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justapoet · 4 months ago

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hearts don't break around here

There were flowers on her desk. It was a random Wednesday morning, she had just greeted Bleta and some other workers ‘good morning’, and there were flowers on her desk. A whole, entire, huge bouquet of red— Somethings. She had no idea what flowers those were. Worse: she had no idea how they were there to begin with. Or, Percy is a florist that seems to see the world through the colors that he sees everyday — bright, different and slightly utopic. Annabeth, an overly serious architect that works just across a lovely flowershop, and doesn't really look for the beauty around her world and outside her office's walls. When she starts receiving flowers out of nowhere, with notes signed only with an initial, her biggest plan is to figure out who could possibly be sending them. What she doesn't know is that all she has to do is look out the window.

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The hostile atmosphere of the city of New York was almost palpable for anyone used to being or living there, hardly masked by the illusion of tourists fascinated by every old building lost among mirrored skyscrapers. The cloudy skies that stretched over people's heads and the cold, albeit gentle, breeze shattered the fantasy that the most famous city in the country could be as welcoming as in the films.

It was fun when one stopped to analyze everything that people have been told and what actually happens when you're there to see it. The hostile climate of New York, or the strange cold that surrounds London; perhaps how pleasant it would be to arrive in any city in Latin America, or the tranquil and strangely cultured air in Amsterdam — and how different it can all be when one switches perspectives.

It was fascinating, in fact, how things are put together in such different ways when placed in the same place. How the old buildings gave off a nostalgic air, more because of the strange feeling that they would soon disappear than because of the amount of time they had stood, or how the newer constructions seemed to carry with them an air of boredom and stress more than any possibility of a well-designed future. Fascinating, and rather hopeless.

Or perhaps the boredom belonged not to the city, but to those who lived in it at a rapid pace, with no time to admire anything other than their own misery or unhappiness. People who walk with their heads down, dragging their feet or marching towards what brings them the tragedy in which they sink daily, ignoring the landscape and cursing anyone who stops to do so.

Whatever was the case, the hostile climate was present at every sunrise as the icy gloom was replaced by warm rays wandering through the blinds that enveloped the wide glass windows of a silent office. Although the sun was up early, breaking the dawn, the grey fog that would sometimes take over the entire urban territory still masked its discreet presence for a few hours, cutting through the atmosphere as the city began to come alive again.

On the dark surface of the rough wooden desk, the faint rays of sun flickered in the reflection of the jug of water, and highlighted the white of organized stacks of sheets of paper. A laptop, two pens and a triangular gold plaque also shone against the light, and the silence was absolute against the noise of the cars, buses and a whole society outside the wide, mirrored building.

Absolute, except for the light, brief snores that cut through the air on the other side of the spacious office.

Covering almost the entire room, a fluffy grey carpet stretched under the desk, only to be interrupted a little further on, next to the immense glass wall from where the city of New York didn't appear so dense. The city itself, however, was hidden behind long white curtains of light, diaphanous fabric, the daylight timidly penetrating the mostly dark environment.

Just before them, a set of armchairs and a sofa in the same shade of grey were elegantly positioned around a round coffee table with a translucent glass top that supported a neatly folded jacket and an equally neat engraving on top of it. Next to the table, on the floor, a pair of black dress shoes rested perfectly aligned, and the only thing seemingly out of place was the woman stretched out on the couch.

One of her arms was over her face, covering her eyes to protect them from the daylight. Her hand hung beside her head, turned uncomfortably away from the windows, her nose almost wedged between the backrest and the seat, and her other arm was folded, hand flat over her stomach, partially trapped between two buttons of her white button shirt.

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and her lips parted to mumble something that tried to sound like sentences. The shirt was wrinkled, as were the black trousers, and only one of her feet was covered by a white sock — that also seemed to be about to come off at any movement of her feet. The brown braids of her hair were disorganized and seemingly tangled, making an exquisite contrast with the surroundings.

A few more soft snores sounded in the air until they were interrupted by the double wooden door being opened from the outside, followed by the low click of the lock clicking back into place and soft footsteps, which stopped after no more than two soft ‘knocks’ and were accompanied by a sigh. The next moment, the footsteps sounded again against the floor across the room, only to cease again when near the couch.

