Work Text:
Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row.
•───────༺❀༻───────•
Once there lived a man, an ordinary man, who grew the most exquisite flowers in all the land.
“Oh pray tell, Mr. Goodfellow, how do you tend to these most beautiful blooms?”
A wiggle of his eyebrows and his finger against his nose, he replies, “that secret is just for me to know.”
The pretty maiden blushes when he winks and sweeps low, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with flair and flourish. If her heart beats strangely in her chest and she feels a lump in her throat, then she must believe it is love at first sight. When the gloxinia petals fall sweetly from her lips, she is proven right.
•───────༺❀༻───────•
Scarred and calloused hands sweating in the sun grip the handle of a trowel with care, unearthing the delicate roots of the flaming red flower in front of him.
“I was right, you are perfect,” the man whispers, trailing fingers across petals with a soft reverence.
“Too perfect to sell. I simply must keep you all to myself,” he hums as he gently places the flowers into a pot placed nearby, its burgundy red color complimenting the scarlet blooms of the flower.
“Catchfly: Youthful love, I fall victim , ensnared. Yes, I suppose that meaning is accurate here, even if you are a variant I have never seen before!” He tries to inject humor into his statement, but only manages to bring down his good mood with painful memories.
Standing on aching knees, holding the pot close to his aching heart, he imagines there is another heart thumping within. He sways with the wind as he walks from the garden to his shop, as if he is dancing with an invisible partner.
He enters the back door and takes the steps up to his loft apartment slowly, carefully, not spilling a single speck of dirt. After just a moment of deliberation, he decides to place the flowers on his bedside table next to the window—a place of honor in his home and his heart.
He sinks into the soft foam of his mattress with a sigh, taking a moment to just breathe before he lifts himself onto his elbows and stares at the plant.
“I hope you’ll be good company,” he starts, “maybe I can tell you about my day every night?”
There is, of course, no response.
“No, no that’s stupid,” he mutters, “stupid Scar, always ruining your good things.”
A chime from down below draws him out of his self deprecating thoughts and alerts him to a customer waiting to be served. He is quick to grab his cane from the bedside table and make his way down the stairs, much less carefully this time. He greets the customer with a painted on smile that stretches just a bit too much at the corners, but he knows they won’t realize.
It will be weeks before he caves and begins to speak to the blooms, but he will speak to it and wake up next to it each morning, like a friend.
Like a lover.
•───────༺❀༻───────•
The first time Scar meets Grian, the storm is a warning. Rain batters the shingles of his shop with angry fists and the wind howls like a wild animal. Scar is closing up, ready to turn in for the night, when the bell on the door alerts him to another customer yet again. He grumbles under his breath and takes his time getting to the front of the shop, where he’s greeted by the most bedraggled, soggy, pathetic-looking man he’s ever seen.
The man—Grian, he introduces himself as—apologizes profusely for bothering him at such a late hour, and really he could come back tomorrow if it’s too much of a hassle, but he forgot his sister’s birthday because he was busy with his new job and he has to get her something or he’ll give her sad eyes and you don’t understand, it’s like kicking a puppy.
Scar laughs and guides the man further into the shop where he suggests several different plants, Grian hemming and hawing over each one as Scar assures him he can take his time. They decide on a small succulent—his sister doesn’t have much of a green thumb, Grian tells him—that she’ll be unlikely to kill, and if Scar throws in a second one free of charge?
Well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
•───────༺❀༻───────•
Grian falls for Scar the same way Icarus fell for the sun; not fearful or regretful, but with his head thrown back, laughing with tears streaming from his eyes like gentle rain. Falling feels remarkably like flying when you’ve never been able to get off the ground, and Grian’s heart was soaring on clipped wings and giddy feelings.
When he walks into the flower shop one day and spots the man speaking quietly to beautiful red flowers with recently cut stems, he freezes in place.
Months of quiet, timid visits to the flower shop and Scar supporting him through opening his bakery—and yet it is only now, listening to Scar singing softly to his plants as if they were alive, that Grian realizes just how far he has fallen and how much he doesn’t mind it.
“Oh, Grian! What a pleasant surprise! I was just thinking about you!”
Grian smiles and closes the door behind him as he takes the final plunge.
“Oh really? I’m living rent free in your head?”
Scar laughs and returns the watering can to its normal spot before he ducks behind the front desk and out of Grian’s sight.
