Archive of Our Own

The wind’s fingertips curl around the delicate silk of the petals. They shudder in pleasure, colour brightening regardless of the greyness up above. They are vibrant in colour, wide blocks of cheer. From far away, they look like the aftermath of an explosion, the blurred remnants of the overhaul of a box of paints. Closer up, the green foliage peels off into leaves and the splodges of colour gain cracks in their exterior, outlining the delicate artwork of the hand of God.

The pinny hits Harry’s knees as he scuttles to rectify the reckless, careless hand of the wind. Some stems have became dislodged within the bunch; a colourful arrow piercing the air, a careful dagger cutting through the wind. His expert fingers tuck them back into place and then run through the messy mop of hair on his head. Goosebumps arise on his exposed skin and a shiver tumbles down the knobs of his spine.

It is wintertime on the stall on Grainger Street, but Harry is undeterred.

Customers bustle through the street but only care to glance at the small stall stuffed to the brim with colour. The clouds above are close to bursting with speckles of rain, and Harry cannot understand why that would frighten those from the soft, curled masterpiece of a flower. But, then again, Harry has grown up around the delicate beauties for all of his life, and whilst some appreciate the materialistic pleasures, he chose to fall for the natural perfections.

It is like a little coven, his stall, that is. It is a mirage of beauty in amongst the dullness of the city. The scent is overwhelming, yet so delicate at the same time. Each scent can be picked out in amongst the soft haze. It smells like home to Harry.

There is something else which slips under the scent of his stall. It is a bitter musk that sometimes sparkles with sweetness and cinnamon. Coffee, warmth, cream, all mingle together to form a miasma beneath the floral dust. It slips through the doors of McCloud’s and latches onto a gust of wind, travelling over to Harry’s stall to settle into the splinters of the wooden stall.

Harry does not know a time when the heady scent was not present. He likes to think that they were made for each other, the smells. The coffee is strong, overpowering, a rush. The flowers are quaint, delicate, a gentle trickle through the veins. They are opposites, but fit together like a lock and key. Little does Harry know that two relations of both of the scents fit like that, too.

It is late in the afternoon and Harry is trying his very best to keep the smile on his face. He loves his stall, adores it, in fact, but the weather’s electricity is buzzing too close to his skin and the ever-looming rent to pay is closing in on him. As if luck is entirely against him, just as a young man looks as if he is about to edge his way over, the heavens well and truly open. Harry’s encouraging smile is washed off his lips and the suited man has scurried down the street before Harry can blink.

Thankfully, the pitiful canopy covers up the flowers from getting water-clogged. Harry quickly rushes to check the other side of the stall, and breathes out a sigh of relief when he realises that he had stuffed the crepe paper to wrap them in underneath the counter. All the while, though, the water is making sure that Harry will be drenched by the time the rain has run out. Harry would not be all too bothered if, when he glances down the street, he would not see a fairly abandoned street, bar those running from the bus stop into the shopping centre.

But he will not close up the stall. Partly because it takes him a good chunk of time to set the stall back up, but also because this is his job and this is what he accepted when he signed on that dotted line and became the owner of a, to him, grand, street stall. He may look mad, especially with his flattened curls that peek out of his hood and his turning-navy hoodie, but this is his life and, well, who cares if he has to wear soggy shoes for the rest of the week?

Harry is leaning against the stall, head down and arms wrapped around himself in a bid to contain some heat, when a golden-crowned angel totters over to him. Harry giggles internally at himself because since when did angels totter?

Of course, it is not an angel, but in fact a petite, gingerbread-haired, gingerbread-smelling, and fairly gingerbread-skinned boy, teeters up to him. Harry instantly names him Gingerbread, just because, but then has a sudden urge to know what his real name is, because he is sure that that name is not worthy. Harry does think that, though, the boy could possibly be some type of descendant from God because small hands are passing over a steaming cardboard cup. he heat radiates from it and tingles at Harry’s skin.  The sweet smell of tea, the tinge of bitterness fused with that smell, that tea smell that makes your heart fuzz with warmth, mixes with the lavender and lilac clouding his senses.

He has a small smile on his lips. It is somewhat weak, nervous as if he is worried that he is overstepping the general societal boundaries. It reminds Harry of a snowdrop. His eyes are the colour of the blue hydrangeas that he had last month. He wonders if they blossom into a stronger, deeper, colour. His light brown fringe is pushed across his forehead but the rest is covered by a black hood. He still has his apron on; McCloud’s standing stark on his chest in white embroidery.

The boy reminds of him Queen Anne’s Lace, though Harry is sure that he blooms brighter than that.

“I thought you could do with this,” the boy says, looking at Harry with such sincere care.

“You didn’t have to,” says Harry, voice quiet and shy, though still laced with thanks.

“You’re freezin’ your bits off, of course I had to.” The boy says it with laughter behind his tone and a smile toying at the corners of his lips.

He pushes the beverage closer to Harry, practically forcing it into his hands. Harry cradles it between his hands after accepting it. The heat is in such contrast to the coldness of his skin that it scalds, tiny pinpricks of pain stabbing at his pores until a pink shade leaks under his skin.

“Thank you,” replies Harry simply.  “I- you really didn’t have to, but I appreciate it, honestly.”

“’s’my pleasure,” shrugs Gingerbread.

Harry blows on it, mesmerised as usual by the little storm that he creates, the ripples in the light brown liquid that push, push, push to the edge. After taking a sip and sighing in relief as it trickles down his throat, warmth spreading through all of his veins until it cradles his head with a lovely haze.

When he looks back up, he sees the boy smiling quaintly at him, hands tucked under his armpits as he hugs himself tight.

“You’ve got a lovely stall here,” Gingerbread says, eyes scattering glances over the flowers.

“Thanks, it’s kinda my pride and joy, so, yeah.”

“I can tell,” is the reply, along with a knowing smile.

“Oh,” Harry says suddenly. “How much do I owe you, uh...” he poses it as a question, his slow drawl rising in tone at the end.

It takes a few seconds for Gingerbread to catch on, but then he is shaking his head and smiling even more.

“Louis, th’ name’s Louis.”

He holds out his hand, waiting for harry to shake it, but promptly realises that Harry’s hands are occupied by the steaming cup and giggles to himself. Harry finds himself chuckling, too, the laughter from the boy being somewhat infectious.

“Harry,” he replies in his gravelly voice. He cocks his head and smiles widely, nodding his head as a greeting. Louis just smiles more. The rain is still pitter-pattering around them, but they don’t seem to notice, let alone care.

“And you don’t owe me anything, think of it as a gift to a neighbour, or something.”

Harry frowns, “But I have to give you something in return, that isn’t fair.”

“I honestly don’t need anything, mate. Think of it as you helping with my good deed of the day.” He says it with such truth and kindness that Harry wants to know why he ever thought the world, people, had changed for the worse.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta get back to my shift, but stay warm, yeah?” Louis says, turning away with a smile.

“Yeah...” murmurs Harry. Suddenly, an idea springs to the forefront of his mind. He slides the tea onto the counter and scans the bunches of flowers. Reaching out, he lets his fingers wrap around the thin stem and grasps it tightly. He turns around quickly and calls out Louis’ name.

When the boy turns around, water flicking from the tip of his hood and eyes wide, the first thing he sees is the single pink carnation held out in front of him. Its petals are smattered with droplets of water and an edge of an outer petal is curled over, but it still looks pretty as ever. It is baby pink in colour and the petals are wound together in an intricate design. They are a maze of expensive silk, a perfect mess.

The boy looks up at Harry in confusion.

“It means gratitude. To say thank you. For, y’know.”

Louis’ eyes flicker between the flower and Harry.