“You're the most depressing situation I've ever seen,” a male voice sounded, and the figure stretched out on the sofa jerked upwards in fright. Her brown eyes looked around hurriedly, shoulders tense, and the weight of her torso being lifted by her arms, until her pupils caught sight of the person speaking. She relaxed one more time.

The woman grunted, and the man rolled his eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked, bringing her hands to her eyes and rubbing them over the eyelids.

“Too early to come to work and too late to go home,’ the man replied, sighing and turning round to face the arm of the furniture. “You do remember that you have a house and a bed, don't you? Because I didn't spend hours hopping from shopping center to shopping center so that you'd simply forget that you have at least six pillows, Annabeth.”

The woman laughed softly, yawning and throwing her legs over so that they rested against the tiled floor.

“For starters,” Annabeth retorted, stretching one of her arms above her head. “We spent hours in shopping centers because you wanted to find God-knows-what to put in the living room, Grover. Besides,” she groaned, facing her friend. “Yes, I know.”

Annabeth stood up, putting her hands on her lower back and stretching her muscles, grunting before exhaling in relief. Grover rolled his eyes again.

“And what goes on in your head that you decide to sleep on the couch in your office?” he asked, arching one of his eyebrows. Annabeth shrugged briefly and sat down once more.

“Work,” she replied. “And a surprising laziness to drive anywhere,” she frowned, and Grover shook his head in denial. “Besides, Oliott called.”

Grover raised both eyebrows this time.

“Again?” he asked, his voice surprised and disbelieving. Annabeth nodded. “God, that man is unbelievable,” he continued, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head.

Annabeth sighed, nodding.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Can’t really blame him, though. I, too, would be desperate if I bought illegal land in protected territory and needed someone to build in it so I won’t go to jail.”

Grover snorted, suppressing a smile, and shook his head.

“Hope he’ll rot, fucking asshole,” he grumbled. “What did you say?”

Annabeth threw her body backwards, leaning back on the couch and leaning her head on the cushioned backrest.

She sighed again.

“The same thing as the other eight times,” she replied. “That we, first, don’t make business with criminals as a firm; second, I don’t design for assholes as a person. And that we don’t have space in schedule whatsoever to take any more projects.”

“We don’t?” Grover asked. Annabeth smiled mischievously, turning her head and resting her ear against the cushion of the furniture.

“We do,” she mumbled, voice filled with childish playfulness, and Grover laughed at how juvenile his friend sounded. “But he doesn't know that. Or he does, but it doesn't matter anyway,” she shrugged. “Can’t wait to turn on the news and see him being arrested.”

Annabeth yawned, then, long and trying to somehow muffle it. Grover, who had been sitting over the arm of the couch, stood up and straightened himself before turning towards the architect, arms crossed over his chest and one of his eyebrows arched in judgement.

“Get up,” he said, and Annabeth — who hadn’t noticed closing her eyes for a second or more after yawning —, stared at him with clear confusion on her face. When she spoke again, another yawn threatened to leave along her words.

“What for?” she asked.

Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“If you don't sleep in your own bed, do you really think I expect you to look after yourself?” Grover argued, and Annabeth waggled her eyebrows and nodded briefly, agreeing. “Come on, get moving. I’m buying you breakfast.”

Annabeth snorted, and Grover walked round to the back of the sofa once more, standing in line with his friend’s head, only to land a light slap near his ear. Annabeth exclaimed in surprise and cursed quietly, laughing softly before getting up and picking up the jacket from the coffee table.

Grover, who was already near the door, waited for Annabeth to approach and grabbed the handle, opening the door and holding it for her to pass through. She, trying to knot the small bow in her shirt while still tripping over her shoes, took long enough so the man would huff and snatch her hands from the failed attempts and claim she needed to breathe, anyway, so she could deal with it later.

Annabeth laughed, following him to the elevators.

[…]

Large urban centers rarely had places that hide from the eyes of passers-byes. Everything was too clear, too crowded, too big — things were always extremely visible, and there were always too many things to be seen, to be heard, to be noticed and talked about.

New York was no different, and perhaps was quite too much that stereotype that Hollywood had established globally. Huge shops with bright signs, crowded shop windows and people who were surprisingly not bewildered by so much information; the city was just a huge anthill of people who were desperate, consumerist, bored or all three, in some cases.

