Archive of Our Own ^beta

NW-034:

Sion owns a flower shop but it’s not an ordinary flower shop because Sion actually has the power to connect and communicate with plants. One day a new bakery opens near his shop and Sion is dragged along to check it out so he doesn’t really have a choice but go there. The bakery owner is Riku and Sion immediately has a gay crisis the moment he sees him and that’s makes every flower in the shop suddenly blooms all at once creating a scene that everyone think is weird. Sion panics and afraid that, if Riku knows about him, he will think he’s a freak. Spoiler: he doesn’t.

Sion woke when the light began to thin the dark along the ceiling, a gentle brightening that didn't bother him that much yet. He then allowed the morning to find him layer by layer, noticing the feel of cotton against his skin, the weight of the quilt easing as he drew a slow breath. The warm blanket had been mended more than once and never in matching fabrics; soft florals stitched beside checkered remnants, a patient patchwork that was sewn together so that the fabric could last many more years than most people would bother to maintain. He slid a palm over the top just to feel the seams under his fingertips, noticing a small tear forming where his skin had brushed.

His pajamas were warm from sleep: a maroon cotton set with fine white and blue checks running through the weave, the collar softened from many washings, the cuffs inclined to crease where he rolled them up at the sink. As his feet found the floorboards, the wood kept the night’s cool temper, boards faintly ridged where the grain rose under old varnish. Across the room, the upright piano waited against the wall it had known longest; brown wood with a matte finish, edges rounded by touch, key cover closed. Sion’s eyes went there first as they always did.

He stood and padded to the bathroom, flipping the light switch, then the shower handle. He waited with a practiced patience for the pipes to send warmth along their copper interior. He slipped the pajama top from his shoulders and folded it once, then twice, into an even rectangle, set it over the towel bar, and stepped out of the pants without letting them slouch onto the floor. The tiles were not perfectly aligned; he had placed them himself, measuring all with a pencil, a level he trusted only halfway, and an attitude that prioritized doing things with care. The shower steamed, fog rising until the mirror lost its pristine focus and the heat drew a shiver out of his shoulders.

He washed slowly. Water threaded his hair and traveled down the line of his spine, heat loosening what sleep had made tight. His shampoo lent the steam the briefest impression of orange blossom; just a clean, fleeting suggestion that disappeared as soon as he rinsed the foam from his hair. The soap did not announce itself at all, and he liked that; Sion didn't like his scent to overpower the ones from inside his flower shop. When he finished, he smelled like water, a hint of something citrusy and the kind of green that clings to hands that were usually occupied with leaves and branches. He rested his palm against an uneven tile he always found without looking, the shallow dip that his hand had taught itself, and stood under the stream a minute longer, not to stall the morning but to let it arrive carefreely.

He dried himself thoroughly, the towel soft and well-used, and brushed his teeth until the mint felt more like a fresh sensation than an actual taste. He dressed in a white T-shirt and trousers that hung where they were meant to, no need for tugging. He did not comb his hair, dried naturally due to the rising summer heat; he swept it back with his fingers and accepted the way it settled. At the coat hook he took the apron that knew his daily routine and tied it without watching his hands, double knot small and centered. On the way to the door he turned one last time, as he always did, to the piano.

He lifted the fallboard with care and found the thin, ordinary dust the night always left. He took the soft cloth from the shelf beside it and passed it over the keys in an even, unhurried motion, neither polishing nor pressing. He pressed a single key, then another a third above, then another, not for a tune but to hear the tone he felt on his fingers when he cleaned them. The notes were slightly warm, without precision in its pitch, but his ears were now used to hear them sing out of tune anyway. He lowered the cover again until the motion finished quietly, straightening the small ivy cutting he kept in a bottle on top of the wood surface before he turned toward the narrow stair.

The shop breathed cooler air than the apartment, the kind that soil holds when sunlight has not worked its way in yet. He set the lights as he liked them: no glare from above, only lamps in corners and on shelves, islands of warm against the blue of early day.

"Good morning, little friends" he whispered into the stillness.

The room did not answer with words, but with a sudden, collective shift in pressure. It was a sensation Sion had known since he was a child, almost like a second nervous system that connected itself with the world outside his body. The maranta (prayer plant) in the corner, usually dormant at this hour, uncurled a leaf with a feeling that resonated in Sion’s chest like a sleepy, long stretch. The trailing pothos hanging from the ceiling hummed with a low, green vibration; a specific, dry frequency that signaled thirst. The ferns by the window rustled without wind, turning their fronds toward the glass in anticipation of the sun.

Sion moved through the aisles, the connection open and humming. He didn't just see the plants; he felt them. A minor ache on his throat usually meant the hydrangeas were drooping; a sudden burst of energy often signaled a new bud opening on the hibiscus. Today, the chorus was calmer than usual.

He took the watering can from its hook by the sink. The faucet protested briefly, then gave him the steady ribbon he asked of it. He moved through the shop the way one reads a page with attention, line by line. A rosemary near the front needed water down the edge of the pot, not onto the needles. He poured accordingly. The pothos asked for less. He clipped a browned tip from a leaf on the variegated spider plant and set it in a small bowl to take to compost later.

The peace was absolute, a green sanctuary that buffered him from the noise of the city outside — at least until the bell above the door rang, shattering the quiet with a cheerful, uncompromising jingle.

Sion didn't jump, but the sensitive Mimosa pudica on the counter snapped its leaves shut instantly in reaction to his spike of surprise.

"Today is the day," Yushi announced, stepping inside. He looked determined, his bag slung over one shoulder, bringing with him the smell of city grit and smoke that clashed with the shop’s earthy scent.

Sion sighed, setting the watering can down. "Yushi. It’s barely eight."

"And the bakery has been open for an hour already, I checked." Yushi leaned against the counter, careful not to bump into the touch-me-nots. "You promised, Sion. You said you’d go there with me."

"I said I would think about it," Sion corrected, picking up a cloth to wipe a nonexistent smudge from the counter. "I’m exploring the site. Mentally. Catching the vibes from over there."

"Mentally scouting the place doesn't get me a croissant," Yushi countered, crossing his arms. "Look, the scent of… butter and roasted coffee has been drifting in here for a week! I saw you yesterday sniffing the air coming from there when you thought no one was looking. Even your ferns are leaning toward the wall to smell it."

Sion looked at the Boston fern hanging near the window. It was, traitorously, tilting slightly to the left, its fronds reaching toward the brick wall that separated them from the new establishment a few doors down.

"Et tu, Brute?" Sion muttered to the plant. The fern gave a mental shrug, a sense of 'it smells like sustenance' drifting back to him.

Defeated by the wisdom of nature that echoed from his plants' own remarks and a much less clever, but very insistent, best friend, Sion untied his apron. "Fine, but let's make it a quick scouting mission. We buy, we leave. No lingering."

"Deal," Yushi grinned, triumph evident in his posture.

They stepped out into the morning street. The transition was jarring; the shop was a controlled ecosystem of silence, but the street was alive with the chaotic variables of people, traffic, and noise. Sion kept his hands in his pockets, shrinking slightly into himself. He preferred the company of his chlorophyll-producing friends to humans; plants were honest about their needs while people were layered, complex and loud.

The bakery, however, was a different kind of loud. As they pushed open the door, a wall of warmth hit them — a physical embrace of sugar, yeast, and vanilla. It was cozy, the interior painted in soft creams and warm woods, bathed in golden light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Sion felt out of place immediately. He was a creature of soil and damp shade; this was a world of dry heat and fire. He adjusted his sleeves, feeling the phantom weight of his apron missing.

"God, it smells amazing," Yushi whispered, looking at the display case with his intense, cat-like stare.

They were greeted at the register by one of the workers there; a cashier with a childlike appearance and pink hair. "Welcome!" he chirped. He had a friendly, open face, likely a cousin of the owner given the resemblance Sion had noted on the family photos that were pinned to the wall. "Take your time. Everything is fresh out of the oven."

