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Saint didn’t remember when the first flower appeared on his skin. He knew when it happened, sure, but he had no recollection of the actual moment, no memory of the tell-tale burn and the joy of looking down at a new flower and wondering what it meant. What he did remember was vague. Sirius grabbing his arm, hard, tugging him away. It had burned, but he’d figured it was just the grip. After all, he’d never gotten a flower before.
It was hours later when Saint glanced down and noticed the small yellow blossom on his skin, like a tattoo. He’d seen them of course, on other people, vaguely understood where they came from. Understood they appeared when someone important touched you. Someone significant, loving. Permanent. No one in Saint’s love had been permanent before Sirius.
Eventually Saint figured out the flower Sirius left on his skin was a primrose, an evening primrose, meaning inconstancy. In that moment he’d scoff at the irony, his first flower being one that ultimately meant unimportance. Even later he would realize the difference between inconstancy and unimportance, and the weight behind that small yellow flower. Sirius would always be important to him. They would always be important to each other. It was the how that would change.
His next flower also came from Sirius, years later. A deep orange rose, hints of pink along the edges, thorns on the stem. It bloomed just below his ear, left by Sirius’ hand before they kissed for the first time. In the delirium of warm lips on his, Saint couldn’t be bothered to care about the burn at his neck. It felt good ; it combined with the pleasure and release as Sirius kissed him hard and backed him against a wall.
Another orange rose appeared at his hip when Sirius pressed his lips there before swallowing him down. That one stung too, but Saint barely felt it that time, far too focused on the feel of soft lips on him and blunt nails dug into his skin.
“You’ve got flowers now,” Sirius pointed out after, as they lay next to each other on the sand, the sun rising before them.
“Yup.”
“From me.”
“Yup.”
Saint pointedly did not think about the implications of that right then. He wasn’t sure he could handle more, on top of everything else swirling around inside him. Sirius Sirius Sirius , his head chanted. But something in his heart rebelled. He pushed it down and leaned into Sirius’ familiar warmth, and later the cold of the ocean as they grabbed their boards and Sirius beat him for the umpteenth time.
Some part of Saint knew the flower meant love, or maybe desire. Something along those lines. His knowledge of flowers was limited. He didn’t know what he felt for Sirius, not really. Love? He’d never felt love for anyone before. He wasn’t sure he even knew what love felt like, if he’d know if he did feel it. Sirius was complicated in his heart and mind, a mess of familiarity and comfort and intimacy. Did that equal love? Saint didn’t know.
But the world disappeared when Sirius kissed him and he could forget about his pain and worries for a little while when Sirius touched him. So he would take the passion and desire for as long as he could get it. For now that would be good enough. It had to be.
The next one was a surprise. The gentle hand on his shoulder stung, but not more than the knife to the heart it caused, the soft “son” as Dumo tried to help him, tried to calm him. This hunt wasn’t supposed to involve feelings, but somehow, inexplicably, that’s all it had become. Pain and anger and deep-seated fears he had tried so hard to push down.
And so Saint had run from the office and only when he reached the empty cliffs did he pull away the hem of his t-shirt to look at the green snaking down his arm where Dumo’s hand had been. He may have known the man cared for him, but the word, the flowers… it all made it very real. And the color now inked on his skin wouldn’t go away, even if the giver did. And Saint knew he would. Everyone always did in the end.
He heard Luke come up behind him some time later, eyes squeezed shut against the outside world.
“You got a new flower.” Luke’s voice nearly got whipped away by the wind, but Saint could hear him. He didn’t answer. Luke tried again. “You said it yourself, Dumo took care of you.”
Saint shook his head bitterly. “That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?” Luke was looking at him now, hard, expression set somewhere between frustration and concern. “White mulberry leaves. It’s right fucking there, Saint. You’re just too stubborn to see it.”
“So what?” Saint said, admittedly very stubbornly.
“So, it means protection, and strength. Kindness. Don’t tell me that’s not who Dumo is to you because we both know it’d be a lie.”
“Since when did you become an expert on flower language?”
“Since that’s the same flower I have from my dad.”
And that… Saint had no answer to that. So he said nothing at all.
When Saint kissed Luke for the very first time, he got another flower. Luke did too, on the underside of his jaw. Saint watched it bloom across tan skin right before the world was tipped upside-down. A pale, peachy-pink, looking almost like a rose, and then all Saint could see was darkness, all he could taste was the salt of the ocean and his own fear, and he wanted that pink back, wanted those warm, solid lips back, the gentle sting of a new flower, the taste of salt and Luke on his tongue. Not the acrid taste and burn of the ocean.
And then they had been saved and Luke wouldn’t meet his eyes, one hand absentmindedly touching the flower on his jaw. Sirius kissed Saint and he tried not to flinch, leaned instead into the familiarity and the safety, but a part of him could still remember the gentle sting and the small bloom now on his back, right above his waist. He could still feel the phantom warmth of Luke’s hand there, holding him steady even as the boat rocked and thrashed beneath them.
In the spare bedroom of the tower that night, Saint would pull out Sirius’ phone and look it up, finding “begonia” under a picture the spitting image of the flower now adorning his skin. A universal symbol of warning or caution . Well, Saint thought bitterly as he clicked the phone off, they weren’t wrong there.
What he didn’t find, however, was the meaning of the color. A pink begonia also symbolizes love and romance.
When Dorcas pulled him into a hug a few days after the storm, Saint on watch as if nothing had changed, he was surprised by the sting it left on his back.
“God, I was worried about you,” she murmured, before pulling back and smacking him on the chest.
