Chapter Text
Lin Ling’s world was measured in scents: the damp, earthy perfume of fresh potting soil, the sharp green snap of broken stems, the cloying sweetness of lilies, and the faint, powdery ghost of roses that lingered in the shop air no matter how thoroughly he cleaned. Blossom & Thorn was a sanctuary, a tiny, cluttered jewel box of a shop tucked between a bespoke tailor and a quiet bookstore in a gentrified corner of X City. Morning light, pale and hesitant, strained through the front window’s stained-glass surface, casting kaleidoscope patterns over buckets of dahlias and delphiniums.
He hummed, off-key and content, as he arranged a spray of lilac in the display. His fingers, nicked with tiny scars from thorns and shears, moved with practiced gentleness. He wore a simple, faded green apron over a soft cotton shirt, his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes as he leaned forward to adjust a branch. At twenty-one, Lin Ling had a quiet beauty that seemed to emerge from stillness, the chestnut-honey warmth of his eyes, the delicate line of his jaw, the way his smile started slowly, as if unsure of its welcome.
It was 10:03 AM. In twelve minutes, his day would pivot on its axis.
He finished the display and retreated behind the scarred oak counter, organizing the day’s delivery slips. The bell above the door chimed its familiar, little song. Lin Ling’s heart, that traitorous organ, gave a single, hard thump against his ribs before settling into a quicker rhythm. He didn’t need to look up. He knew the cadence of those footsteps—confident, unhurried.
“Good morning, Lin Ling.”
The voice was like the man himself: deep, smooth, but with a fascinating underlying texture, a gravelly note that surfaced when he was amused or thoughtful. Lin Ling looked up, letting the smile he’d been suppressing bloom fully.
“Good morning, X. You’re early. The anemones just arrived; they’re still drinking up.”
X stood in front of the oak counter, a silhouette against the bright colors of the shop. Today, his hair was styled back, and wore a charcoal suit, the fabric draping over his broad shoulders as if born to do so. In his presence, the humble flower shop felt both more magical and more shabby.
“Anemones,” X repeated, moving into the shop. He didn’t browse so much as commune with the flowers, his storm-grey eyes moving thoughtfully from bucket to bucket.
“Forsaken love. Anticipation. A contradictory flower.”
“Most flowers are, if you read enough of the old language books,” Lin Ling said, coming out from behind the counter. He began to check the water levels, a habitual task that gave him an excuse to move, to not just stand there staring.
“They used anemones to ward off illness, you know. And in myths, they sprang from the tears of Aphrodite.”
“Beauty born of sorrow,” X murmured. He stopped before a bucket of pure white edelweiss, their fuzzy star-shaped faces turned upward. His gaze shifted from the flowers to Lin Ling.
“These.”
“Edelweiss,” Lin Ling said, fetching the bloom. His fingers trembled slightly as he selected the best stem.
“Bravery. Devotion. And… inaccessibility. It’s a rare find for us. Our supplier in the mountains managed a small batch.”
“A fitting trio of concepts,” X said, watching Lin Ling’s hands work. He always watched. It used to make Lin Ling nervous, but over the months, it had become a strange, intimate part of their ritual.
“Bravery to pursue. Devotion to sustain. And the inaccessibility…” He paused.
“…makes the pursuit worthwhile.”
Lin Ling’s cheeks warmed. He focused on wrapping the stem in damp paper, then the crisp floral paper printed with faint suns.
“Someone must be very important, to warrant such a symbolic flower. More so to receive a flower every day for a year.” The words were out before he could stop them. He’d been counting. Of course he’d been counting.
X was silent for a moment. Lin Ling risked a glance up. The man was looking at him with an expression that was both tender and intensely focused, as if Lin Ling were a complex equation he was on the verge of solving.
“They are” X said finally, his voice low.
Lin Ling’s breath hitched. He finished the wrap with a simple twine bow, his movements automatic. As he handed the bouquet over, their fingers brushed. A spark, sharp and electric, jolted up Lin Ling’s arm. He was sure it wasn’t imagined this time; X’s eyes widened a fraction.
Instead of taking the flowers immediately, X reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a thick, cream-colored envelope. It was sealed with a blob of dark red wax impressed with a singular letter X that seemed to shift and catch the light.
“My company is hosting a masquerade tomorrow night,” X said, his tone casual, but his gaze was unwavering, pinning Lin Ling in place.
“At the Defying Fate tower. I’ve… I want you to be there.”
Defying Fate LLC. The name hung in the air, heavy with implication. In the decade since its mysterious emergence, it had become the silent engine of the city, a conglomerate so vast and influential it was whispered about more than discussed. Its capital was legendary, its leadership anonymous, its reach omnipresent. An invitation was a token from another world.
Lin Ling stared at the envelope as if it were a live grenade. His mind conjured immediate, insurmountable obstacles: his single, worn suit from his high school graduation; the sneering faces of his stepbrothers; the locked attic door; the certain, crushing humiliation of showing up as himself amidst the city’s glittering elite.
“I… I don’t know,” he stammered, wiping his suddenly damp palms on his apron.
“It’s incredibly generous of you to think of me, but I’m not sure I’d… fit in.”
“Fit in?” X’s eyebrow arched.
“I’m not inviting you to blend in. I’m inviting you to be there. With me.” He pushed the envelope into Lin Ling’s hesitant hands. His touch was warm, firm.
“Please. Just think about it.”
The bell jingled as X left, the white mono bouquet of edelweiss looking like a captured piece of alpine sky in his hand. Lin Ling stood frozen, the heavy envelope a palpable weight. He traced the embossed letters with his thumb. 'With me'.
For a full five minutes, he simply held it, hope and dread warring in his chest. Finally, with great care, he slipped it into his bag, hiding it beneath his lunch and a novel about farming in a dungeon. He spent the rest of his shift in a daze, trimming stems and arranging orders with hands that felt disconnected from his body, his mind a thousand miles away, dancing in a ballroom that only existed in his dreams.