12 Roses

35 | Scars

You hadn't realized that you leaned on Tsumiki so much until she went off to live with Gojo and Megumi in the city. She had always dreamt of living there, you knew from the vision board that still leaned on your wall. You hoped that she wasn't as down as you were at the time.

You roamed aimlessly around the flower shop, doing your duties no better than a robot. Even though you could still recite the meaning of every flower sprouting from the soil and you could still converse expertly with customers, you had lost a glow, knowing that if you went to the bench under the second tree to the right of the third tea shop, no matter how long you waited, your best friend wouldn't arrive.

When the bell above the door chimed again and a gust of wind hit your back, you prayed that it would be a customer that could serve themselves, roam about the store and come up to the counter with a confident collection of flowers in tow.

You nearly deflated when you felt their hand on your shoulder, until you realized the hand was familiar. The hand with its own unique pattern of scars.

You turned and sent a smile to the panda head that looked back at you.

"It's good to see you," Panda signed and you could tell he was smiling in return.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, what else are people in flower shops for?"

"Right, right." You straightened, a transition into professionalism. "What kind of flowers do you need? What are they for?"

Panda's hands paused in the air. He looked around at the otherwise empty shop.

You hummed and glanced at the curtains that were hanging on the sides of the windows. "Wait." You moved towards them and drew them so no one outside could see inside. "So, what do you need?"

"Do you serve mobsters when you draw those curtains or something?"

"Why yes, it's very secretive business, buying flowers."

The two of you shared a laugh before he took hold of his panda head on either side and slipped it off his head.

You didn't even flinch when his face, painted with light and dark shades of pink with barely a patch of skin the same colour as his legs and parts of his arms. Your loving gaze fixed on him and he almost felt guilty for letting the thought of you recoiling in disgust crossing his mind. He had seen your scars, your fingernails, your blisters.

He sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "Well... I was looking for flowers for my mom and my sister..."

You blinked a few times, turned to the calendar, then back to him. "What do you want the flowers to say?"

It was such an odd statement. He knew that you knew that the flowers couldn't talk, but he also knew that you believed everything had words, stories to tell. You were a good listener, ironically enough.

"Uh... what kind of flowers are normally left... at graves?"

Your gaze softened, but you smiled at him and answered, "I can think of a few."

You took him by the hand and pulled him through the displays of flowers, past the ones that were bought often for weddings, anniversaries, or just a little romantic something.

He stared at the way you held him by his bare skin.

"These ones are the ones most commonly used for funerals," you signed after letting go of his hand. "Chrysanthemums are the most common ones, but carnations are more specific to grief over women in your family. Pink ones, specifically."