There was a narrow side street, however, between two corners — one with a huge Starbucks shop and the other with a bank — which apparently hadn't been overwhelmed by chaos or huge lights. There, simpler shops with vintage content such as vinyl, comics or clothes that didn’t completely care about following the current strange branding, as well as two restaurants and a cozy coffee shop adorned the weathered pavements. In the center, from one of the pavements, one could access a park that was usually empty.

The café faced the park. Its white façade with sash windows and double wooden doors already indicated the comfort that the bright surroundings gave off, the extensive shelves with books only adding to the cozy impression that spread throughout the place. At the back, where a bay window with light cushions made the café even more inviting, was Annabeth’s favorite place to be whenever she found her way there.

Grover and she had discovered the café a few years before, trying to find somewhere they could study without the chaos outside and the noise of the city driving them crazy or completely out of concentration. She would take her drafts and sketches while Grover took his books and notes — and they wouldn’t speak, simply basking in each other’s company and, more often than not, ordering more coffee than anyone should ever consume in a span of eight hours.

They’d given up the last café they had thought would be a good idea after the fights in the kitchen got too loud and would catch their attention more than whatever they needed to focus on. Sure, Annabeth and Grover loved to know about the chaos — a cheating husband and a best friend and something involving purple dresses, when they last went there —, but, at the time, their finals were nearing and they needed a saving grace.

After a wrong turn, they spotted the façade, which at the time was an aqua green color, and placed one last bet on the place. It was late afternoon, and the orange of the setting sun — and urban pollution — reflected in the windows and accentuated the warm lamps inside the uncrowded and seemingly perfect establishment.

After that day, when they met River, Nicholas and Naomi, who worked there, the two of them decided that it was the right place for them to meet and, since then, that little café — which, honestly, none of them can remember ever asking what it was called — has become one of the best places in the world for unwinding and spending time with a good book.

With time shorter and shorter for them to be there as more than a passage to get coffee, the pair tried to make most of the occasions in which their schedule wouldn’t get in the way of enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes Juniper, Grover’s fiancée, would join them, as would Thalia, one of their best friends. River, Nick and Naomi — who were teenagers fresh into sophomore year when they first met — would also join the conversations whenever they could.

When Grover dragged Annabeth out of the firm, she already knew where they were going, and dropped her jacket on her friend’s car instead of putting it on as she usually did. The man had removed his jacket on the way, while humming any song on the radio and commenting on any news — gossip, if Annabeth was being honest — that was going round the building's departments.

Nicholas greeted them as they entered the cafeteria, always with his animated face that looked like it belonged to someone who hadn't slept in days and said that he would take care of their usual orders — with a little treat on the house, since they were the first customers of the day, as it was usually the case. The pair thanked him, walked to the back of the establishment and took their seats around one of the round tables, the one in front of the bay window.

It was a pleasant view, as the property extended a little further into a small yard surrounded by live fences and various flowers, always well looked after. There were a few tables dotted around, as well as ottomans surrounding lower tables, and the atmosphere was something straight out of a publisher’s portfolio. The hedge divided the café from a costume shop — old, she knew — and a vinyl record shop that Annabeth could not deny having fallen in love with at first sight.

Just a couple of minutes later, Nicholas returned with their favorite coffees on a tray and a smile on his face — for no reason, as the pair knew after so many years. Grover fidgeted in his chair, eager for his first caffeine fix of the day, and Annabeth simply shook her head with a soft giggle.

“A double espresso for you, sir, and a flat white for the beautiful lady,” Nicholas announced, changing his voice to a falsely dismissive tone as he spoke to Grover, and gently tapping his saucer against the table, only to turn to Annabeth, speak with false pomposity and then bend down to place the order in front of the woman.

Annabeth chuckled, and Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“One of these days, I'm going to rat you out to your manager, kid,” Grover grumbled, bringing his cup to his lips and holding back a groan of satisfaction when the strong drink came into contact with his tongue. Nicholas' smile widened, and Annabeth gestured with her hand as if to say that it was just an empty threat.

“Oh, yes; of course,’ Nicholas said, mockingly. “You love me, Grover. You should stop denying it to yourself,” he said, followed by a wink, and Annabeth pressed her lips together not to laugh.

“There's nothing to deny if what you say are lies,” Grover shrugged, and Nicholas made a false expression of offence. “Besides, I've never denied that River has always been my favorite,” he mocked, and Nicholas frowned in fake indignation.

