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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 2 years

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Ineffable Bloom

Pairings: Azul/Siren MC

Summary: Despite your status as siren, there are not many words that reach those around you anymore, voice now muted and marred from the surgeries you have endured to remove the carnations that once suffocated your throat. But you don't mind it, serving quietly as the gardener of Night Raven College, making do with a notepad and pen when necessary. You are pleased to find your childhood friend, Azul, now attends the school, who spontaneously hires you for the flower arrangements he decides to decorate in his lounge with. There's little hope you bear with the silent poetry you weave with each meticulously placed flower, only an ache which tumbles over you like the ceaseless seas. However, Azul is not deaf to this song you have sealed in your bouquets, having cherished the morsels of sweetness in your childhoods where you shared the silent language of each flower.

Notes: Sorry this took ages lmao. Been in a “creating anything is obsolete” phase my/spring allergies are starting so I am. Dying. Part of the twst myth series, here is the post with some basics. I just reached 1000 likes on tumblr which might not be much to some but wowwww thank you guys for your support!!

GN terms for MC

CW: Emotional abuse and toxic parenting when we get into MC’s backstory

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

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“Would you like to add a ribbon to this? I’ll add it for free since I have some extra?” You placed the last slender stalk of green hydrangea into the bouquet and move your hands in practiced shapes and swerves, forming each phrase with careful deliberation.

Jack struggles a bit in forming as keen language with his hands, but you appreciate that he has taken the time to respond in your vernacular. Writing does get a little tiring after a bit. “If you wouldn’t mind. I think Trey would appreciate that.” He pauses, looking to Ruggie, who sways around the room with his hands behind his head in boredom, dipping his gaze to the lilies standing tall in a bucket on the ground. “Right, Ruggie?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever is fine.”

The wolf huffs a bit before crossing his arms. “You know, you should be grateful (Name) is doing this so last minute since you forgot to place the order a week ago like we all agreed on.”

“Ugh get of my back‒ Leona had me running around more than usual last week…” His eyebrows raise a bit when he brings his attention to the dandelions drying above him, a slight movement you take notice to when wrapping the bouquet in its final layer. “Besides, who cares about all the details of each flower, it’s not like whoever is receiving them is looking into all the deep meanings of each blade of grass.”

You finish tightening the bow around the bouquet, assuring with your trained hands that it is secured tightly onto the broom, before handing it off to Jack. “Just like you mentioned in the interview‒ green color scheme, with symbols of loyalty, prosperity, and patience. Here is a card that has all of the flower languages on them.” You sign, which the man responds with a smile, and a clumsy thank you with his hands.

Ruggie has drifted over to the dandelion heads soaking in a bowl of water, being prepared for the dandelion honey you sell at Sam’s shop while his junior admires the bouquet in reverence. “You like dandelions?” You write on a notepad, poking Ruggie with it. He looks over lazily, shrugs.

“I guess.”

“They symbolize ‘an oracle of love’, resilience, and even sorrowful goodbyes. The name Dandelion comes from the word dent-de-lion, meaning the ‘jaws of a lion’- fierce, is it not?” Ruggie hums in curiosity in response, glancing at the flowers again to imagine it with a growing smile on his face. “Flowers and plants all have their silent poetry. It’s good to tip your ears to them once in a while, they may have something to say to you.”

“You hear that Jack‒ ‘jaws of a lion’..." The hyena says with his hand on his hips, a bashful finger grazing his nose.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get going, we have a lot of prep to do for Trey's celebration." Jack turns to you before he leaves "Oh, you should stop by if you have time‒ everyone was curious during my birthday who had arranged my broomquet. I'm sure the other students would be thrilled to see the face of our new‒ well, I guess not so new anymore‒ gardener."

You furiously shook your head, scurrying your hands across the air in a flurry. "I wouldn't want to intrude…my work is nothing worth fussing over…"

"Anyone with a pair of working eyes can see otherwise‒ your talent is unmatched, you nearly performed a miracle reviving my half dead cacti." Jack smiles, remembering fondly of the times he had come in, asking you for advice on his growing horticulture collection. "Besides, it's nice for the students and staff to get familiarized."

"And free cake." Ruggie adds.