They ordered two coffees, a melon pan for Yushi, and a simple butter roll for Sion. They moved to a small wooden table near the window, the only empty spot left. Sion sat stiffly, his back to the wall, wishing he could blend into the wallpaper.

"See? Not so bad," Yushi said, looking pleased with himself. "No monsters. Just carbs and kindness."

Sion was about to agree, to suggest they get the rest of the order to go, when the kitchen door swung open.

"Order for table four," a voice coming from inside there announced.

It wasn't the voice that stopped Sion’s breath. It was the feeling that preceded it.

Usually, Sion’s "sense" was limited to plants. But sometimes, very rarely, a person would have an aura so vibrant, so teeming with life energy, that they registered on his internal radar like a sun flare.

Sion looked up.

The man holding the tray was radiant. It wasn't just the flour dusting his cheek like a purposeful cosmetic choice, or the way his sleeves were rolled up to reveal forearms corded with the subtle muscle of someone who kneads dough daily. It was the sheer, overwhelming brightness of him. He had unruly hair that looked soft to the touch, and eyes that held the steady, warm spark of a pilot light — constant, essential; burning gently as it directed its anticipation towards the new faces who could become regular customers in the near future.

"Here's your order," the man said, setting the tray down. His name tag read Riku.

Riku looked at Sion. He paused, his hand lingering on the edge of the tray. And then, he smiled.

It wasn't a customer service smile. It wasn't a polite grimace. It was a smile that rearranged the molecular structure of the room. It was genuine, delighted, and directed entirely, exclusively, at Sion.

"I don’t think I’ve seen you before, pretty boy. Is this your first time here?" Riku said, his voice a low, pleasant hum that vibrated in Sion’s chest.

It happened in a heartbeat.

Sion felt a jolt in his solar plexus, a sudden, frantic rhythm that wasn't just fear or surprise. It was a chemical cascade of attraction so potent it felt like a physical blow. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, thump-thump-thump, like a seed trying to burst through soil.

He’s beautiful, Sion’s mind screamed, the thought so loud he was terrified he had spoken it aloud. He’s looking at me.

And because Sion’s emotions were never entirely his own, because his barrier between 'self' and 'nature' was porous at best, the connection snapped. His internal control, usually a tight dam holding back his influence, shattered under the weight of his panic and attraction.

The shop didn't just react; it exploded in a kaleidoscope of saturated colors.

On their table, the single, polite red rose in a decorative bud vase didn't just bloom. It surged. The stem thickened instantly, turning from green to woody brown, cracking the glass vase with a sharp ping. The flower head burst open, petals unfurling with a soft, audible thwip-thwip-thwip, growing to the size of a teacup in seconds, releasing a cloud of heavy, heady perfume.

But it didn't stop there.

In the corner of the bakery, a decorative English ivy vine that had been draped tastefully over a shelf surged with terrifying vitality. It shot across the ceiling like a green snake, dropping tendrils that curled affectionately (and aggressively) around the light fixtures, swinging them wildly.

Outside the window, the window box geraniums, which had been modest buds moments ago, erupted into a violent, impossible cloud of orange and pink, spilling over the sill and pressing against the glass as if trying to break in to see what the excitement was about.

Inside the bakery, chaos reigned. The air was suddenly thick, perfumed with the crushing intensity of a thousand flowers blooming at once. Pollen drifted through the air like gold dust. A customer shrieked as a potted ficus in the corner suddenly grew half a meter, knocking her hat off.

The bakery fell silent, save for the creaking of wood and the soft rustle of aggressive growth. Every customer turned to the window in search of answers, perhaps for a sign of the impending apocalypse, but there was nothing unusual there.

Riku blinked. He looked down at the monstrous rose on the table, which was now nuzzling Sion’s hand like a pet dog. Then he looked at the ivy swinging from the ceiling. Finally, he looked back at Sion.

His eyes were wide, trembling, reflecting the impossible scene.

"Oh," Riku said softly.

Sion’s panic was a cold bucket of water dumped over his head. The heat in his face vanished, replaced by the icy grip of absolute terror.

Freak, his mind supplied, vicious and loud. You did it. You lost control. He probably thinks you're a monster now.

Sion scraped his chair back, the sound harsh and screeching against the floor. The rose vine tried to catch his wrist, but he yanked it away.

"I—I have to go," Sion stammered, his voice cracking.

"Wait," Riku started, reaching out a hand. "Are you—"

"I have to go now!"

Sion didn't wait for Yushi. In fact, he had completely lost his appetite, unable to stay there even a second longer. He didn't look at Riku’s face again, terrified to see the disgust he was sure would be there. He fled the warmth of the bakery, stumbling out into the cool street, gasping for air. He ran the few doors down to his shop, his sanctuary, fumbling with his keys with shaking hands.

He threw himself inside, locking the door and flipping the sign to Closed, pulling the blinds down with a snap. He slid down to the floor, his back against the door, burying his face in his hands as the plants in his own shop, confused by the explosion of energy next door, rustled in sympathetic agitation.

Outside, a single petal from the giant rose, caught in his hair, drifted slowly to the floor.

For Riku, the world was usually measured in temperature and timing.

Life in the bakery was a constant negotiation with heat. It was the feeling of the oven’s breath against his shins, the humidity of the proofing drawers, the precise moment when sugar transformed from small crystals into caramel. He understood these things. He understood that patience was an ingredient as vital as baking powder.

But for the last seventy-two hours, his timing had been off by a margin that would be justifiable only for a complete amateur.

He pulled a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven, the blast of hot, sweet air washing over his face. He didn't flinch; he welcomed it. It was the silence after the heat that bothered him.

"You're checking the door again," his cousin, Sakuya, noted from the front counter, dropping his customer service tone and wording in favor of a more incisive approach, not looking up from his phone. "That's the fifth time in ten minutes. Customers sitting over there must be finding this very strange."

Riku set the tray on the cooling rack with a little more force than necessary. "I'm not checking the door. I'm checking the... airflow."

Sakuya snorted. "Airflow? Right. Is that what we're calling the cute florist who turned our dining area into a botanical garden and then vanished?"

Riku wiped his hands on his apron, leaving a faint cloud of flour in the air. He walked to the swinging doors and peeked through the small glass window into the dining room. It was normal again. The ivy had been trimmed back (though it grew faster now, greener and more robust than before). The giant rose had wilted by evening on that first day, but Riku had pressed one of its massive, velvety petals between the pages of his heavy recipe book.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Most people had been confused. Some were scared. Sakuya had spent an hour checking for gas leaks, convinced it was a hallucination. But Riku? Riku had felt like he was witnessing a miracle.

He remembered the way the boy, Sion, had looked up. The terror in his eyes had been heartbreaking, but beneath that, Riku had felt a surge of energy so pure, so raw, that it made the air in the bakery taste like what he imagined fairy dust would be; as warm and sweet as a child's laugh. It was magic, the real thing, and Riku, who spent his life trying to coax magic out of flour and water, recognized a master when he saw one.

But Sion hadn't come back.

Three days. The butter roll he had ordered sat in a paper bag behind the counter, stale and hard as a rock. Riku had kept it, irrationally, as proof that the boy was real.

"He forgot his change, too," Riku murmured, untying his apron.

Sakuya looked up, eyebrows raised. "And?"

"And I can't just keep it. It's dishonest."

"It's two hundred yen, Riku. I think the statute of limitations on theft allows for—"

"I'm going over there," Riku announced, decisive now. He grabbed a fresh paper bag, not the one with the stale roll, but a new one, filled with a freshly baked croissant, still warm, and a small container of the strawberry jam he’d made that morning.

He stepped out of the bakery and the change in atmosphere was immediate. The bakery was golden and toasted; the street was grey, the sky threatening a drizzle that hadn't quite committed to falling yet. He walked the few meters to the shop two doors down.

The Little Garden Club.