Annabeth took another sip of her drink. And before the waiter could reply, she spoke:

“Where is River, by the way, Nico?” she asked. “You always arrive together,” she pointed out, and Nicholas made a move to tuck the tray under his arm, smiling with satisfaction at whatever he was going to say next.

“Belgium,” he replied, and Annabeth stopped the cup in mid-air, halfway to her lips. Grover straightened his back and narrowed his eyes, while Nicholas just shrugged. “Or on a train on the way to Belgium; I don't know the exact situation.”

“Belgium,” Grover said. “As in the country? In Europe?”

Nicholas nodded happily. Annabeth cleared her throat.

“And since when is River in Belgium?” the architect asked. “Why is he in Belgium on a Thursday morning when we saw him yesterday afternoon?” she frowned.

“Has he finally realized that the world isn't so big when you have money?” Grover asked, also with arched eyebrows.

Nicholas simply shrugged.

“About your question,” Nicholas pointed at Annabeth with his head. “Since last night, apparently. About yours,” he pointed at Grover in the same way. “I think the answer goes together with her other question. The world is definitely not as big when you have money and that, in a way, makes it easier when you want to run away,” he shrugged again, his animated tone faltering a little.

They knew River well enough to know what it was all about. And Annabeth personally understood all too well why the boy had taken a ticket to Belgium in the middle of the night.

“It took him longer than I thought it would, for him to do something like that,” Annabeth said, her eyes downcast, staring at the drawing in the foam of her cup. The two men agreed in silence. “And let's be clear that I'm referring to running away from those two as much as filling that pocket with money and going anywhere in the world. Although, frankly, I always thought he was going to take a boat,” she joked, lightening the mood in the room.

“I think we can all agree on that,” Grover said. “I've never seen anyone so insistent that packing up and travelling around the continent wasn't the best thing to do on a gap year. I'm glad he gave it a chance.”

Nicholas squeaked in amusement.

“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “I nearly put him on a plane myself. Imagine having the world in the palm of your hand and spending your days in a lost coffee shop in the middle of New York! I mean, he can do the most incredible things on this trip! See the Colosseum, the Louvre, the Parthenon, that hooped thing in Warsaw-

“Segovia Aqueduct,” Annabeth interrupted, and Nicholas chose to ignore her.

“... Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower...” Nicholas listed. “And along the way, he could meet the love of his life. Imagine that!”

Grover laughed.

“Why do I think you and Naomi bet on that?” he asked, and Nicholas smiled mischievously once again. “For God's sake, Nico! What are the chances of River simply bumping into the love of his life on a train to Belgium?!”

“There are!” Nicholas argued, and Grover laughed even harder. Annabeth followed, taking another sip of her coffee. “Hey, don't you even start. What were the chances of River travelling anyway? Even more so in the middle of a Wednesday?!”

Annabeth tilted her head slightly to either side, agreeing.

“Well, yeah. You might have a point,” she said, and Nicholas smiled. “And you also have access to food,” she smiled, amused. “And food is always a good idea, don't you think?” she suggested, and Nicholas rolled his eyes before turning in his feet and walking towards the counter and the kitchen.

Annabeth lifted her wrist to look at her watch, then picked up her cup again to take a little more of the drink. After a few minutes, the architect felt a pair of eyes burn into the side of her face. She turned her head around to find Grover, leaning back on his seat, his elbows resting on the window ledge, legs crossed and a look on his face that Annabeth honestly didn't know if she wanted to decipher.

“What's wrong?” she asked anyway. Grover arched one eyebrow again.

“When are you going to give yourself a chance?” he asked, his serious tone and frank countenance staring into the confused expression of his friend, whose frown deepened at the environmentalist’s words. “Just like the one you’re glad River gave himself.”

Annabeth squinted, a little because of confusion over the last sentence Grover had said and a little because of the context of the sentence itself. She also threw his body back, leaning against the comfortable cushion, but leaving her head raised so that she could face the man in front of her.

“I like New York,” she said, as if that were some kind of explanation. “And I've lived alone for years, which frees me from any River-like motives.”

Grover rolled his eyes and grunted.

“You know very well what I mean,” he said, and Annabeth cocked her head to one side. Her friend sighed again. “You live for work, Annabeth, for God's sake. When was the last time you agreed to go out with anyone? Or by yourself?”

“Now?” she asked, pointing her finger at the table, and Grover bit his tongue. “Grover, I'm the director of the firm. I sort of have to work a bit harder than the others, and you know that.”