You raised your eyebrows at that, quelling the swirling anxiety in your stomach. "…okay, I'll try to make it. Just have to finish a few things here and I should be good to head out."

"We'll see you then, (Name)."

——————————————————

You brush your apron, relieving the weariness of a day's work in the breath that swelled from the bottom of your stomach and escaped as an audible huff that loosened the tension of your shoulders. However when you glance at your phone, anxiety shot through you as you realize time had passed a lot quicker, and it was about half an hour past the time Jack had told you to come. In racing footsteps, you gathered your items, throwing your apron on the hook near the front door before slamming it.

By the time you arrive, everyone is singing happy birthday, gathering in a circle around who you assumed was Trey, who bore a bashful smile on his face with the broomquet in his hands. You catch the eye of Jack across the room, who lights up when you wave nervously at him. The room erupts in applause and bright laughter as Trey blows out the candles of his cake‒ a volume you take a mental note of to judge just how many people were at this celebration. Quite a lot, especially now as the students disperse, preparing plates and cutlery to cut the delicious looking strawberry shortcake.

"Hey~ what are you doing here?"

There’s a surge of anxiety when those words are pointed at you, which you respond with a pressed smile as you swerve your head to the voice. To your surprise, you recognize the face which greets you, though it is a bit unnatural seeing them without a bluish tint to their skin, or scales. You suppose it’s a surprise for them as well, seeing you out of the water for the first time in about eight years.

“I thought I recognized that face. Hello, (Name), it has been a while.”

You hands move automatically to the pen and paper stuffed inside your pocket. “Jade? Floyd? It’s been a while. What are you doing here?”

“Eh? What's with the notepad little siren?”

The anxiety returned with Floyd's words. Even with the Leech family’s connections and the chattiness of your hometown, it was hard for rumors to form with the eight years you had spent apart from your home‒ your friends. You were thankful a bit for the amnesty it brought you on rare occasions like this, but explaining the whole situation was difficult for you‒ making up a believable excuse even more so considering the one memorable thing your species was known for. Sirens‒ their voice famed to plunge sea farers into maddening passion, the talents of which even the great Sea Witch openly admired in historical record. Perhaps you had been an example of this once, training your throat to squeeze and burn itself to strike impossible notes, whirling an unmatched vibrancy when you perfected each lyric, each score, each tendon to stand straight, expand your lungs, smile, and sing. Even if you had such talents in the past, it was negated with every pinch and pull of your mother’s craft‒ that memory now clandestine, numbed from the surgery.

Or that’s what you told yourself, as your calloused fingers graze the satin ribbon around your neck, the scars marring it aching slightly as you adjusted the fabric in a slight nervous tick. They’re been healed from quite some time‒ or you believe they are from the years you had observed every winding crack slowly dull against time‒ but the mountainous fossils carved onto your flesh would grow tender like this, pushed then retraced piercingly like the jagged shores far from your homelands, leaving snowy, bursting seafoam prickling against your skin. You suppose all you could do is tighten a smile against your mute lips, maneuvering past it as best you could.

“I’ll explain later. What are you guys doing at NRC?”

“We’re students, see~?” Floyd flashes a crooked smile, turning to the side to show off his dorm uniform. “Jade here is even the vice dorm leader. Boring if you ask me.”

“What are you doing here, (Name)? I don’t think I’ve seen you in my classes.”

“My aunt just retired as the gardener here, she's back at her shop in the Shaftlands. So I've come to officially take her place."

"We'll have our quartet back in no time now‒ you should visit the Monstero Lounge sometime so we can catch up~" Floyd wraps an arm around your shoulder, hanging lazily off it while his twin smiles.

"I agree with Floyd. Azul would be more than happy to see you too." At Jade's words, you brighten, and quickly scribble onto your notepad.

"Azul here too? Is he here today?"

Jade nods. "He's our dorm leader, actually. And yes, I think he just went outside to get some fresh air" his smile widens "you know how he is."

You do. Surely he was tired of the noise and pleasantries of birthday celebration. "Azul the dorm leader huh."

"You won't believe how much he’s changed unless you see for yourself." Floyd switches his weight to his other foot, landing on his brother's shoulder while gesturing to the veranda doors. You swerve your head towards it, trying to make out a figure against the bright blue skies and roses reaching towards the mild sun. There's a slight silhouette, but you can barely make out its features with the glare of the glass.