“Here, I have something for you!”
Grian shrieks as a small object is flung directly towards him and he dives to the floor to catch it before it can hit the ground.
“Scar! You can’t just throw things at me and expect me to catch them!” He shakes the object at Scar and pauses his lecture when he hears a metallic rattle, taking a moment to actually study it.
Wait.
“Are you—is this—”
“A key? Yes!” Scar sounds so excited and yet so calm. Scar doesn’t know what this means to Grian. He doesn’t know how conflicted Grian is, how scared he is about what this means, and so he continues speaking, none the wiser to Grian’s internal conflict.
“I figured since you’re here practically every evening and I’m not always at the front to let you in, you might as well have a key. So you can drop off your delicious cookies at any time, of course!”
Grian holds the key in a clenched fist, forces down the words threatening to escape from his throat, and smiles softly.
“Thank you, Scar.”
•───────༺❀༻───────•
That night finds him with a lump in his throat the entire time they spend together. He laughs so hard he cries, reaches for fleeting, teasing touches, and tries not to think about how bad he’s about to fuck it all up.
The cough he can’t shake when he returns home near the break of dawn tells him there’s no escaping this.
The single, scarlet petal that is blown from his lungs like air mocks him with its beauty. He places it on his bedroom dresser instead of throwing it away.
“I guess I accidentally swallowed it or something?” He tries to reason with himself but the words turn to ash on his tongue. He is burning.
“Must be from Scar’s shop.”
He knows it isn’t.
•───────༺❀༻───────•
The sickness progresses quickly, far quicker than he’s ever heard of. He thinks that maybe it’s because of the depths of his feelings, or maybe the universe just hates him. He spends most of his time rushing to various waste baskets and toilets to cough and gag on the stems, hides crushed petals in his fists behind his back with smiles, hoping that blood does not stain his teeth.
It’s not the inevitability of death that scares him.
It’s the idea of Scar finding out.
Nothing scares him more than being unable to protect his—his friend from the pain that would come from knowing, and knowing that he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
He wishes the key he was holding in his hands right now was the key to the man’s heart. But this is—this is good; enough. It’s enough, he tells himself.
Only for now, his traitorous heart murmurs.
The early dawn light filters through the large windows and casts warm light across the room, bathing everything in a beautiful golden glow. Grian feels as the cold shudders and releases its hold on his bones.
Scar said he could come any time, really, I trust you and enjoy your company!
So he’s done just that. There’s been something he’s wanted to look at while he’s here and, well, it seems like he’s alone for now.
It’s the perfect time to do a little bit of snooping for a floriography book, right before Scar wakes up. He knows Scar has a book around his shop like that—at least he hopes he does.
The flowers in his lungs have been evading his attempts to identify them for weeks now, but he thinks he finally has an idea of what they are and—he wants to know. He has to know.
At the same time, he is scared of what this could mean for him. If the last embers of hope burning in his chest will go cold, or if they will spark and burn until they consume him whole.
It’s easy, almost too easy, to find the exact book he’s looking for.
The language of flowers is the simple, yet elegant title. It’s painted in gorgeous, flowing calligraphy, with a silvery sheen to it. The many flowers on the cover look almost hand-painted, and opening the book to go through the pages only reveals even more artfully drawn and painted plants and flowers of all kinds, from the smallest buds to entire trees. Each one is followed by a short description of the plant, and the page next to it dedicated to the symbolism and origin of it.
Grian squints at the writing on one of the pages, trying to make out what it says with his poor eyesight.
“What are you looking at?”
“Gah!”
Grian startles at the voice coming from behind him and loses his balance, nearly falling backwards if not for his quick thinking of latching onto the table to pull himself upright.
Head whipping around to find the source of the voice, he shoots daggers at Scar when he realizes it was, indeed, him who had startled him half to death. Scar only smirks at his attempt at intimidation and Grian is just about to give him the tongue lashing of a lifetime when he finally notices what Scar is wearing.
Or, more accurately, what he’s not wearing. Scar’s long hair is loose and messy, falling out of its braid, framing his face and falling down his shoulders to his very bare chest.
Oh my god he’s not wearing a shirt. Why isn’t he wearing a shirt? Please put a shirt on or I think I’ll die.
Grian swallows the lump in his throat and tears his gaze away with great difficulty, keeping his delirious thoughts to himself by sheer force of will. He turns back to the book in front of him, thumbing the delicate pages and appreciating the amount of work that must have been put into this.