Grover nodded, but his pose remained the same.

“Oh. ‘A little’, you say. I'd like to emphasize it, then. You've been abusing any hyperbole or augmentation for years,” he retorted. “And it's not just going out with me, Annabeth. When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep in your own bed? Or the last night you even went to bed?”

The architect opened her mouth to say something, but Grover didn't let her speak before taking the floor again.

“When was the last time you left the house without a suit? Or the last time you, I don't know, met someone who wasn't a client?” he asked, and Annabeth chose to close her mouth. “Annie, when was the last time you ever flirted with someone?”

At the last question, Annabeth frowned again. Grover arched his eyebrows again, tilting his head slightly to one side and waving his foot in the air under the table where his legs were crossed.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” she asked, and Grover just sighed loudly, shaking his head. “What does it have to do with anything? I’m serious!”

The man sighed.

“I know! That's even worse,” he pointed out, raising his hands in exasperation. “Do you plan to spend your whole life being miserable and lonely and solving other people's problems?”

Annabeth opened her mouth in indignation, and Grover just lifted his chin, his lips twisting in defiance.

“Ouch,” Annabeth said, placing one hand over her chest. “I'm not miserable, G-Man.”

And if she pouted, Annabeth would deny it completely.

“Hm,” Grover muttered before reaching into his bag and slipping his hand inside, taking out his mobile phone and unlocking it. Annabeth frowned again, alternating her gaze between the man’s face and the mobile phone he was skillfully typing on until he smiled briefly and cleared his throat. “Hm. ‘Miserable’. Adjective and noun of two genders: ‘who or that which, by its misfortune, arouses compassion’,” he recited, and Annabeth sighed briefly before crossing her arms over her chest, too. “There's even a picture!” Grover exclaimed.

Grover turned the mobile phone towards Annabeth, and it took her a few seconds to notice that her friend had switched it off and there was only the black screen reflecting her twisted, confused face. The man had a proud, smug smile on his face, and Annabeth just snorted before pushing Grover’s arm to get the mobile phone out of her face.

“You think you're hilarious, don't you?” Annabeth asked, and Grover nodded in agreement. “And despite your blatant offence towards me, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need any advice. I’m fine, Grover,” she said, his tone serious and extremely formal.

“I know you are, I can see that,” he said. “But being fine doesn't cancel out being miserable, Annie. Come on, haven't you ever wanted to fall in love with someone? I know you have. We grew up together,” Grover said, and Annabeth settled a little further into her seat. “To be given flowers, to smile for no reason, to have someone to hug or to tell unfunny jokes to?”

Annabeth mumbled something, but spoke again before Grover asked.

“Doesn't that sound too cliché? Sugary?” she asked, and Grover just shrugged.

“Love has been love since the world was a world, Annabeth. It may sound repetitive in theory, because it is the theory,” he argued. “What really changes is that you're the one feeling it.”

She arched an eyebrow. And chose not to comment on the poetics, given the smile so sincere on Grover’s lips — thinking of Juniper, she knew, because the glimmer in his eyes was quite obvious.

“And what's so special about that?” she retorted, and her friend merely repeated her previous gesture, but leaned forward to reach for his cup again.

“Love is a universal concept, but this one anyone could call their own,” he said. “Which, you must admit, is quite something,” he sipped his drink. Annabeth just shrugged, imitating her friend and picking up her cup as Nicholas returned from the kitchen with another tray, spouting words that the two of them were still too slow to decipher.

As she ate the slice of cake Nicholas had brought — and I'm sorry it took so long, but I forgot to make it part of the sweet display and I really don't need to be sacked now, so close to my first semester of Med School — Annabeth pondered some of Grover’s words.

Smiling for no reason? It sounded merely silly. Having someone to hug? Sometimes... It would be nice, but it also sounded too trivial to have at the cost of a possible heart. Telling unfunny jokes? Isn't that what she's in that friendship for starters?

And to receive flowers?

Annabeth laughed to herself.

It was too sweet — and the hope was too foolish — for it to ever happen to her.

“I don’t even know why you brought ‘falling in love’ up, Grover,” she said, then, suddenly. Her friend took his time to savor the piece he was taking to his mouth and ignored her for a minute before swallowing.

“Because I saw your face when Nico joked about River finding love in a train, dipshit. I know you better than you know yourself.”