Saint pulled out a familiar smirk. “What, you thought a storm would get me? No way, Meadowes.” She rolled her eyes fondly.
Only once she’d slipped through the window of Marlene’s bedroom did Saint tug up the hem of his shirt, glancing back at the red flowers now on his back, right next to the ones from Luke. With red petals and yellow centers, he’d never seen them before. Not that it meant much.
Saint looked down at the book in his hands, one he’d swiped from Luke. A book on flower meanings. He flipped through the pages, finding the familiar blooms. Evening primrose. His very first, left by Sirius’ rough grip. Red-orange rose. Also from Sirius. Passion and desire. So he had been right about that one, all those years ago. In the past few months, those tangled feelings had only seemed to get more complicated.
Austrian rose was the name under a picture of the red flower Dorcas had left, a rose that symbolized friendship and joy, care. Saint had never thought about it before, but somehow in the wake of the storm everyone felt a bit more special than before. Including, he supposed, Dorcas. She didn’t understand, but she got it the way Sirius did. Outcasts and orphans, the three of them. Despite their differences, that united them.
The next one hurt. White mulberry leaves. Luke had told him, of course, that he had one from his father. Seeing the words, describing it as a sign of protection and kindness and strength, everything Luke had said, hit more than just hearing it. The words made it all too real.
He found the begonia from Luke too, with the same description as the one he had found. But this time each color had a description too. Pink begonia. Symbolizing romance and affection. Saint felt the world pause.
The second flower he got from Luke was the night they fought. The night of their first actual kiss, not a desperate move in a thrashing storm. Twining around his wrists were green vines tipped in tiny yellow flowers, like bracelets or shackles. Saint didn’t know which he preferred in that moment, too caught up in the adrenaline and pain, Luke holding him back against the wall with anger and hurt painted across that beautiful face.
He felt the mark from Remus before seeing it, refusing to look, to flinch. Of course, it became a moot point only seconds later as color bloomed on Remus’ upper arm, in the same place. Small white flowers shaped like bells and green stalks tying them together in a tiny bouquet. Saint knew if he looked he would see the same thing.
“Huh,” was all Remus said as he studied the new ink on his skin.
Remus meant something to Saint mostly because he meant something to Luke. And, eventually, came to mean something to Sirius. Luke and Remus had been best friends since childhood, it was impossible for Saint to avoid Remus forever. They had become grudging friends, Saint supposed. After all they’d been through, with their ill-fated treasure hunt and all that it brought tangling their stories together, forcing them into proximity by shared experiences. Remus understood, in a surprising way, less from experience and more just from who he was as a person.
“Lupin-” Saint started, unsure where he was going. Remus just waved him off.
“You don’t need to say anything, it’s fine.” His words were casual, nonchalant, but his smile was genuine.
Lily was a surprising one for him. Not because of the flower, but rather just how they’d gotten there. Saint didn’t remember becoming friends with her. Somehow, overtime, it happened. Luke dragged him along to one too many get-togethers, too many adventures. Lily had a sharp wit and a sarcastic side rivaling his own. After a little while, Luke seemed to regret properly introducing them.
It was the night she left for college the first time she touched him. A tiny sunflower appeared on his upper arm where her gentle hand had just been. They both looked down at it.
“D’you know what that means?” Lily asked him quietly. Saint just shook his head. She smiled. “Friendship. And good luck.”
“Guess that means you’re stuck with me, then,” he replied, but it fell flat.
She cocked her head, studying him silently. He looked down at her, small and strong and determined, so full of fiery passion and fierce love. Inexplicably he had learned her over the past few months. He wasn’t sure when that had happened.
Purposefully, Saint reached out and touched her arm, watching the sunflower appear beneath his fingers. Lily smiled wide.
“I’ll see you in December,” she said, and Saint could only smile.
“Have fun at college, Evans.”
In the years after Luke left, life felt quiet. Like he was sleep-walking through life. Saint hadn’t given much thought beyond Luke leaving, hadn’t thought about what it would be like to lose everyone else too. He hadn’t considered them at all. But his hands found the flowers adorning his skin subconsciously and he stared at the witch-hazel on his wrists as he fell asleep, missing the taste of Luke on his tongue and the warmth of his arms.
Saint had never considered himself much of a romantic. He didn’t love people easily, because they always let him down. If he didn’t love them, then he couldn’t be hurt by them. His mom had taught him that.
But then he’d slipped up. He had let Sirius in. And Dumo. Dorcas. And then Luke. Luke, who made his heart race and his breath steady and everything better. Luke, who could make him laugh and pull out the real parts of his heart, behind the walls he’d built.
Luke looked so familiar and new standing alone on that balcony, silhouetted against the sky. Saint could feel the ache in his chest, a familiar weight he’d carried now for three years. Three years too long.
“Well Tweedle, if I’d known things would get this bad, I would’ve tried harder to get you to stay.”
When beautiful hazel and green eyes met his, Saint swore the world stopped for just a split second. He felt his walls begin to crack, felt the foundations crumble as he took in the downturn of Luke’s lips, the purple beneath his eyes, the weight pulling his whole body down as if even standing up straight was too hard. Luke took a few steps forward and crashed into his arms, fingers digging into Saint’s skin as if holding on for dear life, and, as Saint felt that burn at his side, it was as though everything else slotted into place.
Saint would look later in the mirror in Luke’s dorm room and see the yellow chrysanthemum that had graced his skin for three years had turned a deep, vibrant red. Luke’s gaze would catch on it, a small, amazed smile on his lips, and Saint would grin at him and kiss it away, whispering “I love you” into his ear. The world would settle around him, with Luke back at his side and the flowers blooming fresh on his skin.