"You should go to him. He talks about you sometimes, you know." Before you could turn around and question the twins, their backs are turned from you, melting back into the bustling crowd. Despite your initial excitement, your feet move in idle footsteps, weighed by the heaviness which emerges from your wrapped throat, plummeting to the soles of your feet sticking densely onto the ground. The notepad in your hand is gripped through your sweaty palm‒ there was only so much space in each sliver of parchment you could fill with your words, the rest of your language lost to the silence which cages your throat. Even if you could rasp through your disfigurement with a language people would lend an ear to, you were sure that your thoughts, refined through your mother's distant voice, would drive you back into forlorn silence‒ your hands clawing and reopening your wounds wide and fresh enough to assure not even a breath could be heard from it. Flowers always came to you with such ease in comparison, eyes turned away from your secret adoration for something far more beautiful in perfectly placed petals, inventing no hope that you could cling to that would turn your throat raw with desire.

Even if these givings were seen, spoken of , or heard‒ you armor yourself by repenting‒ these gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Forgive me, for there is fear that one day that life will ripen within it‒ something as grotesque as myself, a venerable mirror to my slumbering desires to be swaddled and held. You arrive at the handle of the door too fast for your liking, hovering your hand over it with a heavy heart and tongue before grasping it quietly, hoping a little that your soundless footsteps would turn you into a phantom.

But when you are faced with a familiar image‒ his weaving dusty mauve hair, and the arctic clarity of his blue eyes, you can't help but to pause your prayers for a moment, met with the blinding joy his face brings you. Dear, dear friend.

You're so used to his name springing from your throat that you nearly tear the fragile nerves of your lesions with a rasp threatening to boil over by the warmth in your stomach. But you clench that tension in your hand as you scribble his name in hurried, crude strokes across the entire page.

"Azul?" You turned the paper pad over with clumsy, shaking hands. He looks just as surprised as you, but he nods slowly.

"(Name)?"

You nod your head vigorously to your name, decorated sweetly with his voice. His entire body is facing you now, taking you in with the gulp of his gaze. You do the same, noticing that, actually, not quite a lot has changed. Sure, the soft little octopus had grown tall and slender during the eight years you didn’t see him‒ but still, there is that mole dotted prettily on his face you remember quite well, and the softness of his eyes when they meet yours is one of your fondest, most tender memories, unraveled whenever you saw the sea blue glow of freshly fallen snow, or the velvety reflection of the skies in gentle spring creeks. But now they were here, gazing back at you, there were no words that appeared in your mind, or which you could communicate with the likeness of flowers. It's so sweet again when you hear his voice.

"What's happening? Why are you writ‒ never mind that." He shakes the thought away. "How…How have you been? Last I heard from mother you had moved with your aunt somewhere on land."

Azul does not question how, or why you stood in front of him after eight years, but rather simply‒ how are you? The smile that blooms at that realization hurts your cheeks. Azul mirrors your sentiments silently, relieved that there were no comments on his appearance of how he's "changed so much". Dear, dear friend. He missed this. Missed you too.

"I'm well. Been working as a gardener here, I enjoy it. How have you been? I’m guessing busy, I heard you're a dorm leader from the twins."

"Ah, you've already met them I see. I just hope they haven’t said anything…unnecessary." His smile widens, you trace the movement of his mole which stretches against the curve of his lips. "I've been…alright. Land life has been a lot to adjust to, but I think I have the hang of it now."

"Haha. It was a lot for me when I first came on shore too. Pillows are so weird, aren't they?"

The dormhead chuckles as you approach him near the railing, situating yourself beside him to face the white roses dotting the garden. One meant mercy, purity, the breath of love; two‒ "I deserve you"; three‒ adoration; 99 white roses, and this would be an Eden of eternal love. But you're too enraptured by his laughter to count, caught in the waves of his lightness.

"They are. But I think it's nice now, might even be a hit at the reef if we sell them during spring break. You mentioned you're a gardener?"