And she didn’t know how say anything back to him, because there was no way she could deny it, either. Tragically, Annabeth hated to admit, she was a romantic — and she would often daydream of meeting someone and being enchanted and going through every single cliché on the book.

She shook her head, ridding it of the stupid thoughts, and focused on her cake again.

As they left the café to return to the firm, Annabeth left the conversation, her thoughts and unfounded hopes hanging on the glass of the bay window, hoping that the wind or the passing of people would blow them away.

[…]

Sometimes, he believed New York was quiet for the big city it undoubtedly was.

Of course, there were lights and noise, and people walked around in their own misery all the time — but it was calmer, from where he stood, because the anguish didn't seem to be constantly in the spotlight. There were more trees here and there, and one could hear the birds every morning, as well as dogs barking and whatever it was that seemed to be screaming when the sun comes up.

The streets, at least the newer ones, were wide and full of lights, and were crowded as the daylight shone down on them, penetrating through the clouds and shining on the buildings — but quietened down as the moonlight began to replace the golden glow with a pale, soft glow. Things seemed to get a little quieter, and the pace would slow down significantly, making it seem as if the great city had had the courage to fall asleep.

The New York he lived was quiet for a big city; it was.

It was the first thing that crossed his mind whenever he woke up in the morning or in the middle of the night, and one could hear the crickets sharpening the silence around the streets. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to hear the sleeping city itself, a few cars and motorcycles from time to time, some owls hiding from the remaining lights of the streetlamps.

It was a feeling he had forgotten he could ever feel — if he ever had, because growing up in central New York takes away most of the sense of silence. It was soothing, most of the time, and it helped whenever he couldn't fall asleep after a busy, hellish or chaotic day.

Because, even if New York was quiet for a big city, he could count on his fingers the number of slow days he'd managed since work had started again.

And wasn’t it surprising when one worked at a flower shop?

Switching on his cell phone, then, Percy kept a quick pace out of his house, the headphones now loud in his ears and his eyes straying to the hour on the screen once more. He sighed, and his fingers tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his feet moving a little faster.

And, because his New York was quiet for a big city, it was easy to dodge the crowds as he walked through the people occupying the streets. The sidewalks were long and, although crowded, there were far fewer people than Times Square when it was summer or the very end of the year.

The drier weather, however, was something Percy still longed to get along with ever since he had mover further from the coast — Montauk, where he spent so much of his childhood and had yet to see for a few years, now. While the streets of New York were crowded and always in motion, the coast always had a gentle breeze every now and then, passing over people's heads and through their clothes as they walked in the shadows of the buildings made. The heat seeped in, the sun being reflected by gigantic buildings, which left the air humid, almost sandy.

The very core of New York, on the other hand, was not hot, but dry — and Percy should have gotten used to it by now, but his muscles always felt uncomfortable, his nose often ran, and his brain would most likely stop working when the clouds declared a truce.

Juniper would always make fun of him, as would his mother — but sometimes she also faced the same problems with the cold and drier weather. And then Paul would make fun of her, because someone who did grow up in central New York shouldn’t be so unused to its weather, regardless of how many years she’d spent on the coast.

Those were funny interactions — except for the time Percy nearly had an asthma crisis, and his father nearly snatched him to Greece just for good measure (with his mother’s permission, that was) — that made him laugh every time he remembered them, especially on the way to the flower shop, not far from his apartment but not exactly near it either. Percy held his breath whenever a funny comment came to mind, so as not to look completely crazy while laughing in the middle of the street, especially when he was half-running to where he needed to be.

In less than fifteen minutes — running and bumping into a few people — Percy was already able to see the mirrored building opposite the flower shop. The building, an architecture office, was a huge construction with large windows and busy people, although he never paid it any attention. The flowers and the people were better to look at than a skyscraper with ties and walking headaches.

Apart from that, the architects and engineers who worked there rarely stopped their busy day to talk to anyone — and Percy could swear he'd never heard any of their voices in his entire life. Overall, he could understand; the firm was always bustling with clients and he supposed that being stressed was just a direct consequence of it.

But he doubted it to be completely true even more after meeting Grover, who was more of an angel than a real person.

The point was that he had met him before, through Juniper’s stories, the sighs of love and the moon eyes at the mere mention of her fiancé. In later conversations, the shop’s team discovered that he was an environmentalist and worked at New York’s newest influential architecture firm — which wasn't exactly a surprise, as Juniper talked about him as if he were Superman.