Uncertainty creeps up Harry’s neck, causing him to raise and hand and rub at the skin. “It’s not much, I know, and it’s probably stupid but-”

“Thank you,” Louis interrupts. He carefully takes the flower from Harry’s fingers and studies it carefully. His eyes are wide and bluer than before. His fingertip prises apart some of the soft petals, ever so careful and cautious, as if he is scared to damage it.

A voice scrapes through the atmosphere, the calling of Louis’ name, and the boy is suddenly snapped out of his daze. He grips the flower as he parts from Harry with a raise of his hand, and disappears into the shop.

The rain stops soon after that.

-|-

An inaudible sigh spritzes into the atmosphere from a small mound of honey yellow. It is framed by thin, pure white curvatures that fan out, innocently coaxing the air into its small cave of sweetness. There is, though, a gap in the daisy’s crown, as one little petal floats gracefully down until it lay on the wooden surface.

The weather is dull but the afternoon holds faith in the small glimpses of the sun as it peeks out from behind the clouds. Harry cannot help but smile truthfully as customers pass. It is not a manufactured smile, one which the brain deliberately creates with every nudge of its fingers underneath the pink of his lip. It is real, honest. It is because of the breeze is twisting its way in between his curls and the dampness that resides in the air keeps him breathing in and out, in and out.

Maybe it was because of that elderly man who arrived at his stall no less than ten minutes after opening. His frail fingertips had traced the petals of a lilac, before settling on a bunch of white carnations. Harry had asked him whether he knew what they implied, and the man had nodded his head with a wry smile. A story unfolded soon after from the old man’s lips, a one founded before Harry had even graced the earth. Harry was truly fascinated, intrigued by the tiny mazes which would be carved into his brain that lead to a different story each time. For that, Harry had cradled the blooming buds with heather, to which the man left with a squeeze of his shoulder.

There had been other customers, thankfully enough, but the rush (read: meandering customers) has died down by now and he is lucky if he sells off the wilting bunch of daffodils that had yet to be sold.

He feels good though. Nice could be an adjective to describe it, regardless of how generic and lacklustre it may be.

It is not, though, until a waft of sugared air sweeps under his senses and forces him out of his reverie, that he realises that maybe Nice is about to extend its arms to, well, Extra Nice.

The smaller fellow, Louis, comes traipsing out of McCloud’s, and Harry suddenly realises that the skipping of his daily pastry was not in his Top Ten Best Ideas, in fact, it was probably a low twenty seven, in fact. His stomach grumbles at the smell of honeyed treats and other delights,  but the smell of lavender is rich on his fingers and holds the thunderstorm-level rumble back.

He is there, in front of him, baring a maroon cardboard cup and a twitching smile.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” is all Harry can conjure up as a reply.

“I brought you more tea. Because. Well- I actually don’t know, but- uhm, here,” Louis stammers, passing over the cup.

Harry looks up at him from under his lashes, a small smile playing on his lips. The stall is clouded with the smell of the flowers, but Louis is as clear as anything. “Thank you,” he says, because he does not know what else to add. It does not feel enough, but his words seem to be stuck in his throat because why and how are circling the unscarred sky of his mind.

He takes the drink and holds it close to his chest. The weather is not as cold as the last time, but the warmth leaves a lovely bubble in his chest. Or maybe that is something else, who knows. (The crocuses titter to each other and the rhododendrons gabble, but Harry cares not to listen.)

“Are you okay?” he asks, because the lilac  pouches that drape under the cerulean irises look a worrying shade too close to last month’s batch of violets that only lasted a day or two, at most.

The boy shrugs and lets out a sigh, unintentionally, Harry presumes, and tries to smile as best as he can. It is lacklustre and weak, but it’s something, so Harry grins back so hard that a dimple pierces his cheek. In turn, Louis’ smile widens, so he counts that as a success.

“Enjoy your tea,” Louis says quietly, before turning around to leave.

Only letting himself gaze at the retreating figure for a second, Harry carefully places down the tea and scuttles down his stall. There, he picks out the brightest, yet richest, yellow coreopsis that he has.

It happens similarly to the last time; Harry calling out Louis’ name, the other turning around to be faced with a large, round, scented thing so close to his nose that it tickles.

“Yellow coreopsis: cheerfulness.”

Louis’ eyebrows furrow as he plucks it from Harry’s fingers and inspects the small beauty. He looks up towards Harry, who’s smile matches the flower almost exactly. It is somewhat uncanny, but Harry has always had a connection to the elusive beauties, no matter how cheesy that sounds. He just wants to pass that feeling on to the little man in front of him.

“And, well, I think you need cheering up, so- yeah, here.”

Louis’s eyes flitter down to the flower. His eyelashes are thick and long, fanning over the sunny petals. He leans down and breathes in the scent. Slivers of blue cut through the black veil of his lashes as he looks back up at Harry. When he raises his head, he is grinning, albeit a little restrained but it is progress. “Thank you,” he says with true sincerity, eyes glittering.

Harry just smiles because, hell, somehow he has moved from Nice, to Extra Nice, to Downright Happy. He does not even want to think how or why. All he knows is that, as Louis slips back into McCloud’s, the softness around his heart is warmed with a hazy fuzz that would taste like snowdrops and smell like pink gillyflowers.

-|-

One of Harry’s earliest memories is when he stayed at his grandma’s cottage. The small home was deep in the Lake District, encompassed by greenery and mountains. Gemma, his sister, never liked going there because there was nothing ‘cool’ for her to do, but Harry thought it to be heaven.

Harry believes that his love, adoration, and connection with and for flowers, was originally founded in him by his grandmother. Whenever he visited her, she would carry, hobble, walk him out into her back garden where rows and rows, hundreds and hundreds, of flowers blossomed from the soil. As a young child, the smells and colours made Harry one of the happiest kids around. Somehow, though, his grandmother knew that it was more than just the aesthetics.

As time grew on and Harry gained age, his grandmother let him help out when she tended the little beauties. Of course, being a young boy with too much energy and enthusiasm, Harry was ecstatic at the news of being able to actually do something rather than just ogle at the flowers, and threw himself well into it.

Maybe it is a sense of nostalgia, but the memory of prodding at the soil and getting dirt under his fingertips is the happiest one of yet.

So that is why Harry believes that his inspiration, motivation, mental-encouragement, all stems from his frail grandma and he would never be able to thank her enough for that. Her passion for the delicate beauties had somehow melded with her love for her grandson and been dripped into his veins like an IV. It was infectious, and he never wants to be cured.

Harry supposes that he has had it easy. He has plodded through life with a relief just waiting for him outside of his door. A comforting smell that wraps around his body like strong arms, a  soothing sight of blinding colours that dispels any cloudy thoughts.

Therefore when the petite little man cradling a cup of tea appears one day, when the clouds are high and the air is dense, he feels considerably lucky. Of course, he feels somewhat bad for feeling something of a positive relation when the boy in front of him is obviously in distress, but gladiolus beside him whispers a sweet tune in his ear and reduces the feeling to a pitiful residue.

His, Louis’, eyes are dulled with a film of rusted silver and his lips have been sewn with a certain downturn that alerts Harry’s conscience. Maybe Harry has a knack for this thing of noticing when something is wrong, regardless of how concealed it is, or maybe it is just the pink tulip’s low thrum next to him that gives it away.

The usual ritual of the passing over of the tea occurs with a slightly different twist. Cup buried in between the bowl of his hands, Harry thanks Louis with curious eyes stitching paths over his features.

“You’re stressed,” Harry states, because it is true. The boy’s foot is shifting restlessly against the stone pavement and his first fingertip of his right hand is tapping rhythmic patterns against his bicep. His eyes flit from places to place and Harry can spot the string being wound tightly around the bobbin behind Louis’ eyes.

