#her names hyacinth so like. i feel like i had to akjdfhsjdf

[adam-memeleri]

flowers

@wayhavensummer day 4

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G Rating (they're just soft)

Nat x Detective (Hyacinth, she/they)

~800 words

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It started with a rose. A pink one, to be specific.

A single, pink rose placed oh-so carefully on Hyacinth’s desk, with a note sitting beneath it. A single, perfect pink rose, with a single, perfectly written note reading ‘This reminded me of you,’ beneath it.

Hyacinth chuckles, tucking a fallen strand of equally pink hair behind her ear as her eyes trace over the lettering again and again and again. They fall into the chair behind the large desk, spinning in it in a quick, joyful circle. Their fingers caress the soft petals, the flower bending ever so slightly at the touch, with a smile just as soft on red-painted lips.

It’s all so perfect, so mesmerisingly beautiful, so unbelievably joyful, and so far from the typical day she had expected when she left this morning, winter boots laced up and thick jacked zipped tight. It’s happiness, even in the coldest of winter, and bleakest of days.

It’s happiness, the way that pale pink rose sits in an emptied out pencil cup for the rest of the day. It’s happiness, the way Hyacinth searches every corner of her apartment that night for a vase. It’s happiness, the way they can’t take their eyes off it, even when it’s wilted and brown.

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Then it’s a small sunflower, yellow petals spreading like the sun, and they’re just as warm, too.

It’s resting on a stack of Hyacinth’s files when they enter, a shock of vibrance in their cold and dreary office. The petals blow in the wind from the air conditioner, looking alive and bright in the dead of January.

Hyacinth smiles to themself again, carefully untucks the note from beneath it again. ‘To brighten your winter,’ in looping letters that Hyacinth wants to trace until her finger can’t anymore.

She simply adores it, everything about it. The gesture, the flower, those letters. So much adoration, that it pounds in their chest, that it splinters their ribs and spills sunlight through the cracks.

So much adoration, that Hyacinth puts it on her coffee table this time.

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Hibiscus is next, blooming in gradient shades of purple and white on Hyacinth’s doormat. She’s just returned from a day out shopping, and drops the bags where she stands.

The tip of a pale green fingernail follows the curve of it, follows the watercolour-like blending outwards from the center. “Cute,” they hum, lifting it carefully and cradling it in their palm. A proper envelope sits beneath it this time, and she slips it into her pocket as she stands.

Shopping bags spread out on the kitchen counters, they carefully undo the seal on the envelope, carefully unfold the parchment and carefully read the writing.

‘The clerk said that hibiscus means beauty. I think it’s quite fitting, don’t you? Yours Truly, Nat.’

“Even cuter.”

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Daisy’s litter the desk when Hyacinth enters her office after a long day, the single lamp flicked on casting long shadows that stretch and stretch. They follow behind them, each of their movements that lead them to the scattered petals, the peaks of white standing out in the dark.

They enclose a letter, the same as before, with a shiny, red wax seal and all. They enclose it in the shape of a heart, sloping over papers and pens and the desktop’s keyboard.

“Cheesy,” Hyacinth grins to herself. And it is. Cheesy and innocent and sending a blush across the detective’s face.

‘I hope your night improves, Detective. I know you improved mine. Yours Truly.’

“Cheesy.”

Hyacinth adds the letter to their growing collection when they arrive home, gently placing it in the little, painted box alongside the others. The wildflowers adorning the sides in flowing rainbows shift in the light as she closes the lid, taking care that isn’t wholly necessary.

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The red tulip stops Hyacinth’s heart right where it beats in their chest, blood as red as the flower coming to a halt.

She swallows, stops in her tracks and simply stares at the flower waiting for her on her beat-up doormat. It’s bright against the dingy floors of her apartment building, shining like a siren and just as alarming.

Their fingers wrap around the stem, snap up the folded note and shove the door open as quickly as they can.

‘May we speak tonight?’ stares back at her when the door swings shut, thudding against the frame, reverberating in her skull. A punctuation mark and a heart attack all in one.

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Yarrow. The latest, but certainly not the last. Yarrow.

It rests in her pocket as she walks to her car, as she drops into her office chair, as she types out a report about a stolen mailbox. It rests above her heart, a slip of fabric away from where she feels it most.

‘I love you,’ they reread at lunch, on their break, when their shift ends.

“Love you too,” Hyacinth whispers back every time.