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It starts off with small flowers scattered across the flat. White calla lilies on the shelves, and tucked in between pages like bookmarks. Their fragrance covers up the persistent smell of coffee that used to cling to the place.
To Steven, they’re beautiful.
He thinks they’re from Marc, but it’s not like the other man would admit it. He’s stubborn like that. But the idea makes his insides tingly and the back of his neck feel warm.
He’s been planning to buy some old books so he could press the flowers, preserve them in time like a freeze-frame in an old film. He gathers them all together and hides them like a secret next to the fish tank, makes a shushing gesture to Gus 2.0 every time he adds another one to the collection.
One day, he’s on the phone with Layla, sitting at the counter with his glasses on and looking up flower meanings in a book he borrowed from the library.
“Oh, you lucky dog,” Layla laughs. “Flowers? He never got me flowers!”
There’s a note of longing in her tone that makes Steven pause in turning one of the pages. He wants to say sorry but doesn’t know how to get the words out. Instead all he can do is splutter into the phone, half-worded apologies crashing into one another.
How do you tell someone you’re sorry that their ex-husband never did something for them?
Layla just lets out a short bark of laughter that has Steven jumping, his glasses going crooked on the bridge of his nose.
“What’re you saying sorry for?” she says, and Steven can imagine her raising an eyebrow at him like he’s being particularly dumb.
“Well, because I’m- I don’t deserve all that, Layla! I’m just me.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and then she sighs. “Steven, don’t talk about yourself like that.” He doesn’t want to argue with her so instead he just bites the inside of his cheek.
“You’re good for him,” she continues, “he smiles more, now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.” He hasn’t. “So don’t sell yourself short like that.”
Then she adds, in a more teasing voice, “In fact, you deserve all the flowers. If I were there with you right now, I’d buy you the biggest bouquet! I’d like to see Marc top that.”
Steven’s cheeks turn red and he can’t help grinning. He marks his place in the book with one of the lilies and closes it, then spins around on his chair to lean back against the counter.
“That’s awfully sweet of you, thank you, Layla,” he replies, holding the phone in both hands.
He fiddles with his fingers, hesitant, but musters up the courage to ask her, “… do you want to know what kind of flower it is?” and he smiles at her enthusiastic response.
They spend the rest of the afternoon going over the different meanings of flowers, Steven telling her the name and author of the book he got and Layla in turn telling him of botanical gardens nearby that they could visit together.
He talks so much, his throat starts hurting, and he rubs at it distractedly while listening.
It’s nice, spending an afternoon talking to a friend like this. He glances back at the flower peeking out of the side of the book and smiles to himself.
And it’s also nice, he guesses, being on the receiving end of someone’s affection.
Marc can’t deny the flutter in his stomach every time he sees red dahlias in the morning.
Under his pillow, in between the sheets, sometimes tucked right under his nose. It makes him sneeze, sure, but it’s nice. He spends those first few minutes after waking up, still blurry eyed and sleepy, collecting all of them.
It’s a hassle, and he doesn’t know how Steven manages to fit so many in a single bed, but Marc doesn’t mind it. Looks forward to it every time he goes to sleep, actually.
Layla used to tell him that he blushes all the way down to his roots, and he’s starting to think that maybe what she said rings a little true. He can feel the tips of his ears going red while gathering the flowers, feeling a bit silly, but he’s enamored with the idea that someone would do something so… gentle, with him.
He puts them all in the small space he used to put the burner phone. It feels right, somehow, seeing something he used to hide be filled with more and more flowers each day.
It makes his heart ache in a good way.
He doesn’t know how to respond, though. Emotions are hard, they leave him feeling sick, like he’s about to throw up. He usually keeps a tight lid on them, keeps them close to his chest where he can push them down and not have to think about what they mean.
But he doesn’t want to do that, this time. He wants to show Steven that he cares just as much, possibly even more. Maybe not through words, but…
That’s how he finds himself sitting next to Layla under an awning in some farmers market. She has a drink in front of her, nodding at him while he struggles to put into words his situation.
At one point, he just gives up and sighs, running his finger over the rim of his glass and listening to the sound of the people around them to ground himself.
“I’m getting a case of deja vu right about now,” Layla mumbles to herself, straw in her mouth. Marc looks confused but she waves him off. “Ignore that, go on.”
Marc takes a moment to think, but ends up groaning and hiding his head in his hands. Layla hums, spinning her straw around while waiting.
He peeks at her between his fingers, then drops them.
“… thank you, though. For listening to me,” he tells her, and hopes she can hear the appreciation in his voice. “I don’t deserve…” he gestures to them and their surroundings, “this. After all the bullshit I put you through. I’m sorry.”
