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The garden was slowly coming close to death. From above, standing up in his room, Mycroft had watched it lose all its colours through the window.
When he was eight, he admired the orchids for their beauty. He remembered their colour, their shade of pink, slightly turning purple with time, and the white of their petals contrasting with the dirt. Mycroft saw himself kneeling down, his eyes soft and his lips curving a little. He never dared to touch. The flowers looked peaceful, in constant growth, and he didn’t want to be the one to ruin it.
At nine, the orchids died. Abruptly. He felt guilty. He blamed himself for coming too close to them.
When his parents insisted on celebrating his tenth birthday, Mycroft could only think of the daffodils his mother had planted instead. While he blew the candles on the cake his father was holding in front of his face, Mycroft thought of the flowers who’d replaced his mistake. Later that night, he went outside when the sun was close to disappearing. Mycroft stayed at a distance. He observed from afar. Never approaching. Scared that he might turn the bright yellow of the daffodils into a tarnished beige. Or worse, that they might fade completely and become as brown as the ground. He only allowed himself to watch.
Four months later, the flowers got dry. Mycroft watched with a heart filled with guilt.
‘Mother?’ Mycroft had asked the next day. His mother had put her book down and looked up. She didn’t answer. She simply waited for her child to speak again, as she knew it would happen. ‘Why do your flowers keep dying?
His mother got up from the chair she was in, inviting her child to follow behind. So, Mycroft did.
As they were facing the kitchen window, Mycroft saw the garden outside and stared.
‘You see,’ she started. ‘Flowers are not meant to last forever.’
Mycroft’s heart broke at the words. He couldn’t believe something as beautiful wasn’t meant to be eternal.
‘Why?’ he then asked, curious.
‘Because nothing is.’ Mycroft sensed his heart coming to a stop. ‘Nothing in life is meant to stay still. The world changes. So do people.’
‘And flowers.’ he completed.
‘Exactly.’ his mother agreed. ‘And, eventually, they die.’
‘Like people?’
Mycroft heard a long pause. One that he did not understand yet. It felt painful and heavy, but he could not figure out why. Maybe one day he would. But, for now, he looked at his mom. A single tear fell down her cheek.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Exactly like people.’
Mycroft didn’t dare push. He never knew how to behave when people’s eyes were getting wet. Instead, he looked back at the garden. His mother coughed at his side. He heard it, but didn’t mention it. He knew better. Or, maybe, he didn’t know enough.
‘Will I change too?’
The question took his mother by surprise. But the answer came faster than expected.
‘Of course, dear.’ his mother answered, placing a hand on his shoulder. Mycroft tensed at the touch. ‘Everybody change.’
The last thing Mycroft wanted was to change. Yet, it sounded inevitable. Like death.
Before he could ask anything else, he realised his mother was already gone. So was her hand on his shoulder.
Mycroft turned, seeing his mother sitting back in her chair. She was reading again. Like she didn’t just drop the most terrifying truth to her child. Like she didn’t just turn Mycroft’s perception of the world upside down. Like he was supposed to handle it alone.
Silently, Mycroft went back to his room. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the ground. Until his back hit the mattress and he fell asleep.
At the age of eleven, Mycroft observed his mother plant peonies. The colour reminded him of the very first flowers he ever saw in the garden. The image made him sad. He ignored it and watched them die over the months. Like he knew they would. Like his mother said they would.
A year later, Mycroft turned twelve. His mother planted daisies. They soon died too.
When he turned thirteen, Mycroft observed the first iris grow. It was thin, curvy and pretty. It kept growing in a way that absorbed Mycroft’s attention. The flower seemed to constantly change as it grew. And, maybe, that’s why Mycroft started changing too. But, unlike the flower, Mycroft’s changes were nothing but ugly.
The first time he sensed it, Mycroft felt his knees go weak. When the iris in the garden was becoming more curvy with time, so were Mycroft’s hips. Those who used to be thin became round. Mycroft followed the curve of his body with his fingers and refrained from a tear. He knew he would change. His mother predicted it. She warned him. Yet, it didn’t mean he liked it. In fact, he hated it.
The next morning, Mycroft walked by the garden and stared at the second flower coming into view. If the garden kept growing, if the flowers kept changing, so would he. He felt his jaw clench and looked away. Whatever the next change would be, Mycroft knew he could try to avoid it.
Unless it was so visible no one could pretend to be blind.
Two days later, with his hands shaking around the edges of his shirt, Mycroft stared at his own reflection in the mirror. A tear fell on the ground. The sound echoed in his broken heart.
Mycroft had thought he could avoid paying attention to the next changes his body would go through. Yet, he was not prepared for his chest to grow in such a way. It used to be flat. It used to be so flat. So flat he could caress his skin and feel his heart beating first. Now, something was in the way. Something round. Something unwanted. Something that Mycroft wanted to rip off with his hands.
His chest had always been flat. Always. Why did it have to change now? Why?
Mycroft put his shirt on as fast as possible, trying to make the change disappear under it. It did not work as he thought it would. He could still perceive the slight, but meaningful change through the shirt. The way his shirt was curving. The way his body looked bigger.
Mycroft grasped his shirt. He tried to burn it with his palm. He tried everything he could.
But nothing worked.
His body stayed the way it was. And Mycroft wondered why it hadn’t done so before.
He would have been happy with the body he had. He was happy with the body he always had.
Why was it changing? Why did it have to change? Why?
As he cried, Mycroft put on another layer of clothes. He kept trying to hide his body. Even if he could feel it.
That day, Mycroft stayed in his room the entire time. With too many clothes on and too little food in his stomach.
A week later, his mom got worried and knocked at the door of his room. Mycroft stayed silent. Mainly because his own thoughts were too loud.
