roses. | eren x levi

roses. | seventy-three

"uh, you know, we still want you to come to the wedding."

mr. rose had disappeared for several days. now, he appeared in what seemed to be an organized demeanor. i was exceedingly antagonistic, and i sincerely couldn't tolerate listening to his voice.

when i scowled at him at the allusion of his matrimony, he retreated a few paces and put his hands up.

i noticed that his hands were calloused today. they habitually were smooth, spectral to the degree you'd presume he was a vampire. i never understood how he could linger so pale and yet contribute most of his day outdoor. 

initially, i simply accepted the fact that he was a mortal, male lamia, but it still didn't synchronize. he truly was a phenomenon.

why did his hands look so toughened and vermillion? what tedious work had he been doing with his hands?

a glacial shiver from my vertebrae delivered me back to reality. remembering what mr. rose said last, i responded.

you do understand that i am not an immoral monstrosity like you think i am? do you realize how offensive it would be to your soon-to-be wife if i showed up, coughing flower petals down the aisle?

"i never said i thought you were an immoral monstrosity! really, i... i think highly of you!"

then you would also understand, mr. rose, that although i may hold feelings for you, i do not automatically consent to you kissing me. 

"mr. florist, i am so sorry for that. i just– you reminded me of a past lover in that instance. well, not lover, but..."

my eyebrows quirked up in astonishment, eventually descending down into their original place. 

like always, alena torres was accurate.

a past lover? please, do tell, we have all day.

his eyes were cast downwards, and his feet shuffled together.

"can you, um, can you lend me your notepad and pencil for a moment?"

i nodded and pushed them towards him. instantly, he began to write. his handwriting was so slanted and petite i wasn't able to read it upside down like i was capable to examine my own. all i could do was unabatingly anticipate, as he inscribed the story of something i genuinely had no business knowing.

in the meantime, i prepared the thirteen roses for him, overlooking the lightheadedness that got ever more so present as i went throughout the day.

when he gazed up, we exchanged the roses for the money and he wandered out.

i looked down at the note. there were only a few sentences calligraphed on it, but it appeared to take much fervor to write them.

erwin smith, a principled man, brought tulips to my apartment every day.

he never gave me a true explanation as to why he always showed up on my front doorstep with his stupid grin and his flowers. he simply knew i loved them so much, it was a thing that went unnoticed.

i loved erwin smith more than i could ever love tulips, though. no matter how hard i tried to convince myself otherwise, i always craved to see his smile more than i wanted to see the tulips. it became a daily routine, him giving me the tulips before he went off to work. sometimes, i would imagine myself kissing him goodbye as he left, but i never worked up the courage to do so.

one day, erwin smith was not able to give me those tulips. he had died resting in his sleep, to a disease that was never named. his mother made an effort to try to cheer me up with black chrysanthemums, but it did not shorten my mourning. erwin smith hated chrysanthemums. he thought they looked like helpless little pumpkins, and swore that he would never commit such a crime as giving me a black chrysanthemum.

he would've been cured if he stayed inside, away from the outside oxygen, but he never did, just so he could give me those stupid red tulips.