It’s not the first time he’s said that and it won’t be the last.
He doesn’t deserve her friendship.
“Look, Marc,” Layla starts, and sighs at the flinch Marc gives her. “I’m still upset. I think I have the right to be, after you just up and left me.” She glares at him until he has to look away in shame, but it doesn’t last long and she takes one of his hands in both of hers.
“But I care about you, and that’ll never change,” she tells him, firm and grounding. From her mouth, everything sounds like a resounding truth, even if he finds what she just said to him hard to believe.
She’s so strong, Marc thinks.
He knows that there’ll always be a part inside of him that’ll be in love with her.
“I don’t deserve you,” he tells her again.
She smirks at him and raises an eyebrow. “You don’t,” she quips, but it’s not so much as mean as it is mischievous. Then her expression turns serious and she looks him in the eye.
“Whenever you need to talk, I’m only a phone call away, Marc,” she reminds him, moving to put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t forget you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and Steven.”
She leans in, putting a hand over the side of her mouth and whispering conspiratorially, “Be careful, though. Steven’s starting to look like my favorite.”
“Wait, what?”
She laughs at the blatant look of offense on his face.
“I knew you first,” Marc says, crossing his arms and looking off to the side. His pouting reminds her of a child, and she can’t help laughing even more at him.
“But back to the topic at hand,” she chuckles, picking up her straw and using it to blow at his hair, “you said he was giving you flowers, huh?”
Marc plucks the straw from her hand and places it on the table far away from her side. “Yeah, flowers…” He can feel his throat going itchy and bends over to cough, hand on his throat. It lasts a while, and eventually Layla scoots her chair closer to rub small circles into his back.
“Don’t tell me you’re allergic to feelings,” she teases him, but slides him his glass of water. He nods at her in thanks before taking a sip, then holds it up to his forehead to cool himself down. He hopes he’s not turning red.
“Yeah, well, he keeps giving me a shit ton of flowers and I don’t know why.”
“Oh, don’t act all coy, it’s not like you,” she says. “He’s just returning your affections. Don’t scare him off.”
“Returning my what-”
“Be more open with him, would you?” she cuts Marc off, snagging the straw from next to them and pointing it at him like some sort of weapon.
“Talk to him more, ask him about his day, and— this is especially important— don’t run off and go missing for a couple of months.” The straw pokes him hard in between the eyes, making him scrunch his nose.
Marc is gawking at her, rubbing at his forehead with a hand, but Layla’s squinting up at him playfully. He can’t help the small smile creeping across his face, relieved and grateful all at once.
They talk for hours after that, making up for lost time. And even though she teases him relentlessly about the flowers and the red spreading all the way down his neck, he finds he doesn’t mind it that much.
Marc and Steven don’t talk about the flowers, both too timid to bring it up, but the smell permeates the flat. Like a perfume, but not so strong as to suffocate. More subtle than anything, but clearly there.
Marc finds himself hanging around Steven more often throughout the day, asking him about anything, really.
He just likes hearing the other man talk.
What book are you reading now?
How’s the search for another job going?
I’m bored. Tell me a random fact about Egyptian history?
Steven, on the other hand, finds himself staring at Marc’s face more closely than ever. Layla mentioned Marc smiling more, so Steven will catch himself trying to make the other man laugh more often than not.
He wants to see what smile she’s talking about.
And when he does see it, well. It’s beautiful.
It’s not that big, rather small and subdued, but it makes Marc look soft, and Steven’s insides melt a little whenever he sees it aimed at him.
And in quiet moments where it’s just him and Marc sitting together, Steven will put a hand on the mirror and Marc will reach out. They’re not quite touching but it’s like Steven can feel the warmth where their hands are joined.
He wants to say I like you, but feels like it’s too redundant. He wants to say I love you, but feels like it’s too early.
But he likes this slow progression, this step-by-step development of their relationship. Like they’re taking turns exploring each other’s interests in earnest for the first time. Discovering new things that weren’t quite that obvious before.
He’s never fallen in love with someone before, not like Marc, but he didn’t think it would feel so comfortable.
They never bring up the flowers. However, in the spaces between their words, they say thank you to each other, each one hiding the flowers in their own little spot.
Lilies and dahlias keep appearing all throughout the flat, though, and Marc and Steven keep collecting more and more and more of them.
Neither man makes a move to put an end to it. After all, a couple more flowers couldn’t hurt, right?
They’re so pretty, after all.
He leans over the sink, hands closing around the edge of the ceramic hard. He’s heaving, can feel the stems scratching his throat up from the inside.