"Yes. I just maintain the horticulture on campus, and I do bouquets from time to time like Trey's broomquet today." You write fast, wanting to answer Azul quickly, fill the time with as much of him as you could. He leans over, watching you as you scribble, relishing silently in the smell of fresh cut lilies and seaside rosemary tangled in a salty sweet ocean breeze.

"An impressive feat, considering the size of our campus. If you're willing‒ I may actually need your help with the twin's birthdays coming soon."

“I'd be happy to help! We would need to set an interview up like I do with most of my clients‒ just so I know their preferences more. But it'll be easier since I already know Jade and Floyd." Truthfully, you were already putting together the perfect bouquet for the twins, violet roses here, silver ragwort there, and a sprinkle of beauty berry should bring the composition together in a delicate balance. The meeting was just an excuse to assure another conversation with Azul again, a thought which churned a feeling of shame within you, rolling you smooth with its ragged tongue that sanded down the rough joy jutting out from you like an unfinished pearl. When Azul nods on confirmation, this sensation becomes slightly eased, but your muscles churn inside you like the dark, deep seas.

"I agree. Nonetheless, us four should meet at the mostero lounge soon to catch up. I could use a talent like yours to freshen up the look of the lounge a bit‒ perhaps we could work a contract of some sort out."

"I'm not that good, I'm not so sure I can hold up to your expectations, dormleader."

"Please‒ Jade's tastes aren't so bad but Floyd's sense of interior design is abysmal. His idea of interior design is a bunch of half finished snacks decorating the shelf beside his bed. Any help would be wonderful."

A silent laugh shakes your shoulders. "I'll think about it."

The patio door opens again‒ revealing Jack, who waves a hand towards you, and speaks with clumsy hands. "They're cutting the cake (Name)- Azul, you too‒ it's gonna be gone if you stay out here for too long."

"Be right there." You sign, lifting your body from the deck railing.

"Is that sign language? I've never seen it in person." Azul holds the door open for you, allowing you to scurry in with a bow of your head.

You nod. "Writing gets tiring at times. But I'm happy either way people speak to me." There’s a twitch in Azul’s eyes that you catch at your statement, regret tingling at your fingertips making your skin feel raw against your flesh. You squeeze the meat of your palm to ignore it.

"We saved you two some cake~" Floyd summons the two of you with a wave, gesturing to two neighboring seats across from them.

Jade smiles, scooping a part of his cake with a fork. "It's nice that we're back together like this. It seems forever ago that you left the reef (Name)."

"But eight years fly by, don't they? You're going to have to catch me up on all the embarrassing stories of each other."

"Only if you let us in on some blackmail about you (Name)." Floyd reveals his sharp teeth with a wide grin, licking the icing off his fork.

"I will." You write, hoping you can fill their heads enough with the happier moments at your aunt's flower shop and time so far as the NRC gardener, rather than deliberate the disease which flowered in your lungs, the sickness that came with it‒ the surgery, the scarring, the healing‒ your departure from your mother, from your home, from them. The ribbon feels tight on your throat, your smile grows tense on your lips. You try your best to quell the swelling waves of anxiety, eased a bit with the laughter of your friends that rang in your presence once more.

——————————————————

You meet them again at the VIP section of their lounge just a few days later, having planned a date to meet before you went home after the birthday celebration. Though conversation was a bit stiff at first, energy begins to swell in the room as you reminisce the events of your childhood, and the years of adolescence you missed in the 8 years of absence from your hometown. The conversation slowly progresses towards how the three would be able to see you more, shifting back to Azul's proposal to have you come to set up flower arrangements in the lounge.

"How about roses?" Floyd suggests. "Classic. Everyone likes them."

A shrug. "Hm. They're a nice touch‒ but a bit basic. I can add them in, but I wouldn't make them the focal point since there's just better flowers out there."

"What do you suggest?" Azul asks.

You think, flipping through the catalog of flowers in your mind. "Especially for the color scheme of your dorm, I think hydrangeas would be nice. Blue poppies, perhaps some rosemary in there as well. Maybe purple carnation‒” you scribble that last thought away as quickly and vigorously as it came, your throat tightening in remembrance at that thought.

“Those sound great‒ but I want something more elegant looking, the carnations you mentioned would be fitting‒ ah‒ remember those flowers from that story you always talked about? The one about the poetry being written on the petals?”

