Work Text:
As soon as he opens the door and sees Reki standing there with his hands behind his back, Langa knows what he will say.
Reki grins, as he always does. “I got you something!”
Langa smiles back, but behind the smile lurks a familiar worry. Since they began dating, Reki has showered Langa with gifts, and Langa has not gotten him a single thing. He’s tried, but his ideas are never good, and he doesn’t want to get Reki something he won’t like. Reki’s gifts are always perfect, even the small and silly ones. They’re never planned, either; at least half the time he brushes off Langa’s thanks by saying it’s not a big deal, I just saw it and thought of you. And somehow that’s worse, the spontaneity of it, than a planned gift would be.
Sometimes, when he’s sad, Langa watches videos of dogs gifting their owners with rocks and sticks and leaves and dead mice. Reki has not brought him a dead mouse—yet—and Langa would never admit this, but he’s started watching the videos for instruction rather than comfort. The humans pat the dogs’ heads, tell them they’re good, scratch them behind the ears. He can’t imagine what Reki would say if he knew that’s why, whenever he brings Langa another present, Langa hugs him, threads his fingers into his hair, tells him you’re so good.
If Langa were to tell him, he’s not sure which of them would be more mortified.
Reki doesn’t wait for Langa to say anything before he brings his hands in front of him and presents Langa with a potted flower.
Oh, no.
Up until now, Reki’s gifts have been objects: fingerless gloves so Langa can type even when his hands are cold, a sticker of a maple leaf to put on his skateboard, a postcard to send to his family back in Canada, a weighted blanket to help him sleep when Reki can’t stay over. But this? This is a real, living thing. A real living thing that Langa will have to care for.
Reki seems to know that this is a different kind of gift, too; he holds it out with a shy smile and Langa cups his hands around the pot. He looks at the flower for only a moment before setting it on the coffee table. “Thank you,” he says, wrapping his arms around Reki as soon as the flower is out of his hands. Reki squirms at first, as he always does when Langa hugs him, but then he relaxes into the embrace. It upset Langa at first, the way Reki recoils from touch, but now it’s a comfort, to know that Reki struggles with affection, too. Accepting gifts is hard for Langa. Accepting touch is hard for Reki. But they’re working through it.
Langa releases Reki and they both look at the flower. “It’s an orchid,” Reki tells him, and something in the back of Langa’s mind tells him that this is not one of those impossible-to-kill, immortal, hardy plants. This is a delicate thing, and Langa is going to kill it. “I read that they were good housewarming gifts!”
Puzzled, Langa says, "But I’ve lived here for a year.”
“Yeah, but I never got you a housewarming gift. Better late than never, right?”
Langa can’t tell Reki to take the plant back. He’s stuck with it. “Better late than never,” he says, though really, never would have been fine. “Are you staying?” he asks. He hopes Reki will stay, because he likes having him here, but also because he is afraid of being alone with the plant.
“Sorry,” Reki says, and he really does sound sorry. “I promised to babysit, so I’ve gotta go.” He pokes Langa’s shoulder. “Unless you want to join—”
With a shudder, Langa remembers the last time he helped babysit Reki’s sisters. “No, thanks,” he says. “That’s all right.”
Reki laughs, and says, teasingly, “Man, you get your face painted like a tiger one time, and—”
“It wasn’t face paint,” Langa reminds him. It took him forever to scrub off, and then he had a rash for days. He’d rather take his chances with the plant.
“Okay, okay,” Reki says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah.” Langa kisses his eyebrow. Reki turns bright red. “See you tomorrow.”
Reki departs, rubbing his eyebrow self-consciously, and Langa sits on the couch, staring at the orchid. Langa supposes he should have asked Reki how to care for it, but then he would have had to admit that he doesn’t know the first thing about plants. Not like Reki, who after finally cleaning his room, decided to refill it with plants instead of plates and dirty laundry. Now he has an indoor terrarium, hanging plants, and a successful vegetable garden.