And, yeah, maybe it is not Harry’s place to blurt out his observations, but the delphinium is chuntering his ear off so it is inevitable that he says something.

Louis looks surprised, shocked, even, at Harry’s words. Finally, focusing his eyes on Harry, on something for longer than a string of seconds, he looks almost relieved. A sigh heaves from his body and his shoulders slump into slopes for his stress to tumble down.

“Yeah,” he says, voice raspy, “I really am.”

Harry leans back and takes a sip of the tea. Louis pushes his fringe off his face, body still tense, as Harry’s eyes search his form noncommittally. “Anything I can help with?” because if there is one thing Harry is good at, other than flowers, obviously, is helping other people. And he, for some reason, just really wants to help out the little man in front of him.

Louis smiles wryly and glances up the street. “If you can audition for me to get a place on a drama course with a script that has only just arrived because it got lost in the post even though the audition is tomorrow, then sure.”

Harry scrunches his face up and feigns thought. “Just give me time to put some shoes on my knees, straighten my hair, and spend the night on a tanning bed and I think I might just be able to help.”

Silence drapes over the air for a moment, a pause, but then the petals blossom outwards and the honey rich centre is divulged to the curious specks of dust. Louis’ mouth cracks opens into a humoured smile. His eyebrows raise involuntarily and his eyes a ignited with the fizzle of peace.  Unable to hide his glee, a giggle bubbles from in between Harry’s lips and discards a capital ‘U’ in its wake.

Once Louis’ laughter has spiralled out, he shakes his head at Harry. His eyes are lighter than before, perhaps more similar to the shade that the violets are veiled in. A twist is still curled at the corner of his lips, and it is evident that his action is not done in a sardonic sense, more so disbelief.

“You’re a right someone, aren’t you?” poses Louis, although it is more of a statement than anything.

“Anything to help,” Harry replies with a shrug of his shoulders and an overzealous grin slicing in between his reddened lips like an white Amazon lily in between a flock of red celosia.

They just stare at each other for a minute. Behind Louis stands rows and rows of sandy brown, dirtied and solid. It is full and the picture of industry. But Harry does not need the colourful backdrop that Louis has for him, the oodles of flowers mingled together, because he thinks that Louis shines bright enough for nothing else to compare. (Well, that might be pushing it a little because, well, flowers, but it’s the thought that counts.)

“I should probably go,” says Louis, without any conviction whatsoever, “I’ve got coffee to pour and cookies to steal for later when I have my inevitable breakdown at two in the morning.”

“And I’ve got to pretend to preen the flowers even though I’ve already done it about ten times in the past hour.”

Louis smiles, “Sounds like hard work.”

“The hardest,” Harry answers, smirking through his smile.

The breeze whistles in the background as they just stand, staring, smiling quietly. Harry feels a certain tranquillity leak from the petals of the lotus flower and seep into the soft cushion of his stomach. The boy in front of him is next to silent, bar the butterfly breaths that flutter from between his lips. Harry feels a trickle down the valley of his neck and identifies it as a profound sense of please. The calmness in Louis’ exterior replicates the peace inside of him, and that is down to Harry’s mindless chatter.

After a moment, a while, Louis speaks. His tone is soft and quiet, timid, almost. “Thank you.”

Harry feels something move in his chest but does not dwell on it. In fact, all he does is smile sincerely, because he thinks that that may be the only way that he can truly express himself. One with words, he is not. But his experience with aesthetics is one he prides himself in, and the tweeze of the petal tips and the twist of the stem teaches him more than a thousand words ever could.

Harry turns and places the steaming cup onto the counter. For once, Louis has not sidled away yet, so Harry takes that as something. He nips around the other side of the stall, eyes roaming the many colours. His fingers curl around the correct stems and pull them gently from their bouquet. Blanketing the two single flower stems with his heated palm, Harry meanders back around the stall and approached the still-waiting Louis.

“Here,” he offers the two flowers to Louis, curls and petals quivering in the breeze.

Louis’ blue eyes glance down and swirl around the heads of the flowers. They flit back up to Harry before returning to the beauties, dusting the petals with his attention. “What do they mean?” he enquires, and Harry has to hold back his smile because, shit, Louis just knows.

“The iris is for inspiration and the black eyed Susan is for encouragement. Thought you might need them.” Harry says, shrugging his shoulders and pressing his lips together, suddenly coming across somewhat shy.

Louis traces the petals with his fingertip. The long, thin, yellow petals of the black eyed Susan bend at the touch. It may look threatening, what with its centre, a dark abyss stark against the brightened colours, but the sunshine-sprayed petals bring a curve to the lips of the beholder.

The iris seems to intrigue Louis more, though, and Harry thinks so it should. Personally, he finds the delicate, yet so unusually powerful, little thing entirely beautiful. The petals curve backwards like a ballet dancer keening into their partner, ever so petite, ever so pliant, yet ever so strong. Miniscule veins thread their way down to the crimped edges, darkened lines merely adding to the wonder. Its violet purple colour is warm to see, the wrapping of a summers day around ones chest. The petal centre leaks white, then yellow, into the subtly shade, the colours of a night’s sky. The dainty flower looks close to falling apart, yet still grips onto its sweet potent smell and its bleeding colours.

The flower reminds Harry of Louis, although he is not too sure why.

“Thank you,” Louis repeats, staring at Harry with great sincerity and true honesty. If his eyes were smell, they would be vanilla frosting on cinnamon cupcakes; warm and comforting, true care, true kindness.

Harry smiles back and replies, “Good luck, Louis.”

With a blink, a smile, and a nod, Louis turns and wanders back into the coffee shop. And if Harry spends an inordinate amount of time staring at an iris and trying to figure out just what makes it so Louis-like, then, well, nobody has to know.

-|-

The air is being drizzled with specks of rain as Louis trudges out of McCloud’s over to Harry. Harry has his jacket zipped up, a hood hiding his hair, and his sleeves pulled up to his knuckles. A few customers had tottered over in the morning: a young man picking out a bunch of roses for a date that night, a greying woman who bought a selection of lilies, a foreign lady picking up some carnations for her housewarming party. But as the weather worsened, the other potential customers fled. Apparently flowers are less attractive in the rain. But Harry thought that poinsettias were warm enough to condense the rain.

Harry cannot see Louis’ face as he approaches him. The boy’s hooded head is down and staring into the whirlpool of tea in his hands. He twists the broken stem that is stabbed between his knuckles around, bending it around as he waits for the rain to stop, the customers to come, Louis to reach him. His heart is beating in his throat, tap, tap, tap. In amongst the rose petals, the lilac scents, the headache of carnations, Harry had wondered on frequent occasions whether the friendly little man’s audition was a success. And on many of those occasions did Harry feel a mixture of nerves and pride, but that was another matter that only the lisianthus was aware of.

When Louis does, though, Harry almost wants to rewind time. He wants to zip back to when Louis was in the coffee shop and Harry could only just brush the perimeter of Louis’ aura. Harry wants to reverse back to a time where he does not have to see Louis’ expression as so despondent, disappointed, upset. Of course, Louis puts up a valiant effort to hide such emotions, but neither Harry nor the flowers are fooled.

Wordlessly, he hands over the cup of tea to Harry. Unsure of what to do, Harry holds the cup in his hands for a few seconds, just staring at Louis and feeling his heart sink deeper and deeper, lower and lower. Louis does not have to say anything, it is written all over his face. The dejection is festering in the crinkle of his chin, and the glumness is weighing down on his eyelids.

