In the Language of the Flowers

| 6 |

✾ Iris ✾

I ran my hand over the canvas, smoothing my fingertips along the edge and letting my nail catch on a seam. I swear I could feel his heart beating beneath the blank surface like a hummingbird's. It thrummed with possibility.

But I wasn't ready yet. I couldn't pick up a brush. Something inside of me was paralyzed. Or maybe it was something in him. I couldn't tell which.

I wanted to listen. I did. But he didn't want to talk. Beau was the chipped teacup, discarded in the corner. He was alone. 

It wasn't pity I felt. I didn't want to be his savior. It was as much myself that I was digging out of the hole as it was him.

I walked quietly into his room. He'd left the door ajar, probably so that the breeze would cool him down as he slept. The floorboards creaked a little bit as I walked, but he didn't even stir. I knelt slowly beside his bed.

Those wild curls sprawled across his pillow. His eyelashes fluttered a little bit, golden in the morning sunlight. His lips were slightly parted.

"Hey." My own voice surprised me. I sounded strange. "Copper. Hey." He didn't move.

I clenched my jaw and sighed, giving up. I hadn't wanted to touch him because I knew I would replay the moment in my head later. "Copper," I repeated. I reached out and touched his arm. His skin was soft. Fuck. "It's nine," I said. I shook him a little.

Finally, his warm brown eyes cracked open a sliver. He seemed confused. I smiled. "Good morning."

He raised his head slowly. I watched as consciousness returned to him. He glanced around the room, trying to ground himself. "You're a heavy sleeper, huh?" I said, amused.

Beau looked at me and smiled. I felt lighter. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry."

"I envy you," I said, standing up. "Come on, though. I made you breakfast."

"Food?" he questioned. He shot up at that, his blanket falling away. He wasn't wearing a shirt. My eyes lingered on his smooth chest a little bit too long. Beau wasn't necessarily fit, but there was something so beautiful about his body. His skin was a creamy coffee color, warm. But it was a new kind of warm I hadn't yet encountered, one that quietly existed instead of clamoring for attention.

He was just so unusual, with his flaming red hair and dark skin. It made me wonder what his parents had looked like and how such a paradox of a human could exist.

"Food," I confirmed. "You're not a vegetarian, are you?"

He shook his head. I nodded. "Good. Get dressed. I'll be in the kitchen."

I still felt guilty. Beau was younger than me, yes. But worse, I'd taken him in while he was vulnerable. I could tell that he was scared. It felt sort of like he'd imprinted on me in a time of need, and I was just leading him along like a stray duckling.

I hated that I loved it a little bit. I liked that he relied on me because if he needed me, he wouldn't be able to go far. And I wanted him to stay. 

❦

Ren. Ren. Ren. Ren.

I groaned loudly, dragging my hands across and smacking my face lightly. I tugged my shirt over my head, staring at myself in the mirror. The color of my hair clashed violently with my red t-shirt, but I didn't care. It didn't really matter.

What did matter? It mattered how screwed I was. I woke up to Ren's face and felt. My whole body had ached with emotion. It was good. It was really good.