The sign was hand-painted, the letters in detailed cursive, slightly uneven in a way that highlighted its handcrafted quality. The window display was lush, not manicured like a commercial florist, but wild, as if a piece of the forest had decided to move into the city.

Riku pushed the door open.

The bell chimed — a round, clear note that sounded like a drop of water hitting a pool.

If the bakery was an oven, this place was a riverbank. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth, crushed stems, and the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus. It was quiet, but not empty. It felt... occupied. As if a hundred unseen eyes were watching him.

"Hello?" Riku called out, his voice feeling too loud in the hush.

There was a crash from the back of the shop. A clay pot hitting the floor, followed by a scramble of footsteps.

Riku smiled. He moved deeper into the shop, navigating a maze of ferns, wildflowers and tall, leafy monsters he couldn't name exactly. He found Sion near the back counter, frantically trying to look busy with a pair of shears and a bucket of white hydrangeas.

Sion was wearing a different apron compared to the previous day, when Riku saw him on a morning walk hurrying past the bakery; a canvas one stained with chlorophyll and soil. His hair was loose, falling into his eyes, and his shoulders were hunched up to his ears.

"Hi," Riku said, leaning casually against a display of succulents.

Sion jumped for a split second. That hadn't been a mere startle; he practically vibrated like a lost puppy in the rain. His hands were holding a hydrangea stem so hard Riku worried it would snap.

"I... we're closed," Sion squeaked, not looking at him.

"But the sign says open," Riku pointed out gently. He set the paper bag on the counter, pushing aside a trailing vine that seemed to be reaching for him. "And the door was unlocked. I'm sure that wasn't an accident on your part."

Sion finally looked up. His face was a reflection of complete panic. His cheeks were dusted with pink, not unlike the blooms in the bucket. He looked ready to bolt again.

"I brought you something," Riku said, tapping the bag. "You left your breakfast the other day. I figured you wouldn't want the old one, so... fresh croissant. And jam."

Sion stared at the bag as if it were a bomb. "You... didn't have to do that, Riku."

"But I did! It's not a long commute, about thirty steps since my legs are quite long." Riku kept his tone light, teasing, trying to coax Sion out of his shell the way he would convince a stubborn dough to rise with some encouragement. "You ran off pretty fast. I thought maybe our coffee was terrible."

"No!" Sion blurted, eyes wide. "No, it wasn't the coffee. It was... I..." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He looked down at his hands. "I have allergies."

Riku blinked. "Allergies?"

"Yes," Sion said, gaining a little frantic momentum. "To... pollen. Sometimes. Severe reactions. I sneeze and... things happen."

Riku looked around the shop, filled floor to ceiling with pollen-producing organisms. He looked at the boy who lived among them. He thought about the rose that had grown into a tree in five seconds.

"A florist allergic to pollen," Riku repeated, fighting back a grin. "That must be difficult for you."

"It's... manageable," Sion lied, his ears turning a bright, devastating shade of red. He fidgeted, knocking a small trowel off the counter by accident. It clattered to the floor. Sion flinched, looked at it, and didn't move to pick it up.

Riku found it utterly, hopelessly adorable. The clumsiness, the terrible lying, the way Sion seemed to shrink in on himself despite being a few centimeters above Riku, the tallest person in his own family.

"Well," Riku said, deciding to let him have his lie. "I missed you."

The words hung in the damp air.

Sion froze. The hydrangea he was holding seemed to perk up, its petals opening slightly wider. "You... did? But why?", he asked, tilting his head in confusion.

"Yeah. I've noticed that my workplace can be quite boring without magical roses trying to eat the customers," Riku joked, and then softened his tone when he saw Sion tense up. "I mean it. My cousin Sakuya is nice, but he talks about video games all day. You seemed... quiet. I like quiet."

Sion looked at him then, really looked at him, and Riku felt that same jolt of electricity he’d felt three days ago. It wasn't magic this time, just simple human connection.

"I'm Sion," the boy whispered, offering the name like a secret.

"I know. It's on your apron," Riku smiled. "I'm Riku."

"I know. It's on your nametag."

They stared at each other for a beat, and then, miraculously, Sion smiled. It was small, fleeting, terrifyingly shy, but it was there.

Riku remembered the flyer in his back pocket. He had grabbed it on a whim this morning, telling himself he wouldn't use it, that he’d just throw it away. But now, standing in this cool, green cathedral, he felt brave.

He pulled the crumpled paper out.

"So, Sion who is allergic to flowers," Riku started, unfolding the flyer on the counter between them. "There's this thing this weekend. Music in the park. Jazz, acoustic sets. Nothing too loud, at least I hope so."

Sion peered at the colorful paper, curious.

"I want to go," Riku admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "But I hate going to these things alone. I always feel like I'm standing out, like everyone is wondering why the baker guy is there by himself eating a corn dog with lots of mustard. It's pathetic, I know."

He wasn't lying, exactly. He could go alone. He was confident enough. But he didn't want to go alone. Not anymore.

"I need company," Riku said, looking Sion in the eyes. "Someone to help me blend in. You seem like you're good at blending in."

Sion looked at the flyer, then at Riku. He chewed his lower lip, a nervous habit that Riku tracked with keen interest.

"I'm not very good at crowds," Sion said softly. "I get... anxious."

"I'll be there," Riku said simply. He leaned forward slightly, encroaching on Sion’s space just an inch, testing the waters. "I'm good at crowds. I can handle the people. You just have to handle the music. And maybe help me eat some festival food."

The shop seemed to hold its breath. The silence stretched, fragile as strings of spun sugar.

Sion looked at Riku’s hopeful expression, the open honesty of it. He looked at the croissant bag on the counter; a peace offering, a return.

"Okay," Sion whispered. The word was so quiet Riku almost missed it.

Riku beamed. "Okay? Really?"

"Really. But... if I have an allergic reaction..."

"I'll bring tissues," Riku promised, winking. "But if you need medication in case of an emergency, please remember to bring it with you".

Sion flushed again, looking away, but the smile remained.

"Saturday," Riku said, stepping back towards the door, feeling lighter than air. "I'll meet you at the south gate. Five o'clock. Don't be late, or I'll start talking to the pigeons."

"I won't be late," Sion said.

As Riku walked back to the bakery, the drizzle finally started, cool mist on his warm face. He touched his chest, feeling his heart beating a steady, excited rhythm against his ribs. He didn't care about the rain. He had a date.

Preparation was a language Sion usually spoke in the numbers of stems, decorative papers, or even soil composition. He knew how to prepare a bulb for winter, how to prepare a bouquet for a wedding. But preparing himself for a date, if it was a date, was a dialect he had never mastered.

He stood before the full-length mirror in his bedroom, the air thick with the scent of discarded options; fabric softener and liquid soap.

The bed was a graveyard of clothes. A beige knit sweater that made him look too soft; a black turtleneck that made him look too serious; a patterned shirt that Yushi had bought him which Sion suspected made him look like a walking optical illusion.

He wanted to look effortless. He wanted to look like someone who went to music festivals regularly, someone who existed in the world of noise and crowds with casual grace.

He settled, finally, on something that felt like armor. A shirt of dark, fluid silk that shimmered faintly, tucked into high-waisted trousers that emphasized the long line of his legs. It was elegant. It was refined. It was, he realized too late, completely ridiculous for a park in the summer.

But he had committed. He added a thin silver chain around his neck, a subtle glint against his skin, and dabbed a drop of imported cologne, sandalwood and rain, behind his ears. He looked at his reflection. The boy in the mirror looked composed, mysterious, perhaps a little too beautiful for a Saturday afternoon. He didn't look like Sion the florist. He looked like Sion the idea, his ideal form.

He left the apartment an hour early, driven by a nervous energy that made his hands shake.

The park was already humming when he arrived at the south gate. The "Jazz and Acoustic" event Riku had described seemed to have evolved, or perhaps devolved, into something far more robust. The bass from a distant stage thrummed in the pavement, vibrating up through the soles of Sion's shoes. The air smelled of fried dough, grilled meat, and the metallic tang of sound equipaments reverberating with power.