Eventually, though, Harry comes to a decision. Tea placed down gently and a fleeting glance behind him back at the close-to-broken-looking boy, Harry rushes with quiet footsteps around the stall. There, he picks out the two beauties to express how he feels and what he thinks Louis needs. Because now does not seem like the time for carefully placed smiles and handpicked-emotion-full eyes. Now is the time that Harry needs to use his love and passion as a defence and cure mechanism.

Louis looks utterly worn out, defeated. Harry rounds the corner to see him slumped against the counter, arms crossed tightly around his chest and head tilting downwards. The lines of his portrait stand out in front of the blaringly bright background. Harry believes that his features were sculpted by the hand of an iris, because nothing could be that beautiful when sullen.

Harry stands so close that their shoulders touch. Louis does not flinch. Harry likes to think that he keens into the touch, but he wonders whether that is just a figment of the white rose garden sitting snug in his head. Neither say anything, just listen to the pitter-patter of the rain upon the stall and watch the darkness bleed into the stone beneath them.

“Geranium: comfort,” states Harry, “peony: healing.” He holds the two flowers in Louis’ direction but only watches him from out the corner of his eye. Somehow it feels like direct contact would shatter the fragility that Harry is intending.

Small fingertips wrap around the top of each stem and pull them from Harry’s protective grasp. They trail over the tips of the petals on the bulbous, light pink, peony and lick at the dark pink veins that are stitched onto the geranium. They bring the flower up to Louis’ nose, where he breathes in the scent. His chest heaves up as he breathes, yet his expression makes it look somewhat effortless. Harry can feel the smell rolling down into his stomach just as Louis breathes out. He can feel the comfort settling in his bones. He hopes Louis can, too.

“How did you know?” Louis almost-whispers. His voice is rough, Harry suspects from lack of sleep, and his eyes flutter shut. The two flowers are crossed and rest on his chest, the peony an arrow to the right, the geranium to the left.

“I dunno,” replies Harry, because what good would come from him telling Louis that he looks like the rain clouds in a sunshine-filled sky?

There is a pause, then: “it’s because I look like shit isn’t it?”

And Louis is giggling, well and truly giggling, and Harry cannot help but chuckle as he makes his reply in agreement. It seems to be that Louis has not fulfilled his daily quota of laughter as he cannot stop his bubbles of giggles from being blurted out into the air. In turn, Harry joins him because the situation is as baffling as anything. One second, the boy beside him is teetering on the edge of falling through his own cracks, the next, he is spitting out little glassy bubbles of happiness.

But Harry does not complain because this is how Louis should always be. Like a dandelion springing up front the blanket of lush grass, bright, brash, beautiful.

The laughter transcends out of subject-specific to just laughing for the sake of it. Harry has not laughed like such for seasons on end, through the daffodils, the sunflowers, the red maple. Amusement bounces on their chests and the corners of their eyes pool with glee. So close, Louis turns into Harry unknowingly. He breathes laughter into Harry’s jacket, puffs out gingerbread happiness. Instinctively, Harry’s body curved into Louis’. As intimate as the purple asters to his left who’s centres meet in a kiss.

Eventually, the, somewhat hysterical, it could be said, laughter deflated into soft, fluttering breaths. Louis stayed still, face pressed into the sweet, flowery scent of Harry’s jacket, but just for a few seconds. Harry suddenly became aware of the pool of heat that had formed upon his shoulder, but tried not to let the warmth trickle down to his fingertips and make him act with unwarranted boldness.

Soon enough, (yet maybe too soon), Louis uncurled from Harry’s body to stand in front of the florist. With the fingerprints of Blush smudged across the height of his cheekbones, Louis smiled sweetly up at Harry. The two flowers were held close to his chest, as if they were being protected, yet his defence at the same time.

“Thank you,” Louis murmured. The toe of his shoe scuffed across the stone floor and he looked up at Harry through his eyelashes. A certain sense of timidity overcame the exterior of the boy in front of him, yet all Harry could find it was endearing.

“My pleasure,” replies he, because it is the truth.

Louis nods and looks down, the corner of his lip quirking up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” His voice sound so quiet and innocent. There is even a slight wash of nervousness underneath it. Harry does not understand why.

“Definitely,” Harry offers with a smile.

With another smile passed between them, Louis turns and scuttles back into McCloud’s. Whilst Harry sips at his cooled tea, the warmth of Louis’ breath on his shoulder is the silent topic of conversation between he and the begonias.

-|-

The next day, as expected, the weather is dreary, but it brightens as soon as Louis sets a foot outside of McCloud’s door. Harry has just sold a bunch of twelve peach roses to a young girl barely in her teens. She had been fascinated when Harry explained to her the meaning of the coloured petals, however Harry thought that she would have believed him even if he had said that the petunias were representations of calm. It did warm his heart, though, because the girl seemed so enthusiastic and excited to give ‘Alex’ her flowers on their ‘date’ to the park that evening. It was incredibly sweet, and Harry pretended not to notice that she was three pounds short on the price.

After tucking away his earnings and taking a cursory glance across the street to check for any lingering customers who may need one of his encouraging smiles, Harry spots the barista stepping outside. Vaguely, he hears a poppy at the end of the stall cackling at his attempt to restrain his smile.

As Louis approaches him, Harry stands, rocking back onto his heels with his hands stuffed into his pockets. His lips are pressed tightly together but his eyebrows are raised in greeting. “Hi,” he chirps, because, God, how come he is suddenly so damn joyful?

But then Louis’ reply was similar in words but the opposite in feeling. It is quiet and breathy, as if sighed. No longer is it a peep of cheer, more so a deflation of person.

It is then that Harry questions whether maybe a flower can absolve those thorns that prickle one’s heart. He wonders whether the literature scripted on the soft silk of the petals can be read by those tangled in the web of suffering. He thinks about whether the soft scent that follows the flowers can lick its way through the putrid potency of pain.

He doubts whether he is any help.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine,” Louis insists, offering a shaky smile that slowly grows in strength and certainty. Harry frowns, though, because the boy in front of him looks anything but fine. Maybe Harry does not know the boy, maybe he only knows his name and his smile, but he does know that something is not right and he is not going to ignore that, because, well, it is Louis, basically.

“Honestly, I’m alright. I’m still just a bit touchy about the audition, but that’s it.” He shrugs and passes Harry the tea. Harry takes it with cautious hands, but eyes Louis’ in suspicion.

“Sure?”

“Yup.”

“Promise?”

Louis hesitates.

“You can tell me.”

“It’s nothing, seriously, forget it,” Louis persists, eyes widening and eyebrows raising as if that will make Harry believe him. His fingertips splay in the air, shocking an electric spark of fake honesty into the atmosphere.

 “Well- okay,” sighs Harry reluctantly, eyebrows furrowing and lips turning downwards, “I just want to help.”

Louis’ face softens at that, and Harry wonders whether the previous sinking of his stomach is being played out upon his features like a show-reel. If it does, then the tip of his ear is sliced with flushing embarrassment. Louis tilts his head to the side, vision skewing most probably as his eyes glaze over. Harry wonders if they are stinging with pollen, tiny pockets festering in the crevice of his eye. His feel like they are, but he is so used to it that he suspects it may be something else (embarrassment, uncertainty, hurt).

“I know,” Louis assures. A hand cups Harry’s bicep and a heat flares underneath the bruising thumb that causes a valley underneath its pad. Green eyes graze over the rhododendrons, and then back to the glass-edged of Louis’ cheek. “I’m just being- just stupid.” His hand vacates the cylindrical flesh and his sugar-engrained, chocolate smudged fingernails scratch at his hairline. A sigh bubbles from his lips as he looks down at the ground ruefully.

“I just- everything’s a bit off-kilter, y’know?” Louis’ top teeth are worrying his bottom lip, rose-red bleeding into the plush of his lip. His eyes flit upwards to look at Harry, who stares back at him, wondering, asking.