Carefully, his mother opened the door and called his name. Or, to be more precise, used a name Mycroft started to hate. A name he was used to. A name he didn’t mind being called.
Until now.
The name was nothing wrong. It was a simple and frequent name. The one his parents chose when he was born. Yet, now that everything was changing, the name was making Mycroft’s skin burn. It reminded him of everything. The way his voice was becoming higher and higher. The way his skin was now soft and smooth. The way his waist was round. The way his hair was growing long. And, most importantly, the way his chest had transformed into something he despised. Something he couldn’t look at without crying or throwing himself on the floor, knees held in his arms.
Yet, his mother called him again.
His hands buried in the jumper he was wearing, Mycroft looked up.
His mother immediately sat down on the bed next to him. She placed a hand on his knee, squeezing it gently. Mycroft flinched. His sobs got louder.
‘What’s wrong, dear?’ she wondered, her voice soft.
Mycroft hated how his own voice was becoming much more like his mother’s. He stayed silent.
‘What can I do for you, dear?’
He knew she couldn’t help. Mycroft was changing. And, soon, he knew he would die.
‘Nothing,’ he spat, his voice breaking. ‘Nothing can be done now. It’s too late.’
His mother squeezed his knee harder, and Mycroft moved away. His mother’s hands were so soft it was reminding him of his own skin. His own hands. His own body. All of it.
‘Honey,’ she whispered, concerned. ‘No matter what it is, I am sure I can be of assistance.’
‘You can’t.’ The answer was immediate. ‘No one can.’
‘Why, dear? Tell me why.’
Mycroft tightened his grip on his jumper.
‘Because I am a flower,’ he explained. ‘Because I change.’
His mother stayed quiet.
‘I am changing!’ Mycroft screamed, his voice muffled in a pillow. ‘I don’t want to change!’
🎕
Mycroft’s eyes snapped open. He blinked multiple times, trying to recall where he was.
‘Is everything alright ?’
He looked up. Now facing the bright smile of his favourite detective. The sight alone made Mycroft’s lips curve slightly.
‘Yes,’ he answered, his hand finding Gregory’s on the table. ‘I apologise. I appear to have lost myself in thoughts.’
‘Pleasant ones, I hope.’ Greg added, his thumb caressing Mycroft’s skin. As he saw the politician’s smile drop, Greg understood. ‘Ah,’ he said, now very attentive to Mycroft’s mood. ‘Wanna talk about it ?’ he tried, analysing his partner’s reaction. ‘Or not talk about it ?’ he adjusted as Mycroft stared into the void, silently.
‘I was drawn to a memory of my past.’
‘The past is rarely a good place to spend time.’ Greg agreed. ‘But yours was nothing but pleasurable. I get why you’d get lost in it. I would too if I were you.’
‘You overestimate my past.’ Mycroft said. ‘And undervalue the things you went through.’
‘I went through a divorce.’
‘You got cheated on.’ Mycroft corrected. ‘Multiple times.’
‘Yes,’ approved Gregory. ‘I did.’
‘You are stronger than you let yourself know.’
‘So do you.’
Mycroft inhaled. His smile was now a small and thin line of lips.
‘You were a strong brother, Mycroft.’ Gregory added. ‘And a strong son.’
‘Gregory.’ Mycroft said. ‘Please.’
The detective placed his other hand on top of Mycroft’s. Both his hands now protecting him. Keeping him close.
‘Your mom is an idiot.’ Greg insisted. ‘She was back then, and she still is now.’
‘It wasn’t easy for her to understand at the time.’
‘It was for me.’
Mycroft gulped. ‘You met me as a man.’
‘And I would have fallen for you whether I had met you before that or not.’ Greg answered. ‘You were a boy then. A son. A brother. I wish I had the luck to meet that young man,’ he added. ‘But I am more than happy to have met the grumpy old version too.’
Mycroft smiled. Not only because it was Greg, but because he was acknowledging all versions of him as one.
‘I am not grumpy.’ he corrected.
‘You are.’ Gregory teased. ‘That’s one of the things I love about you.’
‘You love me because I am grumpy?’
‘Yes.’ Greg laughed. ‘Among other things.’
Mycroft rolled his eyes. ‘What other things?’
Gregory’s smile grew bigger. ‘Your politeness.’
‘What about it?’
‘It shows the soft part of you.’ Greg said. ‘The part you never show entirely.’
‘Being polite makes me soft?’
‘Yes,’ the detective agreed. ‘It also makes you look really hot.’
‘Gregory.’
‘I said what I said.’ Greg laughed. ‘Is it really my fault you are so attractive? I am just stating facts here.’
‘You are not.’ Mycroft replied. ‘Your own opinion of me doesn’t count as fact.’
‘It should.’ Greg smiled. ‘Because you are really hot.’
Mycroft got rid of Greg’s hold and threw a napkin at his face. Their laughter warmed the restaurant.
‘You are an idiot.’ Mycroft joked.
‘Yes.’ Gregory approved. ‘And you love me for it.’
The detective grabbed Mycroft’s hand again and dragged it to his lips. The kiss was soft. The right kind of soft. The kind Mycroft loved more than anything. The kind that belonged to Greg.
‘I do,’ he added. ‘I do love you, Gregory.’
‘I love you too, Mycroft.’ Greg answered. ‘Even on the days when you don’t love yourself.’
As Mycroft looked away for a brief second, his eyes caught a bouquet placed close to the window. The red roses were standing up proudly. Bright and fresh. The flowers seemed strong. Protected.
That night, he realised his mother was right. All flowers were to grow, to change or to transform.
But Mycroft knew she was wrong on one thing.
Change didn’t mean death. Sometimes, it simply meant something needed to be reborn.