“Where did you get this?” He asks, consciously choosing to not look behind him as he voices the question that’s been rolling around in his mind since he first saw the book.
“Oh, I made it.”
“You made it?”
“Yup! I’ve always had an affinity for the arts; started drawing when I was young and all that. I didn’t like how other floriography books laid things out so I made one myself. It took a few years though. Why’d you ask?”
“Years? That’s insane! I just wanted—I mean, it’s beautiful, really, exquisite work.”
“Why thank you, I’m glad you like it!”
Grian flips through pages in comfortable silence, even more careful not to tear or crease them now that he knows this is Scar’s pièce de résistance.
“What’s—” Grian turns his head to ask a question and cuts off with a squeak when he nearly bumps his head into Scar’s that is suddenly very close. He clears his throat and whips around to hide his suddenly flushed cheeks, though he knows it’s all for naught since he feels like he’s burning.
“What's this one?” He asks as he points to a beautiful white flower with five petals arranged in a pinwheel shape.
A hum, and suddenly Scar’s strong arms are trapping him against the counter as he leans over his shoulder to read the entry.
Grian’s heart is racing like a greyhound, paws pounding against the dirt and digging up the track, running free and wild towards the finish line, whatever that may be.
“Nerium oleander,” Scar’s breath tickles against his ear—and he has no reason to be that close, Grian notes almost hysterically.
“It represents the complicated nature of love and is a warning to be cautious. In Greek mythology, it means romance and charm. Legend tells of a beautiful maiden who was once wooed by a man named Leander, who swam across the Hellespont every night to see her. One night, a strong current wrapped around his legs and pulled him beneath the waves, dragging him to shore, to safety, only to bash his body against the rocks.”
“That’s awful!” Grian gasps, “Why such a terrible meaning for such a beautiful flower?”
“Well, the legend goes that the next morning she walked the shores calling for him, ‘Oh, Leander, Oh Leander!’ And when day turned to night and her feet were tired and sore, she finally bumped into something half buried in the sand.
“She could hardly see, with only the moon’s light to guide her, but as she reached a hand out she touched the face of her lover and she knew that he was gone from this earth. She wept over his body for days, neither eating nor sleeping, until one day she woke up and spotted something gleaming in his hand.”
“What was it?”
Scar taps the flower on the page. “A beautiful white flower, so beautiful that the sight of it relieved her of her grief so that she could leave the tides that had weighed her down. She took the flower from his hand and kept it as a symbol of their eternal love, and magically it continued to grow and keep her heart from withering away from the pain. This is how it came to get two of its names: Oleander, and the Rose of the South Sea.”
Scar’s lips are nearly touching his temple as he finishes the story and Grian can’t find the will within him to respond.
“But it’s just a story, after all.”
And suddenly Scar is pulling away, walking away like nothing ever happened. Grian collapses like a marionette with its strings cut, kneeling on the floor, a worshiper at the altar.
He feels—he feels weak, lightheaded; he’s been driven mad.
Gods, get it together.
By the time Scar comes back with tea for the both of them, Grian has pulled himself together and pasted a nonchalant smile on his face that he’s sure will be seen through right away, and that he hopes Scar won’t point out.
Scar sits at the table nestled away in the corner behind hanging devil’s ivy and string of pearls, so bright and flourishing that they could truly be part of Eden’s fabled garden. He’s haloed in golden light that makes him look like something truly biblical. Or maybe that’s Grian’s eyes playing tricks on him. Something like that.
It’s all he can do not to tremble like a newborn fawn as he joins Scar again, his mere proximity threatening to crack his carefully constructed facade. It’s all he can do not to lean over and beg him, kiss me, gods, please, like a prayer.
Grian picks up the teacup and blows on the steam, not noticing as Scar’s gaze travels to his lips. Grian holds the cup between his palms and lets the warmth seep into his bones, letting the tension hang in the air like spider silk billowing in the breeze.
“What’s that look for?” Scar is the one to break the silence once again.
“We should partner up!” Grian blurts out, immediately regretting it because where did that come from? That was not what he was thinking about.
Scar simply raises an eyebrow and gestures for him to continue.
Shit, now I have to go with this.