“I-.” Louis stops himself with a humourless laugh and a roll of his eyes. Harry just watches. “I actually thought I could do it, y’know? But I fucked it up, like always, and I’m back to the start again. No, actually, it’s more like I’m behind the start. Two steps forwards, three steps back, ‘n’ all that. I just feel so fucking lost. Like, I’m here, but I’m not here. I’m just- I’m just here.”

And Harry gets it. Of course he does. Sometimes he feels it, too. But-

But at the same time, he does not get it. Because Louis is supposed to be larkspurs and alstroemerias blossoming bright whilst blowing in the breeze of the world. He is supposed to be the stars and the sun and the moon, not the bark on the tree or the thorns on the roses or the twisting roots. Louis is an iris, yes, delicate yet passionate. He is not a weak cyclamen, resigned to his fate. He is steady. He is there. He is not supposed to be the shell he is today.

And Louis looks so defeated. His shoulders slump down and his head is bowed and all Harry wants to do is show him how bright he usually shines. He wants to search for days, weeks, months, just to find the flower which replicates the glint in the boy’s eyes. Louis is not the broken void that is standing in front of Harry right now. He is so much more.

 But he does not know how to show him that, because all Harry knows is flowers, and his previous doubt is still thumping on the walls of his mind.

The scent of camomile sprinkles in between the two boys and Louis shudders involuntarily. His eyelids slip closed and he seems to breathe in deeply, lungs misting with the small flower’s scent until it is tinged with the colour of calm.

It is then that Harry realises that all he can do is help out in the only way he knows how.

He is careful in his movements, slow and wary as he turns from Louis and tiptoes down the stall. His eyes graze over the stall until they land upon the similarly crafted flowers that his fingertips instantly itch to hold. As he charily pulls one from the bunch, they bequeath a warm aroma that leaves Harry’s heart swirling in ecstasy.

Stems nipped between his fingers, Harry’s eyes trace the delicate petals as he pads back over to Louis. Standing in front of him, he offers the pinked flowers with a steady hand.

“Azalea: fragility.” He pushes the particular flower closer to Louis, urging him to take it. Hesitantly, Louis picks it from Harry’s fingers and draws it into his body. Fingernails like charcoal, he sketches along the smooth, sturdier, brim of the petals. They splay out from the flushed centre, fanning out around the bundle of stamen that are darkened with pride. Harry believes that the flower does not represent it’s meaning as much as, say, an iris, would. But then he spots the understanding in Louis’ eyes, and he realises that maybe that is not the case.

With the other boy staying quiet, Harry presents the second and final flower. Louis’ eyes are staring at it intently, and Harry cannot bring himself to look anywhere except the curve of the boy’s lips. “Hibiscus: delicate beauty.”

Blue eyes shoot up from candyfloss pink to mossy emerald, the peach skin with finely painted dark-night streaks stretching wider. Without his gaze moving, Louis’s fingers encompass the stem and bring the flower closer to him. The hot pink stigma brushes against the sheen around the curl of his nose as the scent fills his lungs.  Harry knows the smell like the back of his hand, but Louis seems infatuated by the honey dew and the bleeding colours.

“Why?” he whispers, voice gravelly. He nuzzles the silky petals with his nose and lets his eyelids flutter shut. Harry watches in awe.

“Because it’s what you are,” states Harry after a pause.

Looking at the florist, Louis’ eyebrows furrow as he speaks; “I’m not fragile.” The tone is almost resentful, offended.

“Everyone is,” softly says Harry, thumb and finger rubbing the velvetiness of a fallen petal as his thoughts swirl in amongst the bones of his ribcage. When Louis does not reply, Harry speaks quietly again, shrugging. “It isn’t a bad thing. ‘S just how we were made.”

Silence ensues for sometime after that, a moment of a pause just drifting above them like a greyed cloud. And then-

“What about the other?” is asked by Louis, his tone shy and his cheeks matching the pink of the petals.

“Well, that one only applies to you,” murmurs Harry timidly, biting his lip. He feels the pollen pricking his cheeks until they blossom with a flush. The sniggers from between petal lips drift towards Harry but he wards them off with a wash of bravery. He looks towards Louis and locks eyes with him, daring himself to look away from the thick, sweet-centre with every ounce of will that his burning cheeks hold. He cannot do it.

And, well, he is glad that he does not look away because Louis’ face- well, Louis’ face shines like the fucking sun. The pink that holds the petals of the azalea in between Louis’ fingers steals at the apple of his cheeks. His bitten-red lips peel into a smile. His eyes turn from stormy seas to the calm bluebell shade of the shallow depths. His mood has transformed from something so vulnerable and defenceless to happy and, well, beautiful.

So, yeah, maybe Harry is being soppy. Maybe he is acting like a teenage girl. Maybe he sounds cheesy and somewhat creepy, but with the smaller man in front of him gleaming like a rough-cut diamond underneath the moon, he cannot bring himself to care.

Soon enough, though, a voice is calling Louis’ name and the moment is slowly fading away. They keep gazing at each other, not looking away. Harry revels in Louis’ prettiness and adorable reaction to his compliment, whilst Louis seems to just barely hold his smile back from ripping his skin.

Regretfully, Louis looks behind at his workplace that looks a lot drearier than before, especially when he turns back to the stall in front of him that glows with vibrancy and vividness and harry.

“I should go,” he says quietly. A blush is still mottling his cheeks and a curve hangs off his bottom lip.

“Probably,” and, fuck, Harry cannot stop smiling for no apparent reason but he does not care because he and his flowers helped make Louis’ smile and that must be an achievement of any sorts.

“I’ll see you soon, Harry,” Louis tells him, clutching the two flowers tightly to his chest.

As he wanders away, Harry feels somewhat overwhelmed. Everything feels so strong, so there and suffocating. The taste of the flowers grips at his senses and the smile in his eyes refuses to drop. A part of him feels silly for feeling so much, for letting Louis act as powerful as the potent scent of a day lily.

But then he realises that maybe life does not have to be as dramatic as an amaryllis, that it can waltz along the paths an iris winds.

-|-

“Did you mean it?” is how Louis greets him. The tea is sandwiched between his palms and a hesitant look graces his expression, uncertain.

“Mean what?” Harry asks as he turns to place the bouquet he was binding into the bucket of water beside him.

“About the...” Louis pauses. When Harry turns around, he sees Louis’ toe scuffing on the ground and his head tilted downwards. And, yes, a pastel coloured iris he is indeed.

“About the?” prompts Harry, eyebrows raised in question.

“The flowers yesterday,” Louis says. His voice is low and soft. If his voice were an object, Harry believes that it would be sky blue, with a dash of innocent white. It would mould against his fingers and send trills of thrill through his pores, straight to his veins. It would make the back of Harry’s neck tingle and his heart pound.

Harry blinks. Then smiles. Wide, teeth showing, dimples puncturing his cheeks.

Just before he speaks, he stops himself. Holding a finger up to motion for Louis to wait, he scurries around to the back of the stall and grasps what he was looking for. Unbeknownst to him, his disappearing act did not bode well with the timid boy, as his expression had drooped somewhat and his stance had curled in on itself in hurt.

But then Louis sees Harry with a flower, or something, within his long fingers, and, well, somehow that makes everything better (a repeating occurrence, it seems, yet is not an one to be admitted as of yet).

He exchanges the long-stemmed beauty for the warm tea in Louis’ hands. The warmth that the hot beverage held is instantly replaced by the searing shock that Harry’s caring fingertips bring as they brush with his.

