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Lila adores springtime, no matter the country. There is a certain novelty and mystique about watching the seasons change. Though the months differ depending on the hemisphere, and the scenery isn’t always freshly green, there was always a tangible rush of change, and Lila adores it.
Lila also adores flowers, be they those with soft, vibrant blossoms, or all green and not much else, flowers are beautiful microcosms of life. Given her lifestyle, she could never raise a plant herself. Potted plants don’t do well on planes, and there would be a wound from leaving something she cared for.
So she appeases herself with the natures of the city, admires the potted gardens on balconies, the careful, intentional vines crawling over a railing, and the municipal planted blossoms before public spaces.
Even in Paris, Lila still loves flowers. She arrived too late in Paris to watch spring arrive, but in her first March of Paris, Marinette knocks on her door with a bright smile and a backpack on her shoulders.
“It’s,” Lila squints at the girl, “way too early for a Sunday morning. I thought we were meeting at noon?”
“It’s only ten,” Marinette replies, and Lila lets her in. “I changed our plans.”
“Really?” Lila yawns. “If it means you sleeping with me until we’re supposed to leave—”
Marinette shakes her head. “Sorry, no can do, Lila. You’re gonna have to change and head out with me.”
“Or,” Lila closes in and drapes her arms over Marinette’s shoulders, “You can come to bed with me and we can sleep.”
“Tempting,” Marinette admits, “but not this time.” She pries Lila’s hands off. “Go change!”
“Mari,” Lila whines, covering her face and yawning again. “What do you want?”
“It’s a surprise,” Marinette gloats.
“I don’t like surprises.” Lila deadpans, and walks back to her room.
“It’s a good surprise,” Marinette follows.
“You’re lucky my mom left early.”
“I promise,” Marinette says, plopping down on a chair, “You’ll like this.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Lila throws off her pyjamas and rummages through her closet.
Forty minutes later, Marinette is dragging Lila by the hand through the Tuileries Garden in the first arrondissement. It’s giant, with large trees and sprawling hedges trimmed down into neat circles and squares. There are mostly tourists snapping pictures in front of the circular basin. Somehow, it adds to serenity.
Marinette stops by one of the hedges and drops Lila’s hand to swing her backpack to the front. She rifles through it and pulls out a book-sized box.
Lila blinks.
“Do you know what today is?” Marinette asks.
Lila furrows her eyebrows. It’s not either of their birthdays, she came to Paris in late May, they first became friends in early June, Marinette didn’t confess to her until August…
“I don’t.”
Marinette beams.
“It’s the first day of Spring,” she says, and opens up the box. “Your first Spring.”
It’s a flower crown. Handmade, Lila guesses, by the soft-looking petals. There are marigolds and lillies and chrysanthemums. A thin wire connects the stems together. It’s a lovely mix of red and green.
Lila’s heart seizes.
“You know, I’m gonna owe you a lot of gifts if you keep making me stuff.” Lila chokes out.
“You can pay me back in affection, if you want,” Marinette beams.
Lila can’t help the giggle that escapes her, and leans over to give Marinette a quick kiss, careful not to harm the creation in her hands.
Marinette pulls away first and takes the crown out with a hand. She tucks the box under her arm, and beckons Lila over. Lila obeys, and lets Marinette settle the wreath over her head.
Marinette steps back to admire. “You look like a forest goddess,” she says.
Lila’s cheeks darken.
“You’re spoiling me with that flattery.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better,” Marinette swaps the now-empty box for another one. “I did make one for myself.”
Lila takes the box and pops it open. Forget-me-nots, brunnera, and highlights of glory-of-the-snow. They’re a lighter, brighter shade of blue than Marinette, but they contrast gently against the darker bluebell of her eyes.
“I wanted to put in lilacs, for your name,” Marinette says, as Lila settles the crown on her head, “but the colour palette didn’t work out.”
“They’re lovely,” Lila says. Marinette straightens, a faint blush on her cheeks. “But,” the smile on Lila’s face turns teasing, “not as lovely as you, of course.”
“Shush, you,” Marinette flushes deeper, “I was just, bored one day and this new flower shop opened next door to the bakery so I—”
Lila pulls Marinette into a hug.
“Relax, you don’t need to justify what you do to me. I love them. I love you.”
Marinette breathes in, and hugs back.
“I love you, too.”
They spend the rest of noon in the park, ducking through the hedges and finding each other with surprise hugs. Lila adjusts her crown, as Marinette laughs into her shoulder with glee.
Lila adores springtime, no matter the country. There is a certain novelty and mystique about watching the seasons change.
She never raised flowers or plants herself. Plants would die, flowers would wither, blossoms would brown and shrivel to dust. The flower crowns were already lifeless, beautiful corpses of nature.
But those petals would fall, succumb to the earth, and from that earth life would begin again, and bloom in the next spring.
Lila seizes Marinette and kisses her through laughter, their crowns touching.
People aren’t flowers, though, Lila thinks, as they break apart for air.
Marinette’s joy rivals the vibrancy around them.
People aren’t delicate, aren’t fragile, aren’t ephemeral.
They touch foreheads.
The spring may not stay, but the people will.