So Langa stares at the orchid, and the orchid stares back. He recalls something about how giving things names can help you remember to take care of them. But Langa isn’t good at naming things, and his mind drifts back to his most recent beef at S, when Joe defeated him. It was a big deal; Langa’s first loss. The same feeling of bewilderment overcomes him now, as he looks at the orchid. And once the thought enters his mind, there’s no getting rid of it.
He will call the orchid Joe.
Joe the orchid is a fragile looking thing, with its—his? their?—their thin stem and elaborate petals like butterfly wings, yellow with pink speckles.
Did Reki mention anything about water? Sun? Langa glances at the window. There isn’t much sun coming through. But the sun changes position throughout the day, so maybe it will be fine? Langa frowns. He’s pretty sure plants need constant sunlight to grow. But does Joe the orchid need to grow? If they grow, surely, they will topple over?
Langa pushes up from the couch and approaches Joe slowly, like he would a wounded animal. “Hello, Joe,” he says, “I’m going to move you now.” He kneels, places his hands on either side of the pot and lifts it as he stands. The stem wobbles a little, and Langa tightens his grasp.
He will not kill this plant. He will not kill this plant. Aside from the fact that Joe is alive, they’re a gift from Reki, and if Langa kills the plant, what does that say about him? If he can’t keep a flower alive, how can he possibly manage a relationship?
It’s not a test—he knows Reki would never do that—but it’s hard not to see it that way.
In his bedroom, Langa sets the orchid on his desk and frowns at his window. There’s light streaking in, but it won’t reach the desk or bedside table. He clears the table and drags it in front of the window, pulls up the blinds, and moves the flower to the light. There. Joe can’t possibly die there.
Langa probably had something he needed to do today, but whatever it was, it will have to wait. Langa remembers how jittery and stressed he was when he moved in. The orchid probably feels the same way. He wonders where Joe lived before. He wonders if they feel trapped here. If they wish they were still with all their orchid friends in…wherever orchids grow. Langa sits on the edge of his bed and says, “Sorry you’re stuck with me. I know this probably isn’t the life you wanted.”
The orchid says nothing.
Now that he’s sorted out the sunlight, Langa decides he should give Joe some water. He says, “Stay,” backs out of his room, and rummages in the kitchen until he finds a measuring cup. He fills it and carries it back to his room. He’s relieved to see that Joe has not moved, and approaches slowly again, tipping the measuring cup into the pot. He watches the water pool on top of the soil, then sink in. Some drips out from the bottom of the pot. Is that supposed to happen? He pours a little more water in, just to be sure. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he thinks Joe stands a little taller now.
Langa knows there are probably resources online that would tell him exactly how to care for an orchid, but he feels like that’s cheating. He remembers Reki researching how to start a garden and a terrarium, how to care for his houseplants, but that was different. That was a bunch of plants. A whole ecosystem, basically. This is one flower. If Langa can’t figure out how to care for a single plant, well, that’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it?
Satisfied that Joe isn’t going to leap off the bedside table, Langa lays back on his bed, letting his head sink into the pillows. Without deciding to, he closes his eyes and starts speaking to Joe.
“I know how you feel,” he says. He hopes this isn’t offensive. “I didn’t feel like I belonged here at first, either. But it’s okay, really. You’ll get used to it. If you live, that is. If you don’t, it’ll be my fault, not yours.”
Langa tells Joe all about his move to Canada, meeting Reki, everything that’s happened since. He tells them about their namesake, and even about losing the beef against him. Eventually, Langa opens his eyes and looks at Joe. He thinks their stem is inclined slightly towards him. “Thanks for listening.”
After sunset, Langa moves Joe under a lamp. Joe looks fine, but Langa worries again. There must be something more he can do. He sighs and gives in, grabbing his phone and searching how to care for orchid.
The results are dizzying. First of all, there are different kinds of orchids. Like, a lot of different kinds. Langa had no idea. Once he’s identified Joe as a moth orchid, he delves into articles and message boards. He doesn’t have to read much before panic sets in—he’s given Joe too much light, too much water, and Langa has no clue what it means to feed an orchid fertilizer. Did he miss something? Does the orchid have a mouth? Will it eat his finger?