Harry takes a sip of his tea before speaking, waiting for the warmth to trickle down his throat and pool in his stomach along with the lava pit that has started bubbling in Louis’ presence. He suspects that yellow and orange roses may tangle together as they grow there.

“They mightn’t be the most attractive of things, but they help add depth in a bouquet. Like, for example, a bouquet of white roses and lavender is nothing without- sorry, I get carried away with myself sometimes, you don’t care about that. Uhm. Basically. Ferns represent sincerity. And, well, that’s what I was being yesterday. So. Yeah.”

Silence clouds the atmosphere for a moment. Out the corner of his eye, Harry can see the forsythias’ petals shudder. He can feel the vibration rattle his bones, from his toes to his fingertips. He waits.

“I love it. Thank you.”

And if Harry’s cheeks hurt the rest of the day from smiling so much, then only the white camellias need to know.

-|-

Surely, experience and probability has it, that something bad must follow after something good? Or, well, maybe it is the other way around, like the way a rainbow appears after the rain that veils the sun, but it is a cycle that circles like the shape of the hydrangea and does not take time to stop.

So Harry is worried as he plucks the pale rose from the bunch. Because that is how it goes, usually, and he really wants to break the cycle for this one exception. Of Louis. The barista from across the road who smiles gingerbread and blinks sugar cookies. The boy who gives more and takes less. The boy who accepts all that Harry has.

Harry has not had someone like Louis in a long time, if not ever. And that little thorn in the rosebush of his life is threatening to snag the soft silk of the iris’ petal.

Always, since he was just a little toddler trying to straighten his knobbly knees and grab the clouds in the sky, has Harry taken things that little bit too far; just enough to push someone or something over the edge.

Therefore, as he hands Louis the maze of intertwining light petals, Harry has a moment of doubt. This lapse of certainty causes his hand to falter as it pushes through the air. It makes him blink twice, rapidly, one after the other. It crafts the corners of his mouth so that they twitch downwards. It creates a waver in the atmosphere. He hopes that Louis does not notice.

But then small, tanned fingers are reaching out and nipping the stem just above Harry’s gritty fingernails. And, my, does Louis’ face light up when Harry blurts out the meaning of the pale-coloured rose.

“Friendship. It’s for- it stands for friendship.”

Harry had wanted to put it more eloquently. Perhaps made it flow like notes upon a stave, or ink bleeding into a beige page. But either way, it made the sun’s rays curdle in the apples of Louis’ cheeks and the blue sky ignite his eyes.

-|-

Murky crimson morphs into charcoaled ice. Autumn is pulled by winter.

Plumes of steam cloud the bitter air, sinking upwards from the whirlpool of tea cradled in cupped palms. Hesitant fingertips pinch sticky green tubes, senses become blanketed in saccharine, delicate, scents. Cheeks bunch and bleed pink. Lips curl and teeth show. Eyes gleam with delight.

Time passes, just a little, and not too slowly. Harry finds his days orbiting around the exchanges. He cherishes them, with every fibre in his body.

But a conversation with the holly and gardenias releases little particles into his veins. They flutter around his body and stick like gum to the bones of his ribs. He can feel them trickle down his neck with every second that he spends with the barista from across the street. They smell like irises and feel blue under his skin.

Everything is and dampened concrete and dreary skies. But the flowers and the feeling underneath his fingertips ensures that Harry can see Louis through the frost.

-|-

Harry knows what he is feeling. Maybe he has not experienced it before, does not know whether the ring of heat that seethes around the emerald of his eyes or the thrum of his pulse in his ears is actually what he think s it is. But it feels like it could be pretty close.

Louis-

He is the scent of the flowers which stream alongside Harry’s veins. He is the pastel shades that ink the soft petals, but also the vivid vibrancy that stands out bright against the dull sky. He is the enchantment droplets that ripple in the receivers’ eyes as they are passed such delectable pleasures. He is the larkspur that Harry once handed to him, a beautiful spirit indeed. He is the bliss that Harry feels as he thinks, thinks, thinks, about the flowers that litter the world.

He makes him feel everything. And that is scary, of course it is, it makes Harry’s skull rattle and tongue throb. But he cannot get enough of it. Dangerous temptation, bittersweet irresistibility; Harry is hooked.

Louis is the love that Harry feels, for his flowers and the boy himself.

So Harry decides to do something about it, because every day he lives through a flower wilting away, and it makes him realise that not all splendour will last forever.

The sun is slightly leaking into the sky, so as Louis trots out of McCloud’s, his tanned skin is illuminated with a slight inking of white. It bleeds over his right eye, making it whiten within the sapphire ring. He smiles as he looks up from minding his step, just as he and Harry make eye contact for the first time that day.

Instantly, Harry can hear his pulse thumping in his ears.

Louis hands him the tea, although that has lost its real necessity and is now just a mere habit, and Harry accepts it with a warm smile on his lips.

“You alright?” Louis asks, smiling and rubbing his hands together. The air has a nip, but around them, all that Harry can feel is electricity. (He is fairly certain that Louis can feel it, too, but he cannot feel what the crocuses can, so all he sticks with is his instinct.)

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good, thanks,” he replies, cheeks bunching. “You?”

“Better now seeing you,” Louis remarks, smiling extremely cheekily.

“Wow, such a charmer,” Harry deadpans, only being able to hold the facade for a few seconds before cracking a smile.

Louis laughs before talking, suddenly turning all but dramatic. “Honestly, though, I’m so glad to be out here. This, like, seedy Italian guy, all white trousers up his arse and slicked back hair, just came in and mentally damaged me with awful attempt of coming onto me. I fear I’ll be broken for life.”

If Harry feels a bout of jealousy because of that, well, then, only the yellow hyacinths have to know. His expression does not mould with it, at least, he hopes not, anyway. Maybe just a twitch of his smile.

Quickly, he composes himself; straighten the stem and let petals crackle outwards. “For life?” he asks, leaning against the stall.

“For life.” Louis’ voice is deadly dramatic, midnight blue with specks of pollen that make Harry sneeze giggles.

“Well we can’t have that, can we?”

“No, not at all.” Louis says, lips curling like a page at the edges.

Harry cocks his head to the side, a smirk teasing his lips by slight. “And how do you propose it can be fixed?”

“Possibly a handsome prince riding in on a white stallion to sweep me off my feet?”enquires Louis, pouting (adorably).

Harry huffs a laugh, the gust of breathy laughter ploughing through his lips and carving crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “For some reason, I think the possibility of that happening could maybe be on the slim side,” he states.

But when Louis scrunches his features up into a frown (that Harry wants to press away with the pads of his thumbs and the plush of his lips), he quickly rectifies his words; “But, y’never know!” His voice is somewhat condescending in its mocking-overenthusiastic tone, but it makes Louis shine that little brighter, just a notch over the sun.

They lapse into a comfortable silence that sits just nicely upon the tips of their flushing ears. Harry coots a little down the stall and pats the counter next to him, urging Louis to scuttle over and lean beside him. Hyper-aware of everything, Harry’s skin roars with a white hot flame of Louis and apricot blossoms and forsynthias.

“I don’t need any of that fancy stuff, y’know?” Louis mumbles into the quiet as he stares out onto the street.

“I know.”

“Most people think I’m high-maintenance or something because of how, and I quote, ‘flamboyant’, I am. But I prefer the simple things to grand gestures, like, they mean a lot more. Of course, when I get married, I’m going to go all out and do the whole shebang, but that’s different. At the moment, I just want to be, like, liked, basically.”

A pause halted the conversation for a moment, then Harry hummed in response. “So marriage is something you want, then?” he asked, cautious, quiet, curious.

“Well, yeah,” Louis says, as if it were obvious, “doesn’t everyone want it? I mean, marriage comes from true love, and everyone wants that.”