And Percy, although he worked at the shop his entire life, never paid enough attention to see either Grover or Juniper entering or leaving the mirrored building. Neither of them did pay attention to the flower shop, either, and it was a funny Tuesday morning when Grover entered the store only to bump into Percy’s presence behind the counter.

The environmentalist was leaving the mirrored building early and walked to the flower shop as soon as Juniper let him know she was there. It was flattering how he smiled, and even more so how his comment about how much he had heard about Percy gave away how much Juniper cared about him and the whole team — but the florist couldn't help seeing the woman nearly explode in embarrassment when he offered Grover an entire bouquet.

The man’s ears turned red, and Percy believes that was the moment they decided to be best friends.

Ever since they met, then, on Tuesdays, Grover would show up with or without Juniper — the days she didn’t work —, just to chat or keep Percy some company when he wasn't buried up to her neck in piles of paper and work and stress. Sometimes he would talk about how crazy things were, or how much his best friend, who worked with him, could annoy the life out of him — and Percy would doubt it, of course, because Grover had the patience of an angel and a mocking tone in his voice while he pretended to hate whoever she was.

It was one of Percy’s favorite friendships, if he was honest. Of course, it wasn't rare or difficult for Grover to be someone's favorite person — Juniper herself was the most obvious example — but it was a delightful experience to know and feel that he was also one of his dearest friends.

But about the mirrored building, that was all Harry knew — Grover. And some of the gossip that went around, of course. Like how Hawks cheated on Bernardez with his superior, Minelli, and still refused to admit that he wasn't one hundred percent heterosexual. Or even how Mendes got angry and broke a few things when Levesque was promoted in his place.

Percy didn't know any of them, but it was particularly amusing to hear Grover tell him with such a conspiratorial tone in his voice. It brightened up his days and got him out of his own head sometimes.

Which was always useful, of course.

Taking the last few steps to the store and slowing down, Percy smiled as he approached the horizontal white wooden fence with vertical black metal bars, stepping onto the wooden walkway that crossed the well-tended garden. Percy tightened the grip on the strap of his backpack, looking around and waving to a couple sitting at one of the tables before stepping through the doors into the cooler atmosphere.

The large windows around the wooden walls gave the flower shop a comforting clarity, and the sophisticated building seemed cozy with all the flowers around it. The arrangement of the tables, the frames, the bouquets, the lights and how warm the whole place seemed — even with the air conditioning on — made it Percy’s favorite place in the whole world.

It was a friendly and danger-free environment, as if nothing outside it could reach anyone inside. The flowers seemed to be a reminder of how much beauty the world could hold, and sometimes being there was all he needed for the tightness in his chest to ease.

“Ma?” he called out, walking up to the counter. Harry put his bag on a coat rack while he still didn't go to his own locker, also picking up the apron he had hung up the day before.

As soon as the apron was around his neck and waist, an older woman came out from behind one of the wooden walls in the middle of the flower shop, with a small flower in a small vase in her hands and a fond smile on her face. Percy arched an eyebrow, a small smile on his face too, and waited for her to notice him.

Sally Jackson was a lovely woman, someone who seemed much younger than she actually was. The only wrinkles on her face were scars of smiles through time, and the kindness of her expression would fool anyone to how much pain the world could hold — and that was something Percy grew up admiring and looking up to. His mother would always have a smile to offer and advice to share with her flowers and whoever needed to hear it, and her arms were the most welcoming place for anyone to ever step into.

The flower shop was practically her home, although Percy obviously knew that Sally didn't live there — anyone could be fooled, considering that she never seemed to leave. She always seemed to be at peace as she strolled through the bouquets and flowers, and everything there seemed to revolve around the woman; the place felt like a safe haven, and the feeling of “home” hung in the air for anyone who wanted to breathe it in.

Percy always took a deep breath, then, and exhaled slowly each time his demons and the noise seemed to try to reach him. The mixed scent of all the flowers could be a little nauseating at first, but the contrast with some other citrus plants would make his lungs feel as fresh as if there was the purest oxygen passing through each of his pores. It was safe, welcoming and almost addictive.

And his mother didn’t ask questions when Percy seemed to breathe more deeply than necessary, and simply invited him to take a walk, taking him away from the throng of people coming in and the noise they carried. It had always been that way; she wouldn’t press on the hurtful matters, trusting him to come to her whenever he felt ready to — and how he loved that woman and everything about her nature.