Langa stares at Joe mournfully. They don’t have long to live, if the message boards are to be believed, which of course they are, because who would share misinformation on a houseplant forum? Langa rolls onto his side and decides that he can, at least, comfort Joe while they die. One commenter said that it’s good to play music for plants. He presses shuffle on his playlist simply titled ‘songs for crying’ and lays back, defeated.
He’s still laying there later that night when his door opens and Reki pokes his head in. “Langa?” he says. “I got out of babysitting early. Your mom said you were in here…what are you doing?”
Langa crosses his arms over his eyes. “I killed Joe,” he says.
“What?” Reki asks, entering and shutting the door behind him. “You…killed Joe? How? Why?” he asks, in a horrified whisper. "Do we need to hide a body?"
Langa sits up quickly. “Not that Joe. The orchid.” He points to the table. “Their name is Joe.”
Though he does appreciate that Reki would help him hide a body, if it came to that.
Reki blinks and stares at Langa, then looks at the orchid. “You named the flower Joe?”
“Yeah,” Langa says. “I thought it would help, to name them. But it didn’t.” He holds up his phone, which still blasts a mournful indie song. “The message boards told me. I did everything wrong. Joe is drowning and also probably drying out? I don’t even know.” He flops back down. “I’m sorry. I ruined your gift.”
Reki sits on the edge of the bed and taps the screen of Langa's phone. “Why are you listening to hipster funeral music?”
“Proper sendoff,” Langa mumbles.
Reki gets up and goes over to inspect the flower. “Honestly, it looks fine, Langa. You’re not gonna kill it in one day.”
“Them,” Langa corrects him.
“Right, well, you’re not gonna kill them in one day. You want me to write up a schedule to help you remember when to water them and adjust the light?”
Langa shakes his head. “I think Joe should go live with you. In a good home. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” Pushing his hair out of his face, he says, “I can’t—you gave me a gift, you give me so many gifts, and I don’t know what to do with them.”
Stepping closer Reki says, “You want me to stop giving you things?” He sounds hurt.
“No—no! I just, you’re so good at this.” Langa gestures between the two of them. “And I’m not. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Reki laughs, which Langa thinks is an odd reaction. He climbs onto the bed and lays down on his side next to Langa, propping his head up with one hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing either,” he admits. “I just give you stuff because—I don’t know what else to do. I see things and I go ‘oh, Langa would like that!’ I don’t even think about it much. So when you say you like them, that they’re good, that I’m good, I feel kind of guilty. Because it’s just stuff, you know?”
“It’s not just stuff,” Langa says.
“You’re better at everything else, though. I still get all weird when you kiss me. That’s way worse than not knowing how to take care of a plant.”
“I don’t mind,” Langa says.
“Really?”
“Really. It’s—cute.” He drums his fingers on Reki’s arm.
Flustered, Reki says, “Cute?”
“Uh huh. You’re cute.”
Reki groans and snuggles into Langa’s side. “See, this is what I mean. You can just say stuff like that. I still can’t without getting all blush-y and stutter-y.”
“Try,” Langa says. “I tried with the plant.”
“You told Joe the orchid they were cute? Oh—okay. I know what you meant. Okay,” Reki says. His voice cracks. “You—you are also cute.”
“Thank you.”
Reki sighs. His breath tickles Langa’s neck. “D’you still want me to take the orchid back?”
Langa glances over at the bedside table, at the flower. “No,” he says. “I think—I think I want to keep them.”
“You get attached to stuff quickly, huh?”
He turns his gaze back to Reki. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. But Reki?”
“Yeah?”
“No more living gifts, okay?”
“Guess I’ll have to release the hermit crab, then,” Reki says sadly, turning his head to look up at Langa. Langa’s eyes widen in horror and Reki laughs. “Kidding, dude. I just wanted to see your face.”
“You’re horrible,” Langa says.
“You mean that affectionately, right?”
Langa kisses Reki’s nose, just to see him squirm. “Of course.”