“Not everyone wants the marriage part, though, it changes the love side of things,” Harry argues.

“Is this your way of saying that you don’t want to get married? Or are you just being unorthodox for the sake of it?”

Harry sends him a look. “I would prefer to say that I was just being a diplomat seeing as I do want to get married, just that I can understand others’ point of view on it.” He shrugs.

“Oh,” Louis says. “Well. That’s good.” He looks away, eyes grazing the bottom of the street.

“That’s good?”

“Yeah. Good.”

Silence, once again, repeats itself, and leaves the two of them to lean into the buzzing of their own ears. Harry’s mind whirls quietly in the background, his heart thumping louder than the cogs that click and clang with every thought. He itches to do something, anything to make an impact upon the walls that they have founded around their bodies. He wants to make an impact upon the beautiful boy next to him, he just does not know how.

His wondering is cut short, when Louis whispers oh so quietly. Harry sees his voice flutter into the air like pink lilacs brushing their butterfly wings together.

“I think the First Dance is everything.”

In response, Harry puffs out the quietest breath of question.

“It...I don’t know how to explain it, but I think it’s pretty much the most intimate and special moment a couple could ever encounter. It’s like- it’s all about love and adoration and it represents everything that the couple hold between their hearts, y’know? They pick that song which spells out their whole relationship within a few arranged notes, and then they slowly move with each other how they want to move for the rest of their lives, just them and nobody else. It’s- well, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Harry does not say anything. Because, well, what can he say? The words feel like more than ink blotches on a page; they feel like ancient literature carefully sculpted by the finest of fingers. They are pure, unadulterated honesty. Harry can feel them swirling around his core, and he is sure that he will for days.

“Sorry, I probably sound crazy,” Louis retracts when the quiet ensues. He shakes his head with a wry smile on his lips, and distresses his hair with a swish of his hand.

“No, no. I know exactly what you mean. Uhm.” Harry licks his lips. “It, like- You can tell that it’s the moment that really cements their relationship as a lifelong one, y’know? It’s two different souls connecting through, not just the clinking of piano keys and the shuffling of their feet, but their hearts being so close that they beat as one? Is that- that’s really cheesy, isn’t it?”

Louis stares at him for a moment. Just, stares. His eyes may graze the cut of his cheek or the scoop of his chin, but they predominantly linger over Harry’s flitting eyes. His lips are parted slightly, the apple of his cheeks are pinked.

Louis wets his lips before talking. His eyes clip the floor before sluicing over the pale of Harry’s throat, then the green of his eyes. “No, y- it’s perfect.”

And Harry, well Harry just smiles.

Soon enough, though, Louis has to trod his way back to the café and leave the mist of stars, moons, planets and suns behind him.

Harry hands him a delicate bunch of viscarias. The lightened purple, pink, and white flowers are small in his fist. The five rounded petals overlap each other as they fan from the small tunnel at their centre. They are nothing more than a simple beauty.

As Louis tiptoes away, he turns and questions the meaning, his fingertip brushing the silkiness.

Harry sips his tea and then places it down. He licks his lips, and then swallows thickly.

“It means, ‘will you dance with me?’”

-|-

Louis turns up the following time with a smile firmly stitched upon the soft skin of his lips. The invisible thread is hooked onto the apples of his cheeks, making them inflate with a brilliant flush. Almost, his eyes crease into a crescent-moon and crows-feet mould into the thin skin.

He looks happy. And, well, Harry cannot help but feel the same. Because seeing the tan of Louis’ skin being stolen by a light shade of pink, the blue that swims around his pupils brighten with stars, and his whole face shine like the fucking sun, makes Harry feel like he is, to put it in a cliché, on top of the world.

In the pit of his stomach, a swirl of hope tornados its way through the admiration of the gloried boy, wreaking havoc for his realistic and integrity-fuelled state of mind. It spouts wishes of the sudden change in demeanour, or more so the sudden influx in the already apparent joy, to have been founded by the florist himself. Of course, then a gust of uncertainty and insecurity puffs through and freezes a cylinder of the tornado, but the hope still keeps whirling around to no avail.

When Louis greets him with a “hey, Harry,” and a rock back on his ankles, Harry wonders at what point the tornado spun up his body and lodged in his throat. The shrapnel must have blown into his mind, because his mind is blank of anything but louislouislouis.

Harry splutters out a choked cough, eventually, and speaks a just-a-tad-too-high-to-be-normal “hello!” in return. Red premieres on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and his heart beats fast under his skin. God, since when did he get in so deep? The crocuses chortle behind his back.

“You okay?” Louis asks. He looks up at Harry.

Harry coughs and sweeps his hair back. “Yeah. Uhm. You look very- you look happy.” He states.

Louis all but preens under the soft voice that Harry speaks. He tilts his head downwards and tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear. Harry knows that Louis is beaming although he cannot see it explicitly; he can feel it, no matter how corny that sounds.

Licking his smile, Louis gazes up at Harry, but this time through his eyelashes and with an almighty glint in his eye that sears through Harry’s own greens. “Did you- erm. Did you mean it yesterday? With the- with the flower?”

And Harry feels like he did the first time his fingertips brushed the petal of a flower that has been blurred by the memories of time. He feels like a flower has just blossomed right in front of his eyes, has just revealed its beauty to only the eyes of those appreciative.  He feels like the rays of sunshine from in front of him have coaxed some kind of inexplicable bliss from in between the railings of his ribcage.

The part of him that has been wishing that Louis’ reason to be so cheerful was because of him is rejoicing in victory, while the other part is slowly warming up his insides until he feels like he’s glowing just as brightly as the boy in front of him.

“Yes. Yes, of course,”

“I just. I wasn’t sure-” Louis mutters timidly, his smile weakening.

Harry pauses. To him, his feelings (God, feelings) are pretty much overt and it’s obvious that he-

“Here, look.” Harry turns and shuffles quickly around the stall and plucks out a singular white chrysanthemum. He walks back around to Louis and presents it to him, somewhat shyly, yet somewhat resolutely, too.  “This. This means truth. And I-  that’s what I always thought you knew I had been giving you but I guess I should’ve made that clear. So. Here.”

It rests carefully in between Louis’ finger and thumb; spins as he rolls them, outspread ball of white wavering at the top of the stem. Louis stares down at it in awe, and then replicates the look as he looks up at Harry. A part of Harry’s brain is baffled how Louis could think anything different.

After studying the flower for a short while, Louis asks Harry, “is there anything else?”

“Anything else, what?” Harry enquires in confusion. His voice feels rough but quiet. He is not all too sure why, but it could most definitely be a product of a slice of the sun shining on the cut of Louis’ throat.

“That you thought has been obvious but you should probably make clear,” clarifies Louis. His eyes are wide and swimming with something: hope.

Harry stares at him for God knows how long. His mind is racing and his heart is beating; it is a situation which occurs all too much around Louis, so he feels as if he should be used to the feeling by now. It is somewhat different this time, though. Because Louis is handing Harry his chance to express everything on a silver platter.

But something is holding Harry back.

As he looks at Louis, standing there on Grainger Street, pillows of sun comforting his neck and sapphires cradled in a blackened clam, he finds himself in a sudden rush of fear. Everything, the whole setup, is completely perfect. And if Harry pushes that little too far, it could be whipped away in a second.

But then-

Then Louis is staring up at him, all eyes and cheekbones and curling lips. And, well, if anything made harry feel more than the flowers behind him, then it would be the boy standing in front of him.

So Harry cannot bring himself to register the chance that he is taking as he potters around the other side of the stall and pulls out that flower he has been eyeing up for so long. It feels so much lighter between the nip of his fingers than he had imagined before.