You were glad he moved from carnations. Besides, purple carnations signified grief and death in some cultures, far removed from the emblem of prayer they were in your culture. “Hyacinths?”

“Precisely. What do the white ones mean?” What about this one? What does this say? How about this, this, and this? You remember the way he pointed to each flower in your encyclopedia lent by your aunt, his small fingers fluttering across the page like a busy little cuttlefish at your riveting explanations. This is this, this and this. There was always a hurry to your words when you spoke to others‒ particularly your mother‒ rushing to seize the brief opportunity allowed for you to speak, but no matter how much you had stumbled over your words in clumsy delight, Azul listened with a smile on his face, making notes on paper for his experiments, words rushing to his hands like a school of fish.

“White ones mean a ‘quiet love’, or ‘love that is quelled’. If you want something with a happier meaning though, I would go with white wisteria, it means sweet nostalgic memories or drunken love; cornflowers‒ delicacy and elegance; or salvia‒ veneration and wisdom. Purple chrysanthemum would be splendid too‒ meaning your wish will come true."

You remember when your mother was kinder, tucking your small, innocent body into her soft arms‒ hushing your cries with a tender whisper. It was without that rattle in your throat she pointed towards you like a knife when you grew from that chaste form, sullied and filled with her disappointment. Your body was tall and flushed with it, but not quite tall enough, not quite curved and plump the way she liked‒ needed you to be to carve her desired image into you. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror‒ mother and child, mother and child. Her words lashing as the waves cracking against the jagged rocks, shaping you into a memorial of her pains, her aching hunger.

But you returned to that far-flung memory of her maternal care, remembering the legend she told you about purple chrysanthemums‒ placing one dearly to your hair, chirping her bright song with a story that was passed from the throat of her mother, to the her ears as a child, blood through blood. This was one of the only memories you remember of her singing not to an audience or a stage‒ but to you, flesh of her womb, skin and bones lovingly mirrored in babbling purity. You trace her unusually soft words with your hand, gliding across the page with the exact pitch of her voice swimming in your mind.

"There's a legend among our kind, of the purple chrysanthemum. We decorate our most treasured people with it, and wear it as a sign of someone watching over you to make a dream come true‒ whether it is a benevolent god, or another person." You pause your writing, the three looking over you to watch you write. "It symbolizes the victory of love‒ its power which pulls the best from you to achieve something as distant as a dream."

Your pen stills. "But‒ I should retract my suggestion. People of other cultures use it to commemorate death, I wouldn't want to offend someone."

Azul is brightened by the way you talk about flowers again, the fragrant morsels on his mind blooming, coloring him vividly in your dazzling artistry. This is this, this, and this. The way you forge lustrous, silent poetry with each careful placement of a blossom amazes him each time, finding your words lingering and echoing in the cove of his mind. "No." His mouth races somewhat brash, he tries again, clearing his throat. "No‒ I trust your initial judgment." He smiles. You trace that mole on his face. "I like it."

"Then it's decided."

Floyd yawns, draping his arms dramatically against the couch, and lulling his head upwards with a sigh. “Ugh. Enough with the flower talk‒ let’s talk about something more interesting.” He flashes a toothy smirk. “(Name), you wanna hear about the time Azul cried so hard he threw up?”

His twin clasps his hands with a similar expression. “Oh, that’s definitely a good one.”

Azul’s eyes blow wide open. “That is absolutely a violation of our contract‒”

“I don’t believe that includes (Name) actually.” Jade muses with a sly grin.

"Why was he crying so hard he threw up??"

The dormleader groans, dropping his hands into hands.

The twins exchange a look before Jade answers. "You, of course."

"Me?" You point to yourself in disbelief.

Floyd chuckles. "He sipped a little wine at the restaurant on accident. Then he starts blubbering about how 'oh I miss them', 'oh remember when they did this', and 'oh‒"

"I think they get the point, brother."

While Floyd ignores his twin in favor of continuing the story, Azul continues to hide his slowly darkening face behind his hands, while you sit, pen hovering over the paper.

“Why?”

The twins blink with a confused expression on their face, while Floyd speaks with a baffled tone. “Ha? Why? What do you mean why?” From the corner of your eye, you see Azul lift his head from his hands to look you, with what expression, you can’t tell‒ training your eyes on the paper with hardened brows, blood tinging on you tongue from the flesh drawn between your teeth.