Sion stood by the gate, a pale marble statue covered in silk.

He checked his watch. 4:45 PM.

People flowed past him like a river around a stone. Groups of teenagers in denim cutoffs and band t-shirts, couples sharing ice cream, families with strollers. Everyone looked comfortable. Everyone looked like they belonged. Sion pulled at his collar, feeling the silk stick to his damp skin. He was overdressed. He was painfully, visibly overdressed.

4:55 PM.

He scanned the crowd, looking for a flash of unruly hair or that warm, easy smile. Nothing.

5:00 PM.

The church bells nearby chimed the hour. Riku wasn't there.

5:10 PM.

The doubt started as a whisper and grew into a roar that rivaled the music. He’s not coming.

Sion’s mind, always fertile ground for anxiety, began to cultivate a garden of worst-case scenarios. Riku had remembered the bakery incident. He had realized that going out with the "freak" florist was social suicide. Or maybe he had just come to his senses and realized they had nothing in common. Riku was warmth and fresh bread and easy laughter. Sion was damp soil and silence and silk shirts that did not suit the current summer heat.

5:15 PM.

Sion took a step back, away from the gate. His chest hurt. It was a physical ache, a tightening of the ribs. He felt foolish. Standing here in his best clothes, waiting for a baker who had probably just been being polite.

"Guess I should go," he murmured to no one. "I... should just go."

He turned, the movement sharp and final. He took one step towards the exit, towards the safety of his quiet, empty apartment.

"Sion!"

The voice was ragged, desperate. It cut through the noise of the crowd like a knife.

Sion froze. He turned back slowly.

Riku was running. He wasn't taking his time; he was sprinting as fast as he could, dodging a family with a golden retriever, weaving through a group of tourists. He looked... chaotic in the best way possible.

He was wearing loose, faded denim jeans and a simple, slightly oversized green t-shirt that hung off his frame. His hair was a disaster, windswept and wild. His skin reflected the sun in each and every tiny droplet of sweat dripping along his limbs; chest heaving, face flushed a brilliant, healthy red.

He skidded to a halt in front of Sion, bracing his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

"I am... so... sorry," Riku wheezed, holding up a hand as if to pause time while he found his lungs. "The dough hook... jammed in place again. And then my aunt called me for help… she wouldn't stop talking for minutes!"

Sion stared at him. Riku looked like a hot mess; like the boy next door who had just rolled out of bed and into an adventure. He looked devastatingly handsome.

And Sion, in his silk and silver, felt like a museum exhibit.

Riku finally stood up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked at Sion, and his eyes went wide. The apology died on his lips.

Sion braced himself. Here it comes. The joke. The comment about how I look like I'm going to the opera.

"Wow," Riku breathed.

It wasn't a joke. The word was soft, punched out of him by genuine awe. Riku’s eyes traveled from Sion’s polished shoes to the fluid drape of the silk shirt, up to the silver chain, and finally to Sion’s face.

"You didn't have to go all out like that" Riku swallowed, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. "That’s just unfair... already that handsome and still dressing up."

The heat rushed to Sion’s face, fierce and sudden, warring with the cool silk. "I... I'm overdressed," he stammered, gesturing helplessly at himself. "I thought it was more formal. I look ridiculous next to you. You look so... effortlessly beautiful in casual."

Riku looked down at his own outfit — the worn jeans, the simple tee — and laughed. It was a bright, unselfconscious sound. "I look like I just finished a shift. Which I did. But you..." He stepped closer, his gaze intense. "You look like a prince who got lost in the park. And I’m okay with being the baker’s boy who chases him until the end."

Sion’s heart did a complicated gymnastic maneuver in his chest. "You're not just a baker's boy," he whispered.

"Come on," Riku said, grinning. "Before I ruin your reputation by standing too close."

He didn't wait for permission. He reached out and, instead of holding Sion’s hand directly, he wrapped his fingers gently around Sion’s wrist. It was a gesture of guidance, protective and firm.

They moved into the festival proper.

If the gate had been loud, the interior was a wall of sound. The "Acoustic" stage was nowhere to be seen. Instead, they were greeted by a main stage where a band was playing something with a driving, thumping beat that seemed to shake the leaves off the trees. The crowd was a dense, moving mass — a sea of raised hands, bobbing heads, and shouting voices.

Sion felt a spike of panic. It was too much. Too many people. Too much noise. He shrank inward, his shoulders hunching.

Riku noticed immediately. He didn't say anything, he couldn't, not over the roar of the crowd, but he adjusted his position. He moved slightly ahead of Sion, using his broader shoulders to cut a path through the throng. He became a shield, a physical barrier between Sion and the chaos.

He kept his grip on Sion’s wrist, a tether that said I’ve got you.

They navigated deeper into the crowd, seeking a spot where the music was less of an assault. A group of excited teenagers surged past them, keeping with the lyrics to the song. Sion flinched, instinctively closing his eyes.

Suddenly, he felt Riku stop. The hand on his wrist slid down, fingers interlacing with his. Riku pulled him closer, until their arms were pressed together.

Riku leaned in. He had to get close, lips brushing the shell of Sion’s ear to be heard over the screaming guitar solo.

"You okay?" Riku whispered. His voice was a low rumble against Sion’s ear, intimate and grounding.

Sion shivered, and it had nothing to do with the weather. The proximity was overwhelming in a completely different way. He could smell Riku; vanilla, sweat, and the faint, dusty scent of the city.

"It's loud," Sion shouted back, turning his head slightly so his cheek brushed Riku’s hair.

"I know!" Riku grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "We can move back! Find a tree to hide under!"

"No!" Sion surprised himself. He didn't want to hide. Not when hiding meant letting go of Riku’s hand. "It's okay! Just... stay close!"

Riku squeezed his hand. "Always."

They found a spot near the edge of the crowd, where the grass wasn't completely trampled. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. The band on stage slowed down and, from the next song onwards, both the guitar and bass players left the stage to make way for trumpets and clarinets, changing the direction the main stage concert would take from then on.

The singer's soft voice then recited the lyrics of Nat King Cole's "Almost Like Being In Love",

What a day this has been

What a rare mood I'm in

Why, it's almost like being in love

There's a smile on my face

For the whole human race

Why, it's almost like being in love

The atmosphere shifted. The frantic energy of the crowd mellowed into something softer, more communal. Couples leaned into each other. Friends draped arms over shoulders.

Riku turned to Sion. He didn't let go of his hand.

"I don't usually dance," Riku said, shouting slightly less now. "I have the coordination of a sack of flour."

Sion laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. "I don't dance either. My plants have better rhythm than I do."

"Perfect," Riku said. "Let's be terrible together."

He lifted Sion’s hand, not drawing him in, but angling their joined fingers outward, as if setting the frame for something more deliberate. His other hand rested at Sion’s waist — briefly, politely — enough to guide rather than claim. The silk of the shirt slid under his palm, too smooth to hold onto for long.

Sion hesitated, then followed the cue, placing his free hand on Riku’s shoulder. The fabric of the t-shirt was soft, worn thin with age, but there was space between them still.

They didn’t sway. They stepped. Small, quick shifts timed to the snap of the rhythm: forward, back, a half-turn, the faint brush of shoes against the floor. Riku led with subtle pressure, Sion responding more than anticipating, their hands parting and finding each other again.

It wasn’t the kind of dancing that pulled them together. It was the kind that kept them just apart, and somehow, to Sion, that made every near touch feel momentous.

He looked at Riku. The stage lights washed over them; blue, then pink, then gold. In the flashing light, Riku looked ethereal. He was looking at Sion with an expression of such open, unguarded affection that Sion felt his breath catch for a brief second.

"I'm glad you came," Riku said, leaning in again so only Sion could hear. "I was afraid you wouldn't."