He knows it’s a temporary pain, a short-lived one, but he can’t help going breathless every time it does happen. He doesn’t know how long it lasts this time, but when he comes to, sweat has pooled on the back of his neck and his hands are numb.
Looking up into the mirror, he can see the hair plastered to his forehead and his own watery eyes staring back at him. Khonshu stands behind his shoulder in the reflection, watching him with an air of casual interest.
“You said this wouldn’t be a problem.”
He rips his gloves off with his mouth, spits them onto the floor. “It’s not.” He wipes the bottom of his face with a hand, pulls it back to see blood staining his palm.
Under the strong metallic smell, there’s the faint scent of petrichor. He knows that with time, it’ll become more sweet, more floral.
Jake looks down at the sink. Red and white petals frame the drain, leaves so big and stems so long, and he’s almost impressed that something so delicate managed to come from inside of him.
Khonshu waves his hand around lazily, gestures at the bloody mess. “Human emotion hurts you so much. Why do you do this to yourself?”
He doesn’t bother responding, instead rips his cap off and throws it somewhere behind his shoulder. He figures that should be enough of an answer.
The god makes a tsking sound, standing up straight and making the lightbulb flicker. “Do remember that we have prior engagements tonight.”
Jake looks up from under his lashes, “Since when have I ever missed one of our dates?”
He smiles, teeth and mouth bloody. It looks grotesque.
Khonshu sighs, but it sounds more like a frustrated parent than an upset god. He turns around, does a dramatic flourish, then disappears into the dark corners of the bathroom. Jake sneers at his leave, grumbling to himself.
In the quiet, he stares down at the flowers, contemplative. He drags his fingers across a leaf, tugs on it gently to see if it’ll come off. It doesn’t.
They’re durable in their love like that.
Picking one of them up, he brings it to his eyes and twirls it around his hand. He starts thinking about what to do with them this time.
Steven is reading a romance novel at the moment. He picks up books on a whim, will usually read halfway through before putting it down and starting another one.
He has trouble committing like that.
Jake knows that Steven doesn’t like endings, whether they be good or bad ones. Steven doesn’t like the empty feeling he gets when he reaches the end of something. He feels lost.
So maybe he’ll tuck lilies at the beginning of each chapter. A little surprise for Steven, a little something to encourage him to keep going.
He turns the sink on, watches as blood swirls around before going down the drain. The flowers float to the surface and Jake carefully picks a dahlia up, puts it under the water gently to rinse it.
He thinks about Marc next while he cleans up the rest of them.
The man sleeps curled around himself, like he’s scared something’s out to get him. Jake likes hiding flowers on the bed, finds it amusing when Marc grumbles in the morning but spends painstakingly long minutes combing through the sheets for each one.
Jake also knows that the flowers distract Marc from the nightmares that plague him during the nights, the echo of screams that follow him into the waking world.
Maybe he should hide the flowers in Marc’s hair this time. It’ll be a hassle trying to make sure they don’t get crushed while the man turns and twists in his sleep, but he’ll find a way. It’ll be funny watching Marc try to get them out.
Thinking about both of them like this helps calm him down. It grounds him, brings his emotions back to a level that he can control them at, even though it leaves the back of his mouth itchy. But he’s gotten used to holding it in, just ends up rubbing at his throat every once in a while.
He turns the tap off and watches as the water washes away the remaining blood. He can’t help admiring the clean, glimmering sheen to the petals. The little drops of water beading on the edges.
(Sometimes, he can’t help but wonder. What kind of flower would they have, if they had one for him?)
Jake grips the ceramic hard, his knuckles going white.
He shouldn’t feed the want nestled deep in his chest, the lilies and dahlias weaving in between his bones and crawling up his throat. Leaving him split wide open.
He’s just there to give them a nudge in the right direction, a little push. Let them assume what they want. In the end, they deserve to be together, after everything. Even if they’re too cowardly to do it themselves.
… but then, wouldn’t that make him the biggest coward of them all?
The rustle of curtains has him looking out the doorway toward the rest of the flat. It seems that Khonshu’s getting impatient. Jake rolls his eyes but bends down to collect his cap and gloves.
He glances back at the flowers drying in the sink. He’ll come back for them before the night ends.
He always does.
Just before Marc wakes up and Steven goes to make his morning coffee.
The cap fits snug on his head, pressing his curls down, and he immediately feels more at home in his skin. He pulls his gloves on next, adjusting the fit and flexing his fingers.
Jake can’t hope to find himself a space between them, so he doesn’t.
And anyway, he thinks, studying the moons decorating his knuckles.
He already belongs to someone else.