The pen in your hand hovers above the paper with a soft tremble. Why? Why me? When you left that reef years ago, you left any notion that your presence would be something that would be worth lingering over‒ much more grieving about‒ a thought that was confirmed by the way your mother hurriedly dumped you at your aunt’s flower shop near the somber shores, her frosty gaze and distanced followed by years of inveterated silence as incurable and everlong as the one wrapped around your throat. Like the winter storms on the beach where your aunt's shop sat upon, that silence from your mother, and everyone else for that matter, was as thrashing and unforgiving to your empty ears and throat. There was nothing left for you down there, just memories that would make that scraped dryly against your throat and make you long for something your body was not mended properly for. So the proposition that Azul had felt something towards you‒ so much so that he had shed actual tears for you‒ threatened to bring the nausea deep in your darkened stomach frothing at the surface. You pushed through it, hand gliding clumsily across the paper.

“Never mind, sorry. I should get going soon‒ I’m behind on some duties in at the Botanical Gardens.”

Azul sighs in slight relief, and stands as you gather your things. "I'll see you off." You bid goodbye to the twins, who flash a pointed smile at you while Azul holds open the lounge doors to leave.

“Come back again so we can embarrass Azul more with our stories.” You smile at Jade's words.

Before you pass through the portal, Azul taps your shoulder. He lays his hand flat against his lips, sweeping it towards you. You're taken a bit by surprise, but soon your cheeks ache from the warmth squeezed into them by your curved lips, turning the nausea reaching from your stomach to your chest into something, you think, extraordinary.

You held that feeling in your chest as much as the rupturing threaded into yourself would‒ drinking in the ease of passing clouds and the clemency of rippling seawater tickling the bottom of you feet‒ much too quick, too light, too wonderful to be bound by the chthonic gods. Your heart races with the swiftness of sprightly, sun drunken waves. There was a rising ache‒ knowing your fractured body would splinter before you could swallow this feeling in its entirety, filling you body brilliantly like a blooming chrysanthemum‒ unfurling its divine petals towards all cardinal directions in a form which flared itself every which way. Victory of love. You knew it would not triumph against your fragmentation‒ but despite it all, you smiled stupidly, weaving your florid fingers against his to show him the correct placement of the word.

"Like this." You instruct‒ on his chin, near that dotted mark, then towards you in one motion. The word is practiced twice so you can linger your hands on his own. "Thank you, thank you." You mouth.

The heat of your fingers burns this motion into him, even as you let go. He practices it again, hoping to retrieve your sensation onto his skin with the repeated motion. “Thank you.”

You take your pointed and middle finger to your eye, then glide it towards the tip of your chin with a circle made with your pointer and thumb.

“See you soon.”

——————————————————

Carnations are always a favorite among your customers. The flower of love, of adoration‒ of the gods. They have been woven into hair to commemorate new beginnings, have been rumored to sprout from a devoted mother’s tears faced with her child’s death. Their name comes from carnis, or flesh, from the myth of innocent bloodshed, a shepherd who had his eyes gouged out from a goddess of the hunt, who was displeased by his flute playing which caused the animals of her hunting grounds to be spooked. From his empty flesh, carnations grew, white petals emerging, stained with blood. White carnations typically signify the mourning of lost lives, pure love, unrequited love, loyalty, faithfulness, a mother’s love.

But most of all, it whispers, my love for you is alive. It felt that way when they flourished in your lungs, choking the song in your throat in just a few months after they sowed into your meat. Alive and red and beating so vibrantly against your flesh‒ filthy with the darkened red of your aching insides. They came as impossible heaps from your mouth, emptying quietly as you could in the corner of your room so as not to bother your sleeping mother in the room over. You remember furling your body inward, praying it to become smaller, smaller, smaller‒ quieting your agony, erasing your swaying footsteps to the medicine cabinet, slicing your body up and down into manageable pieces. It was a dance in your eyes you carried everywhere with you that classified every variation of footsteps, the slightest inflection in tone, a twitch of the lungs before it even came‒ so you could shape yourself flat against the sharpened teeth of any who bothered to bite down on your brittle, bitter form, flaying and cleaving your meat carefully to its shape. Your eyes remembered these wounds, reopened and festering against your clumsy stitches to take into account next test‒ next time, next interaction, next opportunity to prove‒ I’ll be better, I’ll prove I am worthy enough to live.