"I almost didn't," Sion admitted, the confession easy in the dark. "I thought you forgot."

"Forget?" Riku shook his head, his thumb rubbing circles on Sion’s waist. "Sion, I've been thinking about this all week. I burned three batches of cookies because I was distracted thinking about y... I mean, this."

Sion flushed. "That's a waste of cookies."

"Worth it," Riku murmured.

They stood there for a long time, simply existing in the shared orbit of their bodies. The music washed over them, no longer noise but a soundtrack. The crowd faded into a blurry backdrop. It was just them. The florist in silk and the baker in denim, finding a rhythm that belonged only to them.

And then, a drop of water hit Sion’s nose.

He blinked, looking up. Another drop hit his cheek. Then Riku’s arm.

The distant, dark-grey clouds, which had been threatening rain for some hours, now arrived at the event area after being carried by the wind. A rumble of thunder rolled across the park, deeper than the bass guitar, and the heavens opened.

It wasn't a drizzle. It was a deluge.

The crowd screamed, a mixture of delight and annoyance, and began to scatter. Umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers. People ran for the exit.

"Of course," Riku laughed, looking up at the rain soaking his face. "Of course it had to rain."

Sion looked at his silk shirt, which was rapidly becoming a wet, clinging disaster. He looked at his polished shoes sinking into the mud.

He should have been horrified.

He should have been running for cover.

But Riku was laughing. He was holding Sion’s hand and laughing at the sky, his hair plastered to his forehead, looking like the happiest person in the world.

And Sion realized he didn't care about the shirt.

"Run?" Riku asked, grinning at him, water dripping from his nose.

Sion squeezed his hand back. "Run."

Sion woke to a world that had been tilted on its axis.

The adrenaline of the rain-soaked dash home had evaporated hours ago, leaving behind a cold, heavy residue in his marrow. He had arrived home breathless and laughing, his silk shirt ruined, his shoes full of water, but his heart lighter than it had been in years. He had peeled off the wet clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor, and collapsed into bed without drying his hair, without plugging in his phone, without a thought for consequences.

Now, the consequences had arrived.

His head felt like it was stuffed with damp cotton. His throat was a raw scrape, painful with every swallow. But it was the cold that frightened him; a deep, shivering chill that lived inside his bones, immune to the quilt he pulled up to his nose.

He rolled over, groaning. The light coming through the window was too bright, too sharp.

"It's just a cold," he rasped to the empty room. "Just a cold."

He forced himself up. The shop had to be opened. The plants had to be tended. They didn't care about human frailty.

He stumbled through his morning routine like a ghost haunting his own life. He didn't shower; the thought of water made him shudder. He pulled on a thick wool sweater over his underwear — he didn't have the energy for buttons or zippers — and went downstairs.

The shop was a blur of green. Usually, Sion’s connection to the plants was a clear, harmonious melody. Today, it was a cacophony. The thirst of the ferns felt like a scream. The reaching of the ivy felt like a physical weight pressing on his temples. The air in the shop was thick and humid, suffocating.

He managed to unlock the front door and flip the sign to Open. That was the extent of his endurance.

He didn't make it back to the counter. He slumped onto a stool near the register, resting his cheek against the cool, varnished wood. He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Just to rest.

Time became a slippery thing. He drifted in and out of a feverish doze. He dreamt that the shop was underwater, that the marigolds were swimming like goldfish. He dreamt that Riku was there, but he was made of bread dough, soft and warm, and every time Sion tried to touch him, he rose and expanded until he filled the room.

He woke with a start to the sound of bells.

Not the gentle chime of his shop door, but a frantic, insistent jingling.

"Sion?"

The voice came from underwater. Or maybe from the surface. Sion couldn't tell which way was up.

He tried to lift his head, but it weighed a thousand pounds.

"Sion!"

Steps, quick and heavy. Then, a hand on his forehead.

The touch was shocking. It was cool, dry, and terrifyingly real. It cut through the fever haze like a knife through fog.

Sion forced his eyes open.

Riku was there. He was blurry at the edges, but his eyes were sharp with worry. He was wearing his apron, dusted with flour, and he smelled of the bakery; yeast and caramelized sugar. It was the most grounding scent in the world.

"You're burning up," Riku said. His voice wasn't soft; it was tight with alarm. "God, Sion. You're giving off heat like a radiator."

"M'fine," Sion slurred. He tried to sit up, to look professional, but his body betrayed him. He listed to the side, and Riku’s hands were there instantly, catching him by the shoulders. "Just... tired. Forgot to charge... phone."

"You are not fine," Riku said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And your phone being dead is the least of your problems. I've been texting you since yesterday."

Riku looked around the shop, assessing the situation with the efficiency of a general on a battlefield. He saw the untouched watering can, the sign flipped to open, the shivering boy in the wool sweater.

"We're closing," Riku announced.

He moved away, and Sion whimpered at the loss of contact. Riku went to the door, locked it, and flipped the sign to Closed. He pulled the blinds down, shutting out the bright, accusatory afternoon sun.

He came back to Sion. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," Sion said, which was a lie. He tried to stand, and his knees buckled.

Riku caught him again. He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask for permission. He turned, bent his knees, and hoisted Sion onto his back.

Sion gasped. The world spun. Suddenly, he was looking at the back of Riku’s neck, at the fine hairs there, at the dusting of flour on his collar. He wrapped his arms around Riku’s neck, burying his face in the warm curve of his shoulder. Riku felt solid. Indestructible.

"Hold tight," Riku said.

The journey upstairs was a blur. Sion closed his eyes and focused on the rhythm of Riku’s breathing, the steady thump-thump of his heart against Sion’s chest.

They entered the apartment. It was cool and quiet, the piano standing silent vigil in the corner. Riku didn't stop to admire the decor. He went straight to the bedroom.

He lowered Sion onto the bed with surprising gentleness. He pulled the quilt — the one with the mismatched patches that Sion loved so much — up to Sion’s chin.

"Stay," Riku commanded softly. "Don't you dare move."

Sion didn't want to move. The bed felt like a cloud. He watched through half-lidded eyes as Riku moved around his room. It felt strange, intimate, to have Riku here in his sanctuary. This was the space where Sion was just Sion, not the florist, much less his 'ideal version'. And Riku didn't seem to mind. He looked at the books on the nightstand, at the ivy cutting in the bottle, with a quiet respect.

Riku disappeared into the hallway. Sion heard the sounds of his kitchen being commandeered; the running of the tap, the click of the stove, the opening of cupboards. It sounded domestic. It sounded safe.

He must have drifted off again, because the next thing he knew, Riku was sitting on the edge of the bed. The room was dimmer now, the late afternoon light stretching long shadows across the floor.

"Hey," Riku whispered. He placed a cool, damp cloth on Sion’s forehead.

Sion sighed, leaning into the touch. "Hi."

"I brought you something." Riku held a steaming mug. The scent wafting from it was complex; floral, sweet, and slightly medicinal.

Riku helped Sion sit up, propping pillows behind his back. He held the mug to Sion’s lips. "Drink. Slowly. It's hot."

Sion took a sip. The liquid was golden and soothing. It tasted of honey, yes, but there was something else. A deep, earthy note of chrysanthemum, the sharp zing of ginger, and something softer, like pear. It coated his raw throat and seemed to settle in his stomach like a warm ember.

"It's good," Sion whispered. "What is it?"

"An old recipe," Riku said, blowing gently on the steam. "My grandmother used to make it for me when I got sick. Chrysanthemum for the fever. Honey for the throat. And a few other things."

Sion watched him. Riku looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, and flour still clung to his hair. He had closed his bakery in the middle of the day. He had carried Sion up the stairs. He was sitting here, blowing on tea, looking at Sion as if he were the most precious thing in the room.

The fever made Sion brave. Or maybe it just stripped away the layers of pretense he usually wore.

"Riku," Sion said softly.

Riku looked up. "Yeah?"

