is gentle as can be, his praise is humble only in practice. Claude turns mid kiss, their noses brush together and their lips nearly overlap. The kiss lasted mere seconds, but even so, Claude looks at him in a way that makes Dimitri feel frail under his gaze. He feels as though he’s about to wilt, but Claude’s hands come to his face, gently holding him, piecing him together just long enough to keep him whole.
“Lay with me in a bed of flowers.” He murmurs lovingly, enchanting as he sinks into Dimitri. Their lips the only thing bound together as they inevitably crash onto the earth, shattering into a beautiful million pieces over the flower beds.
Even if they fall like petals, their love will blossom again.