He hands it to Louis without a word. The rounded bulb of the tulip is stroked by the tips of Louis’ fingers. The bright red shade is stark against the black of his apron. Carefully, Louis peels back the tip of a petal to peek into the hidden, pollen-rich centre, but soon smoothes it back into place.

He looks up at Harry with question marks curling around his pupils, uncertain and wondering. Harry goes to speak, to tell him the symbolism that holds the stem of the red tulip so strong and tall, but the words melt on his tongue before he can let them out. All of a sudden, that familiar rush has flipped his mind sideways and left him in a tizzy.

One more time, Harry decides. He will let himself enjoy this last moment with Louis, just in case he ends up like the daisy merely two feet away, trodden on the concrete and dirtied to a mush.

“Just- take it,” Harry says.

The boy in front of him is persistent in his stare towards Harry, unsure as to whether to push the matter or not. But as Harry licks his lips nervously and ruffles his hair to give himself something, anything to do under the scrutiny of Louis' gaze, the message seems to be received. Louis holds the red tulip with the white chrysanthemum on his chest, and Harry vaguely ponders upon how added snapdragon (for presumption) and star of Bethlehem (as hope) would create the perfect bouquet for the situation. However, simple is effective, right? He hopes so very dearly.

“I should go. But. Thank you,” quietly says Louis. He smiles somewhat hesitantly, but it is soft enough not to bruise upon Harry’s delicate sensitivity. Unexpectedly, instead of backing away, Louis scurries forwards and pecks Harry’s cheek before turning away and disappearing into the café. A fierce blush mottles Harry’s cheeks and the tips of his ears, and warmth creeps up his neck.

It is as if he has been kissed by the lips of stardust, and his whole world has been brightened with gold. If Louis is stardust, then Harry definitely wants to be his shine.

-|-

To say that the time that is embraced by the prior moment with Louis and the one within Harry’s foresight, goes somewhat sluggishly is much of an understatement. Harry tries his very best to stay busy, to keep his mind from straying to thoughts of the smaller barista. But, that is less of a simple task when one has little do except focus on the one thing which reminds you of the person you’re trying to forget.

Harry could do a lot of things. But they all somehow lead back to the anticipation and worry settled within the coven of Harry’s heart.

The time arrives, eventually, and Harry finds himself tapping his chewed, dirtied nails on the counter of the stall. His lungs feel stuffy with the potency of his stall and his eyes are drowsy with a hint of exhaustion. As Louis slides his way out of McCloud’s and into Harry’s little bubble of a world, Harry feels his bones shake with each thump of his heart. He can feel the skin behind his ear shudder at the sight of the smaller, tanned, bright boy. His cheeks leak warmth.

Harry does not notice it at first, he is too intent on tracing the dip of Louis’ neck from his chin with his eyes, and the curve of his pointed nose. His mouth goes dry, embarrassingly so, as they trickle down the slope of his shoulders to the set of his biceps.

Then, Louis is standing in front of him. The florist cannot help but smile softly because his veins have been infected by the cheer that Louis leaks unwittingly. It is a natural reaction, around Louis, to be happy. It immediately dissipates the nervous spark in the marrow of Harry’s bones, melts it to an anxious ache that only intensifies the situation.

It is then that Harry notices what is in Louis’ hand.

And, well, if he thought that just having Louis in front of him was enough, made him feel as light as he could ever be, then he was well and truly wrong.

Because, pinched in between Louis’ fingertips is a single Ambrosia flower.

It is peach in colour, orange and yellow, also. The petals fold out from the centre delicately, yet the large size of them competes with its dainty shade. The edges are crimped, small crinkles that depict a story of their own; they are messily perfect. Within the rich centre, where a bunch of bright orange and black stigma looks up to the sky, yellow is draped upon the silk petal. It bleeds into a bloody orange, almost red, outline.

But the look of the flower means nothing to Harry, for they all are beautiful in his eyes. It is the meaning, however, which makes Harry’s heart plummet to the pit of his and his brain shiver in his skull. Everything is on fire: his skin and his hair, his bones and his veins. His eyes are locked onto the large flower, but his mind is flitting in craze until it lands upon a certain barista.

“It means ‘your love is reciprocated’.”

Harry chokes out an “I know,” through the smile which is peeling back his lips. His cheeks bunch and strain against his reddened skin. His insides feel as if they are being scrambled and his limbs have fallen weak. All he can think of is louis and he loves me and all of a sudden, he cannot hold himself back.

Harry throws his body onto Louis’ and wraps his arms all the way around the smaller frame. Instantly, Louis drapes himself over Harry and squeezes him like his life depends on it. Harry thinks that his hold on Louis might be just the same. Murmuring a repeated “I know,” again, Harry buries his face in the crook of Louis’ neck and breathes in deeply.

Louis nudges his shoulder a little, gesturing for Harry to shift from his, very comfortable, place nuzzling Louis’ neck. Slowly, Harry pulls away and looks down towards Louis. His face his flushed pink and his lips are curled in a soft smile that looks very close to breaking out into a grin at any given moment. It does just that when Harry himself cannot resist smiling widely himself. He feels like he is on top of the world.

“So you found out what it meant,” states Harry, in a raspier tone than expected.

“Yeah, I did,” he replies. His fingers twist in the curls of Harry’s hair just behind his ear, pulling a coil and letting it spring back. He smiles quietly to himself.

Harry contemplates copying Louis and carding his fingers through the gingerbread strands, but then he realises that he has forever to do just that. “And you’re okay with it.”

“Just a little,” Louis says, a teasing lilt to his tone.

“Just a little? That’s all?” Harry asks, smirking. His fingers slip around to press against the skin at the back of Louis’ neck.

“That might change if you kiss me before-”

And that’s all Harry needs before his lips are pressing against Louis’. His are chapped and Louis’ are soft, but it works; they work. It is gentle at first, just the soft press of lips. But then his hand cups Louis’ head as it tilts to the side, sliding their lips together and brushing his tongue against Harry’s. Louis’ hands are linked around Harry’s neck as he stands on his tiptoes to deepen the kiss. They move together as the sun moves through the sky, and Harry thinks that his heart might be shining up there with it.

They pull away, just slightly enough so that their lips are merely millimetres apart. Harry can feel Louis’ breath fanning over his lips. His whole body feels hot.

“Who’d have thought it, hey?” Louis whispers. He tucks an errant curl behind Harry’s ear and lets his eyes scan over the flushed face before him. Harry hums in agreement and licks his lips, staring at Louis’ reddened, swollen plumps so close to his own. 

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” groans Louis. He throws his head back, exposing even more tanned skin than Harry can cope with when Louis is flush against his body. Harry swallows thickly. When he moves his head back, he speaks with a pout and raised eyebrows, “seriously, how is that going to look on my gravestone? ‘Death by florist.’ Not exactly the strong, heroic look I was going for.”

“Hey!” Harry protests, affronted. “A florist is a very masculine job, I’ll have you know.”

Louis smirks and pinches Harry’s cheek. “Sure it is, darling.”

“In time, you’ll learn just how dirty I can get,” Harry growls against Louis’ lips.

“Mmm, I can’t wait,” Louis mutters, licking his way into Harry’s mouth for the second, and not last, time that day.

They snog for a while, mutter between themselves, and snog some more again. When Harry brings up the fact that this is the first time that Louis has not brought him a cup of tea, Louis silences him with a kiss. Harry does not complain. He stays for longer than his break lasts, but nobody says anything. Maybe they do, but the couple are encompassed in their own little bubble of joy that they have no care to notice. Harry’s world is infused by louis and flowers, and he thinks that this is the happiest he has ever been.

If their love is like an iris, then he will make sure that it blossoms beautifully for the rest of his life.