"You... also have powers?"

Riku froze. The mug paused halfway to Sion’s mouth. "Powers?"

"Like mine," Sion clarified, his voice raspy. "My plants... they listen to me. Too much, sometimes. But this..." He nodded at the mug. "This feels like magic. You closed your shop. You carried me. You made this. For me, it feels... impossible to be cared for like this."

Riku lowered the mug. He looked at the golden liquid, swirling it gently. A small, self-deprecating smile played on his lips.

"It's not magic, Sion," Riku said quietly. "It's just tea. And worry about you."

He placed the mug on the nightstand and turned back to Sion. His expression was open, vulnerable in a way Sion had never seen before.

"I was scared," Riku admitted. "When you didn't answer. When I saw the dried flowers in front of the store, the closed door. I thought... I don't know. I thought maybe I had imagined yesterday. Or that you decided our date was a mistake."

"The date was perfect," Sion murmured.

"Yeah," Riku smiled, a soft thing. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of damp hair from Sion’s forehead. His fingers lingered there, cool against the heat of the fever. "It really was."

"If you're asking if I have magic..." Riku continued, his voice low, intimate. "If you believe that intention changes things... that baking bread with anger makes it tough, or that making tea with care makes it heal... then maybe. Maybe I do."

He looked Sion in the eyes. The pilot light in his gaze was burning steady and bright.

"It was my worry that brought me here," Riku said. "It's what I feel for you that made me stay up late at night, waiting for your response. I think... I think I'm starting to like you, Sion. Or maybe even that doesn't do justice to it."

Sion’s breath hitched. The plants in the room — the ivy, the small fern on the desk — seemed to lean in, holding their breath.

"I don't just want to go on dates with you," Riku said, his voice thickening with emotion. "I want to be here. For the fevers. For the bad days when the plants are too loud. I want to make you tea and carry you up the stairs."

He paused, looking at the older expectantly.

"I want to take care of you. Is that okay?"

Sion looked at this man — this warm, solid, radiant man — who had barged into his quiet, lonely life and filled it with the smell of yeast and the sound of laughter. He felt the cold in his bones receding, chased away not just by the tea, but by the warmth radiating from Riku’s hand on his cheek.

"Yes," Sion whispered, tears pricking at his eyes. "Yes. That's... more than okay."

Riku exhaled, a long, shaky breath of relief. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Sion’s forehead, right over the damp cloth.

"Good," Riku whispered against his skin. "Now sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

Sion closed his eyes. He listened to the sound of Riku settling into the chair by the bed, the rustle of a page turning in a book he must have picked up.

For the first time in his life, the room was quiet. The plants were silent. The only sound was the comforting rhythm of Riku turning the pages, keeping watch over his garden.

One month later, the apartment above the flower shop smelled not of solitude, old papers and wood resin applied to the furniture, but of roasting rosemary, garlic, and the savory promise of chicken browning in the oven.

Sion stood by the table, which had been pulled from its usual exile against the wall to the center of the room. It was set for four.

"Put the fork on the left, Yushi. The left," Sion directed, his voice tight. He adjusted a vase of freshly cut alstroemeria in the center of the table for the third time. The flowers were trembling slightly, picking up on his anxiety.

Yushi rolled his eyes, dropping the silverware with a deliberate clatter. "You are stressing out. Stop it. It’s just lunch. It's just chicken."

"It’s not just lunch," Sion hissed, smoothing the tablecloth with shaking hands. "It’s my stepmother. And Riku."

"They will love each other," Yushi said, grabbing a grape from the fruit bowl and popping it into his mouth. "Riku feeds people. Your mom likes to be fed. It’s a perfect ecosystem. Besides, she loves you. She's going to love anyone who makes you look..." Yushi gestured vaguely at Sion. "Less like a haunted Victorian ghost."

Sion ignored the jab, but his mind drifted back to the woman who would be walking through that door in ten minutes.

His relationship with his stepmother, Yeonhwa, was a garden that had grown in its own way and time as a result of countless disagreements and reconciliations. In his childhood, it had been a landscape of barren soil and silence. After his father died, Yeon had been a blur of motion — working two jobs, managing her own two biological children, and trying to keep a roof over the head of a stepson who looked too much like the husband she had lost.

Sion, young and grieving, had interpreted her exhaustion as distance. He had seen her late nights as avoidance. He had grown up feeling like a guest in his own home, a burden that she had inherited along with the debts.

It wasn't until he left at eighteen, desperate to relieve her of his weight, that the perspective shifted. Distance provided the lens he needed. He saw the sacrifices. He saw that the food on the table, however simple, had been earned with sweat. He saw that she had never, not once, asked him to leave.

When her own children moved out and she finally retired, the silence between them had been filled not with resentment, but with a tentative, clumsy love. She had reached out. He had reached back. And now, she was the closest thing to a mother he had. Her approval wasn't just a nicety; it was a cornerstone he needed to build on.

"It has to go well," Sion murmured.

The kitchen door swung open, and Riku walked in.

He was wearing an apron over a crisp blue shirt, looking perfectly at home in Sion’s small kitchen. He carried a platter of golden-brown roasted vegetables, the scent of thyme filling the room. He looked at Sion, really looked at him, reaching places that only he could find with just a glance, and smiled.

It was the smile that had bloomed a thousand flowers.

"Everything is under control," Riku promised, setting the platter down and walking straight to Sion. He placed his hands on Sion’s shoulders, grounding him. "The food is perfect. The house looks beautiful. My boyfriend looks handsome as always."

Sion leaned into the touch, feeling his heartbeat slow down. "I'm nervous."

"I know," Riku said softly. He kissed Sion’s temple, a casual intimacy that still made Sion’s toes curl. "But she's your family. And you chose me. That's all that matters."

The doorbell rang.

The sound was sharp, final. Sion froze. The alstroemeria in the vase stilled, sensing the shift in the room.

Riku squeezed his shoulders once, hard. "Ready?"

Sion looked at the man beside him, the man who grounded him, who quieted the noise of the world, whose presence made the plants sing rather than scream.

"Ready," Sion said.

He walked to the door. He took a deep breath, smelling the roast chicken, the flowers, and the faint, lingering scent of Riku’s vanilla cologne. He opened the door.

Yeonhwa stood there. She looked smaller than he remembered, her hair grayer, but her eyes were the same; sharp, observant, and undeniably kind. She held a plastic container of kimchi, the universal offering of Korean mothers everywhere.

"Sion," she said, her face breaking into a warm smile.

"Mom," Sion breathed, the word easy on his tongue. He stepped back to let her in. "Come in. You're just in time."

She stepped inside, her eyes immediately scanning the room. She saw the set table, Yushi waving from the corner, and then, she saw Riku.

Riku had taken off his apron. He stood by the table, respectful but confident, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Mom," Sion said, moving to stand beside Riku. He felt Riku’s hand brush against his, a silent question. Sion took it. He interlaced their fingers, right there in the middle of the living room.

"I want you to meet someone," Sion said, his voice steady, ringing with a pride he hadn't known he possessed. "This is my boyfriend, Riku."

Yeonhwa looked at their joined hands. She looked at Riku’s open, friendly face. She looked back at Sion, noting the color in his cheeks, the way he was standing taller, the way the shadows that usually clung to him seemed to have evaporated.

She stepped forward. She didn't offer a handshake. She reached out and patted Riku’s cheek, a gesture of familiarity that hadn't been earned yet, but was being given on credit.

"He cooks?" she asked, eyeing the table.

"He's a baker," Sion said. "And yes, he cooked all of this."

"Good," Yeonhwa said, her eyes twinkling. "You need someone to feed you. You're too skinny."

She looked at Riku again, her expression softening into something profound. "Thank you," she whispered, and Sion knew she wasn't thanking him for the lunch. She was thanking him for the light in her stepson's eyes.

"It's an honor to meet you," Riku said, bowing slightly. "Sion talks about you all the time."