At least this is an idea he’s been toying around with, if not for alternative reasons than what Scar may think. “Well, you see—the thing is—I mean—”
“Calm down, Gri, take your time. I’m not running away anytime soon.” Scar laughs, amused by his clear embarrassment.
Oh, this horrible man.
Grian takes a deep breath to steady himself and gather his thoughts. “My customers enjoy your flowers, you like my cookies—but I can’t keep them alive to save my life.” He flushes and trails a finger around the rim of his teacup, “So maybe you could, I don’t know, visit after you close and help me take care of the plants? And I’ll feed you on lunch breaks and after work, of course.”
“Aw, Grian, you do care!” Scar holds a hand to his heart in mock surprise and—really, it should be funny.
It should be a playful jest, but the scratchy feeling in Grian’s throat just reminds him of how true that simple, innocent statement is; more than Scar knows, more than he’ll ever know.
Feigning annoyance? Rolling his eyes? At this point, it’s become just as natural as loving him.
“I would be delighted to help you take care of our plant children! Parenting is a very difficult task, you know, it takes two!”
Images come to Grian, unbidden, of a life they will never have. This is, perhaps, the first time he truly feels hurt by his situation, instead of some vague mix of resignation and annoyance.
Little footsteps running down the halls, half heartedly chased by a whining voice asking them to get ready for school.
Waking up to kisses on his nose, new flowers every morning. Kneading bread together, singing to plants, curled by a fire when it’s rainy, reading books together. All of it together. But Grian can’t have that life.
Grian can’t have Scar.
•───────༺❀༻───────•
“Grian! I have something for you!”
This is the first time Grian has been able to visit Scar this week. He’s felt so under the weather, vomiting flowers at every hour, that he hasn't kept up with their visits. Scar has brought him soup—staying far, far away from him at Grian’s request, because I would not be happy if you got sick too—so Grian has been able to maintain his facade of perfectly healthy, not dying Grian.
But he’s missed this. He’s missed him.
Scar continues talking animatedly, not quite noticing how listless Grian is.
“I noticed you have a bit of a fly problem at your bakery, so I thought this would help!”
Scar drops to one knee and Grian almost gasps, almost starts crying, before he chides himself because of course it’s not that, you daft man, pull yourself together.
Scar whips the object out from behind his back. It’s a small pot with an even smaller plant in it, like something Grian’s never seen before. “What is it?” Grian manages to force the words out despite his despair.
“Ta-da! A venus flytrap! There’s a sweet nectar on the traps that attracts flies and ants and all sorts of insects!”
“Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, brutal?”
“Maybe,” Scar drawls playfully, “but it will take care of your problem in no time!”
“Does this one have a super special secret meaning too?” Grian teases back, feeling a bit more like himself as Scar draws him into conversation like normal.
“Not that I know of,” Scar shrugs, “So do you want it?”
Grian taps a finger against his lips, pretending that he has to think about it for a moment, before he reaches his hands out and takes the pot gently from Scar’s hands.
“I think I’ll name it Amber,” Grian says, the name coming to him in a moment of pure genius “since it’s going to trap insects in it.”
“Amazing! A beautiful name!”
They stay like that for a few more moments, until it’s just slightly awkward, tense, and Grian wonders why Scar is still on the floor. He voices his thoughts as soon as he thinks about it.
“Why on earth are you still down there?”
“I need a bit of help getting off the floor,” Scar admits sheepishly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, not meeting Grian’s eyes.
Grian laughs and stoops to place the pot on the floor. He reaches his hands out, grasps Scar’s hands, and pulls with all his might.
Scar is almost off the floor when he slips back and suddenly Grian’s falling; and then he’s crashing into a warm body with an oof as the air is knocked out of his chest.
“Well hello there! Come here often?”
Grian looks down into vibrant green eyes, sees a teasing smile, and suddenly notices the position they’re in: his knees on either side of Scar’s stomach, his hands braced on Scar’s chest—the only thing that kept them from crashing their heads into each other—trading fragile breaths with each other.
Grian just barely keeps himself from shrieking.
With his head buried in his hands, he doesn’t notice the soft, considering look that Scar gives him.
•───────༺❀༻───────•
“Would you like some tea? It might help with your nausea.”
It’s one of those rare moments where Grian has found time to make it to Scar’s shop again, getting rarer and rarer now as he struggles to simply breathe.
Nodding his assent, he relaxes into the couch that Scar has so gently ushered him towards.