Most of the time, the days at the flower shop passed the same way — a warm mist covering the dim, welcoming sunlit room, and one of them, lost in their own head, wandering around the flowers as if there were no evil within those walls. A smile would remain on both their faces, suddenly, for no reason, with no time to leave, and it would simply be easy to be there.

Sally kept walking to one of the display tables, but she didn't hear Percy’s greeting as she looked at the flower in her hands. The man arched an eyebrow, placing one of his elbows on the counter and pressing his hip against it, crossing his legs in front of each other as he stared at her.

Percy waited, and it took about three minutes for Sally to look around, searching for something. The man shook his head, stepping away from the counter and then stretching out his arm to reach one of the tools underneath it, on one of the shelves. When his hand reached the pliers, Percy walked closer to his mother, not bothering to call out to her, but just to place the tool closer.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she muttered to herself, accepting the pliers and not sparing a glance at her son, who swallowed a laugh and put his hands behind his back, watching curiously as she cut some branches and leaves from the plant's stalk.

“Which ones are those?” Percy asked, observing the yellow-brown flower that looked a lot like a sunflower in a strange way. Sally, who was concentrating on her task, only answered after a few minutes in silence.

“Gaillardias grandifloras,” she replied. “Also known as Spanish lace,” she said again, and Percy smiled a little at the new piece of information he had been offered.

“And what do they mean?” asked the man, and she let out a happy sigh at that question. It was almost a rule by now that any new flower would result in those two questions coming from Percy, and the flower shop owner couldn't say that it bothered her at all. If anything, it flattered her more than life — that her child grew up to remain as curious as he had been as a little kid.

“Modesty, charm, happiness,” his mother replied, and Percy smiled. “Joy of being together, too. It's a subtle option to give to friends or to that person you have a crush on and never dare say a word about,” she added, and a brief laugh escaped Percy’s lips.

“Not a problem I have, luckily,” Percy joked, shrugging softly.

“Yet,” Sally laughed, the sound soft and charming as Percy always remembered it to be. “I'm counting the days until you climb the walls and want to leave early because there's a pair of eyes you can't get out of your head,” she said, and Percy could only roll his eyes affectionately.

“Where did that come from, uh?” the curly-haired man asked, turning his body when the little bell on the door sounded and looking again at the woman next to him when the guest dismissed his help with a smile and a wave of one of his hands.

His mother, eyes so kind and smile so sweet — welcoming and proud and teasing when looking at him, as if, even if Percy was able to do wrong, there was nothing but goodness in his soul —, shrugged.

“I just have a good feeling, dear,” she decided to say “That love is in the air,” she nearly sung.

Percy arched his eyebrows again.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “And what makes you feel that way?” he wiggled his eyebrows, and Sally smiled, lifting the flower in her hands and smiling at it, ignoring Percy’s condescending look.

“The flowers, Percy,” she said, inhaling the sweet scent close to her nose. “All the flowers,” she added, and Percy couldn't help but smile along with her.

“Let's hope they listen, then,” the man said at last, turning once more as the bell rang again and a trio entered the store. The girl saw him, and Percy smiled, waiting for them to approach so that he could greet everyone. “And you should stop behaving this mystical. Soon enough you and Juniper will be hosting a summer camp to clean souls and vibes.”

“The flowers will listen,” she said. “And you act as if you wouldn’t be right in the middle of the summer camp trying to pretend that you’re the Lord of the Waters and can communicate with fish,” she added in a sharp, teasing voice, narrowing her eyes and causing Percy to stick out his tongue. “Insolent.”

Before he could vocalize his apologies, however — because he was a good son, excuse him —, his mother smiled, and the man just rolled his eyes, knowing then that it had been a joke; mostly.

Sally slapped his arm softly, and Percy took a few more steps, catching up with the group that had entered and stopping after a while. He smiled sweetly, but also frowned when he noticed one of the boys and the girl teasing their other friend, pointing at flowers, and then making a low joke that would give anyone the impression that the boy wanted to disappear.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Percy cordially, interrupting the group dynamic a little. “Can I help you today?” he offered, and the boy who was being teased swallowed dryly, clearly nervous about the florist’s presence there.

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#percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #my writing #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo fandom #fanfic #justapoet writes

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