"All good things, I hope," she laughed.

"Only the best," Riku promised.

As they gathered around the table, passing dishes and sharing stories, the room filled with the kind of noise Sion used to fear; laughter, clinking cutlery, overlapping voices. But today, it didn't feel chaotic. It felt like a melody.

Yushi told embarrassing stories about their college days. Yeonhwa recounted the time Sion tried to hide a stray cat in his closet for a week. Riku kept everyone's glasses full and laughed until his eyes watered, his hand finding Sion’s under the table every few minutes just to squeeze it gently.

Sion sat back, watching them. He looked at his stepmother, whose face was flushed with wine and happiness. He looked at Yushi, his loyal friend. And he looked at Riku.

Riku caught his eye and winked.

Sion looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the street below. The ivy in the bottle on the piano was reaching toward the light. It wasn't growing wild or chaotic anymore. It wasn't trying to strangle the furniture or break the glass.

It was just growing. Steady. Rooted.

Exactly where it was meant to be, just like them.

By December, the pavement outside The Little Garden Club was no longer grey but a permanent, salt-stained white. The wind coming off the river had sharpened its teeth, biting through wool and denim with equal force. The ginkgo tree down the block, once a fan-dance of yellow, was now a stark skeleton rattling against the slate sky.

Inside the shop, Sion was waging a quiet, desperate war against the cold.

He moved through the aisles with a caulking gun in one hand and a roll of thick thermal plastic in the other. His breath did not mist here, but the air had a crisp, thin quality that kept him on edge. He wore layers that made him look twice his usual width: a thermal undershirt, a flannel button-down, and over it all, a thick, cable-knit cardigan in a soft brown color that definitely belonged to Riku, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms slightly chapped from the dry air.

"I know, I know," he murmured to the Calathea row, which seemed to be huddling together on the middle shelf. "It's drafty. I'm fixing it."

He climbed onto a stepladder by the front window. The glass was beautiful, etched with frost ferns that bloomed in silver fractals, but to Sion, every crystal was a failure of his insulation plan. He pressed a strip of weather-sealing foam into the microscopic gap between the frame and the pane, smoothing it down with his thumb.

The back door clicked open. Not the tentative knock of a visitor, but the decisive turn of a key that lived on a keychain alongside bakery keys and bike locks.

"You're fussing again," a voice noted from below.

Sion didn't startle. He simply exhaled, a tension he hadn't realized he was holding draining out of his shoulders. Riku was shaking off snow on the welcome mat, unwinding a scarf that seemed to go on for miles. His nose was bright red, and his eyes were watering slightly from the wind, but he moved with the ease of someone who wasn't visiting someone, but returning home.

"What? I am not fussing," Sion corrected, climbing down. "I am fortifying the place. The forecast says it’s going to drop to minus eight tonight. Our orchids will sulk for a month if they feel a draft."

"Minus eight," Riku repeated, shuddering as he hung his coat on the hook beside Sion’s, their fabrics brushing together intimately. "That's disgusting. Why do we live here? Why don't we move to a greenhouse in the tropics where mangoes fall directly into our laps?"

"Because you'd miss the yeast rising slowly," Sion said, walking over to him. "And Sakuya too, you'll definitely miss him."

Riku didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, sliding his hands under the hem of Sion’s — technically his — cardigan. His palms were cold, shocking against the warmth of Sion’s waist, but Sion didn't pull away. He hissed softly at the contact but stepped closer, trapping Riku’s hands against his skin to warm them.

"Cruel," Riku murmured, leaning his forehead against Sion’s. "You're a literal furnace."

"And you're an icicle," Sion whispered, turning his head to press a kiss to Riku’s frozen cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Riku hummed, the sound vibrating against Sion’s chest, and deepened the kiss, tasting of cold air and the old-fashioned cinnamon candies he used to chew at work. It was a slow, melting contact, a recalibration of their bodies after eight hours apart.

Riku pulled back reluctantly, his eyes dark and warm. "I brought reinforcements." He nodded toward the counter where he’d dropped a heavy thermal bag. "Beef stew. Slow-cooked since dawn. And that portable radiator from the attic I talked about."

Sion looked at the heater, then back at Riku, whose hands were still resting possessively on his hips beneath the sweater.

"You really don't have to," Sion started, the old reflex of independence flickering weakly.

"Sion," Riku interrupted gently, his thumbs rubbing slow circles against Sion’s skin. "The orchids might sulk if they get cold, but I will be actively unbearable if you freeze. Let me take care of this. Let me take care of us."

"Hmm," Sion softened, leaning his weight into Riku’s solid frame. "Okay. Thank you."

The evening routine had shifted with the season. In summer, the world had felt expansive, begging for riverside walks. In winter, their world shrank to the size of their upstairs apartment.

It was a nest now. Riku had dragged the sofa closer to the radiator weeks ago, and the floor was covered in a patchwork of rugs to keep the chill from rising through the boards. Books were stacked messily on the coffee table next to Riku’s video game controller and Sion’s sketchbook; a chaotic, comfortable merging of lives.

They ate sitting on the floor, legs tangled together under the low table. The stew was rich and dark, thick with root vegetables and melting beef, served with chunks of Riku’s sourdough bread; crusty and jagged, perfect for mopping up the gravy.

"Yushi texted," Sion said, blowing on a spoonful of broth. "He says he's hibernating and won't be seen until March. He also sent a picture of himself wrapped in three wool blankets."

Riku laughed, tearing a piece of bread and offering the smaller half to Sion, a habit he hadn't broken. "Sakuya is trying to convince me to install a heat lamp in the bakery kitchen. He says his fingers are too cold to text, which is a tragedy for his social life."

"Maybe you should," Sion mused, watching the way the lamp light caught the flour dust Riku had missed on his ear. "The heat lamp, I mean. Dough proves better in warmth."

"I am the heat lamp," Riku grinned, flexing an arm playfully. "I run hot during work. It's my superpower."

Sion reached out, resting his hand on Riku’s thigh, feeling the solid warmth of him through the denim. "It is," he agreed softly, sliding his hand higher until Riku’s breath hitched. "It really is."

After dinner, they didn't do the dishes immediately. The apartment was dim, lit only by a few lamps and the streetlights reflecting off the snow outside, casting long, blue shadows across the floor. Riku moved to the piano, sitting on the bench and patting the empty space beside him.

"Practice?" Riku asked.

Sion hesitated, then joined him. It was a tight squeeze, their thighs pressed firmly together, shoulder to shoulder.

For years, the piano had been a silent roommate, treated with respect but never intimacy. It was Riku who had changed that. “It’s sad,” he had said months ago, watching Sion dust the keys. “Instruments also need to fulfill their purposes, just like us, and we are preventing this old piano from doing so.”

So Sion had started to learn. Not quickly, and not easily, but he was trying.

He placed his hands on the keys. In the dry cold, the wood had contracted, and the action felt stiffer. He began a simple scale, his long fingers moving with a deliberate, concentrated slowness. He stumbled on the third measure, hitting a dissonant sharp.

Sion winced and pulled his hands back. "I'm clumsy today. My fingers are cold."

"You're doing fine," Riku murmured. He reached over, taking Sion’s hands and bringing them to his mouth. He blew warm breath onto Sion’s knuckles, then kissed each fingertip, one by one. The sensation sent a shiver down Sion’s spine that had nothing to do with the draft.

"Try again," Riku whispered against his skin. "Just the melody. The one you were humming yesterday."

Sion nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he placed them back on the ivory. He played a simple folk song, haltingly. It wasn't perfect. The timing drifted. But the sound filled the room, warm and resonant.

When the last note faded, Riku didn't applaud. He just leaned his head on Sion’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him sideways until Sion was practically in his lap.

"That was beautiful," Riku murmured into the crook of his neck.

Sion turned, straddling the bench so he could face Riku. He ran his fingers through Riku’s hair, enjoying the heavy, sleepy look in his boyfriend's eyes.