He blinks and Scar is in the kitchen, pulling out a kettle, grinding pearly white flowers with mortar and pestle like usual. Scar catches his eye as he turns to retrieve the whistling kettle and Grian’s cheeks catch aflame at being caught staring.
In no time at all the tea is prepared and placed in front of him. Scar sits on the couch across from him with a pencil and a sketchbook. When he leans over to see what he’s drawing, Scar squawks and pushes him away playfully, telling him he’ll see it when it’s finished, Gri, be patient.
After what could be hours and several cups of tea, Scar puts down his pencil and stretches his arms behind his head. Grian’s eyes trail to the sliver of skin that is revealed as Scar’s shirt rides up.
Ba ba-bum
His heart is skipping, damn this unfairly attractive man.
Desperate to find literally anything else to focus on other than Scar’s attractiveness or the nausea that’s only been getting worse, Grian clears his throat and asks something that had been bothering him for a while.
“What’s in this anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”
“Oh just a little special something called Nerium.” Scar smiles at him with something knowing in his gaze.
Grian hums, suddenly feeling like he’s forgetting something. He’s heard that word before, hasn’t he? Where has he heard it? His head hurts.
“You—” Grian cuts off, tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth.
“Me?”
Eternal love, caution, fickle, complicated, caution, caution,
Caution.
“Nerium is—that’s Oleander! Scar that’s—”
“Poisonous?” Scar cuts him off. “Oh, very much so.”
Grian stares at him, not quite understanding what he’s just heard. His vision is blurring at the edges, his head hurts. He can’t think.
His teacup falls limply from his fingers as weakness overcomes his body like a crashing wave.
Scar places his own cup down and rounds the table, kneeling before him with something dangerous in his expression. Scar places a single finger under his chin and tilts his head up so he is looking into his eyes. Grian notes, almost distantly, that their normally vibrant green color looks almost toxic now.
“Oh, dear Grian, don’t you remember what I taught you?”
Wrong, wrong, wrong, this is wrong.
Grian tries to squirm away from the contact but his body is weighed down by lead, drowning in a sea of emotions that he can’t quite process. They flit across his mind one after the other, never staying long enough for him to grasp one of them.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Scar laughs at his own joke before his face suddenly settles into something deeply serious and Grian finds himself drawn in by his charm against his will.
“Oleander represents the fickle and complicated nature of love, desire, and caution. And you, little bird, have not been very cautious, now have you? Giving your heart away so readily,” Scar tsked and waggled his finger in his face disapprovingly.
His emotions swim faster and faster, filling his head with static.
“You really ought to be more careful! You never know what kind of unsavory characters may take advantage of that.”
And then they stop. And he knows what he’s feeling.
It’s rage.
Grian summons just enough strength to wrench his chin from Scar’s hands and open his mouth to scream.
“You—you knew! All this time you knew I was in love with you, that I was dying because of it, and you—you knew.” His voice breaks on the last word, tears blurring his vision even further as he sobs.
Months of grief hit him all at once, overshadowed by the fear and panic as Scar only leans closer and places a finger over his lips.
“Shh, shh, don’t cry, songbird, you’ll be alright. It’ll be alright, I promise.”
Grian tires himself out quickly and soon there are no tears left to cry, no anger left in his bones, no more pain. It’s almost nice to finally have a reprieve from it all.
Grian’s sight is the first sense to go, but he can still feel as gentle hands brush the hair out of his eyes and gently lower him to the couch so he is more comfortable as his heartbeat slows.
“You’ll make such beautiful flowers,” the familiar voice rambles nonsensically, “I’ve seen them, you know. You thought you were hiding it oh so well but I’ve seen them, they’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. Oh, it’s too bad it has to be this way, we could have been something, I think.”
He feels betrayed, of course he does, but—
It’s nice, too. To be held in his final moments by his eternal love—even if Scar is also his undoing.
Perhaps he should’ve known better, should’ve asked more questions; removed the rosy thorns from his eyes even if they bled.
Maybe he did know all along, that he was caught the moment he looked into those green eyes for the first time; or that they were to be doomed to tragedy no matter how hard they tried.
But oh, those sweet lips are pressed against his brow, his cold and trembling hand held in one oh so warm—
“Maybe in another life, hm? Sleep well, my love.”
He can’t bring himself to regret a single second.
•───────༺❀༻───────•