"It was simple," Sion dismissed softly.

"It was you," Riku corrected. He pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot below Sion’s ear, his hand sliding up Sion’s back, under the shirt, finding the warm skin there. "That’s why it’s my favorite."

Sion melted against him, the piano forgotten. They kissed slowly, languidly, the cold world outside making the heat between them feel concentrated, vital; a breath of life. Riku’s mouth was soft, tasting of the stew’s rosemary and his own natural sweetness. Sion gripped Riku’s shoulders, grounding himself as the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, a silent conversation about belonging.

A few hours later, the winds have changed.

It wasn't a gradual shift. It was a slam. A gust hit the building with enough force to rattle the window frames in their sockets.

Sion woke instantly, his heart hammering against his ribs. The bed was warm, Riku was a furnace beside him, an arm thrown heavily over Sion’s waist, but the air in the room had sharpened. He could feel a draft, a thin, icy finger tracing its way across the duvet.

"The shop," Sion whispered, the panic spiking before he was even fully awake.

He scrambled out of bed, grabbing his robe. Riku, sensing the loss of contact, groaned and blinked open one eye.

"Sion? Where...?"

"The wind. It's coming from the north now. The back window in the shop… the seal is old. If it gives... God, I need to do something."

He didn't finish. He grabbed a flashlight from the nightstand. Riku didn't ask questions. He didn't complain about the hour. He was up in seconds, pulling on sweatpants and grabbing the spare duvet from the closet, his movements efficient and awake.

Downstairs, the shop was freezing.

The temperature drop was palpable, a physical weight. Sion swept the flashlight beam across the room. The plants were still, but there was a tension in the air, a silent scream of distress from the tropicals. He ran to the back window. The seal hadn't broken, but the glass was shaking violently with every gust. Ice was forming inside the pane, creeping up the glass like a white mold.

"It's too cold," Sion hissed, checking the thermometer on the wall. "It dropped five degrees in the past two hours. The heating can't keep up."

He turned to the Mimosa and the delicate orchids on the display table. "They won't survive the night if it drops more."

"Then we move them," Riku said, his voice cutting through Sion’s rising panic. He set the extra duvet down and clapped his hands once. "Kitchen. It's the warmest room. We take the orchids and the tropicals upstairs."

"There are too many," Sion despaired, looking at the dozens of pots. "We'll never get them all up the narrow stairs in time, and the draft on the staircase might shock them."

"Okay," Riku pivoted instantly. "Then we make a camp. Here."

He grabbed the portable radiator they had placed near the counter earlier and dragged it to the center of the room. "We build a perimeter to insulate. I'm sure that will be enough."

For the next twenty minutes, they worked in a frenzy. They moved the most fragile plants away from the windows, clustering them in the center of the shop like refugees. They arranged the tall display racks in a circle and Riku draped the spare duvet and every sheet he could find over them, creating a makeshift, insulated tent.

Sion worked silently, his hands moving with desperate care as he tucked blankets around clay pots, insulating roots. He whispered apologies to the shivering leaves.

When the structure was done, it looked ridiculous; a patchwork fortress of mismatched fabrics in the middle of their flower shop, glowing faintly from the orange light of the heater inside.

Sion crawled inside the "fort" to check the temperature. It was significantly warmer here. The heater hummed bravely. The air smelled of dust, a mild burn of trapped heat coming from the metal coils.

He sat back on his heels, exhausted, brushing hair out of his eyes.

The tent flap lifted, and Riku crawled in. He dragged the mattress from the daybed in the back office behind him, shoving it into the small space among the pots.

"What are you doing?" Sion asked, bewildered.

"Night watch," Riku said, spreading the mattress on the floor. "You're not going to sleep upstairs while your babies are down here freezing. And I..." He looked at Sion, his gaze intense and unwavering. "...I don't sleep without you. Not anymore."

He patted the mattress. "Come here, handsome. To conserve body heat. It helps regulate the temperature. That's just how science works."

Sion looked at him, all disheveled, wearing a t-shirt inside out, sitting cross-legged in a tent made of sheets surrounded by fifty potted plants. He looked ridiculous. He looked like the most beautiful thing Sion had ever seen.

"You're insane," Sion said, his voice trembling, tears pricking his eyes.

"I'm devoted," Riku corrected. He opened his arms.

Sion crawled over and collapsed into him. Riku wrapped the last heavy wool blanket around both of them, pulling them down until they were lying amidst the foliage.

It was surreal. The Monstera leaves cast large, strange shadows on the sheet-ceiling. The heater clicked and whirred. Riku’s legs tangled with Sion’s, his arms locking around Sion’s chest, pulling him backward so they fit together like spoons.

"This is the weirdest date we've ever been on," Riku whispered into the dark, pressing a kiss to the back of Sion’s neck.

Sion laughed, a wet, choked sound. He gripped Riku’s arm where it lay across his chest. "Thank you. For saving them."

"I'm saving you," Riku murmured, his voice rumbling against Sion’s spine. "They're just collateral damage."

Sion lay there, listening to the wind howl outside, impotent against their fortress. He felt the connection to the plants; usually a hum, now a quiet, drowsy vibration. They felt safe. They felt the heat source nearby.

But for the first time, Sion realized the strongest signal wasn't coming from the plants. It was coming from the man holding him. A steady, unshakeable broadcast of love and protection.

Sion turned in Riku’s arms, shifting until they were face to face in the dim orange light. Riku’s eyes were heavy, but he smiled when he saw Sion looking at him.

"Riku," Sion whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

Riku's smile faded into a look of pure, unadulterated wonder. He reached up, cupping Sion’s face, his thumb tracing the line of his lower lip.

"I know," Riku whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. "I know. I love you too, Sion. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed him then, a slow, deep seal on the promise. They fell asleep like that, limbs tangled, breath mingling, the center of their own small, warm universe.

Sion woke to a smell that didn't belong in a plant shop. Coffee.

He blinked his eyes open. The "tent" was filled with a soft, diffused light filtering through the sheets. The heater was still humming, though the air had that stale, cozy quality of a slept-in space.

He was alone on the mattress, but the spot beside him was still warm.

He sat up, stretching stiff muscles. The plants around him looked perkier. The orchids held their heads high. The Mimosa was open, greeting the day.

Sion crawled out of the fort.

The shop was bright. The sun was out, reflecting off the snow outside with blinding intensity. The storm had broken, leaving behind a world scoured clean and white.

Riku was sitting on the counter, legs dangling, holding two steaming mugs. He looked tired, his hair sticking up in three different directions, wearing Sion’s flannel shirt over his t-shirt, but he was grinning.

"Morning, survivor," Riku said.

"Morning," Sion rasped. He stood up, looking around. The frost on the windows was melting, dripping down the glass in slow tears. The thermometer read a safe, steady sixteen degrees.

"We made it," Sion said, relief washing over him.

"We did," Riku hopped down, handing Sion a mug. "I checked the boiler. It's making a noise like a dying cat, but it's working again. The crisis has passed."

Sion took the coffee, holding it with both hands. He looked at the ridiculous tent, at the mismatched blankets, at the mess they had made to keep something fragile alive.

He looked at Riku, who was watching him with soft, expectant eyes. Riku, who had a key to the back door. Riku, who kept his toothbrush in the blue cup upstairs. Riku, who slept on the floor to save a fern.

Sion then leaned his head on Riku’s shoulder, watching the snowmelt drip down the windowpane. Outside, the world was frozen and hard. But in here, amidst the greenery and the smell of coffee and the warmth of Riku’s body, it was already spring.

"Let's not take the tent down yet," Sion said softly.

Riku laughed, kissing the top of his head. "Okay. We can keep the fort. But I'm going to need more pillows if we're staying another night."

"Deal," Sion smiled into the steam of his cup.

He took a sip. It tasted of roasted beans, a hint of cinnamon, and safety.

It tasted like home.