‘You’re so sensitive‒ you would be good with flowers’, your aunt says. Thank you, you gulp in the ache of your disfigurement with pride‒ a medallion passed from your mother, passed from her mother, passed from her own‒ blood through blood it was gifted, and split from your strangled throat. It felt like your body rejected it, but oh, that was the best part of it all‒ more pain, more, more, more‒ something to wear on your skin as a testament to how you’ve been such a good child, to mutilate yourself against anyone’s maws. Something to show, mother, love me for all of these marks prove it, prove that I can cut open myself deep enough to mirror the perfected version of yourself.

Carnations are a symbol of that. People give them as a trophy of love that is agony, love that is alive, love which slaughters. It is a mother's love. They're popular in those early months during the spring, where the flowers devour the corpses mulled over by autumn and winter, chewing and spitting it out with a drunken splendor. As such you had many on hand during these colder months, surrounded by consecrations of this love, thrashing, bursting inside you like sea-brine churned into frothing bubbles, the waves breaking against it swelling them over the edge of the shore. You could feel the eyes of the flowers leering towards you, tightening the ribbon around your neck.

The hand in your pocket reaches towards the heads, your fingers brush against their cold petals. They are worn, withered from the days they have slept stagnant and untouched in their watery casket. You are quick to take them from their bucket, shoving in a bag to be thrown away in the compost, back into the earth to nourish the next generation.

“(Name)?”

Was it already that time already? You had promised him you would meet with him to plan the twins' broomquet after you closed, but the day had waded through you so quickly.

His name, as always, almost makes it out of your throat. But you held the silence in your mouth like your muffled heartbeat, quietly turning to him with weary eyes. He immediately drinks their lorn gaze, before he takes out a small leather bound pocketbook from his inner pocket, flipping through a few pages, returning it to his coat when he finishes reading the contents of the page. With clumsy hands, he signs. “Do you need help?”

You look him up and down, pausing your hands shoved deep inside the bag of wilted carnations. “You know sign language?”

“I learned.” He says sheepishly. “Apologies‒ clearly I haven't gotten too far with it. I don't know some words yet.”

Your eyes widen. “Why?”

He points to his head, then towards you. For. You. I learned for you.

A smile curves on his lips, but you avert your eyes from it. You’re afraid to measure that tinted color on his cheeks, the shape of his softened eyes, the length of his smile the wrong way‒ to take something without anything worthy from yourself to give in compensation, so you take his words instead, knowing you could at least repay them with something much more beautiful, whole. Flowers. You don't look at him. “I could use some help.”

He rolls his sleeves up, takes the carnations in his hands and brings them inside the bag. “What is the meaning of carnations?”

“Love, adoration, ‘my love for you is alive’.”

“Easy to capitalize on. I see why it is so popular.” He takes one between his fingers, twirls it with a sly smile. "I like it."

You return it best you could. “They’re a bit grotesque, don’t you think? The petals are quite unfinished, like they’ve been cut jagged.”

“You don’t like them?”

You remember the day after the surgery, your lungs emptied not only from the lack of carnations taking seed inside of it, but sapped from anything you had felt for your mother. You realized, that day, oh.

It was her all along.

You had searched far and wide for what the cause of your sickness was‒ you had given too much yourself to too many people to pinpoint who you had such feelings for. Your nerves felt exposed to all, to everything all the time, pricked and pinched at any abstruse movement, washing over you like a bloody crusade everytime.

There was nothing written about in the dozens of books, articles, and lyrics you dug up that had said anything about familial love specifically, so it never struck you that it was even a possibility‒ besides‒ your mother loved you, didn't she?

But of course, the carnations‒ of course. Your love for her may have been alive, but so were these flowers, once. Before they were picked from your tendons and emptied from you as rubbish.

The absence of your piteous devotion to her plummeted your heart deep into the ocean abyss, your flesh weighted as a museum of that dance, the butchering of your body, marked up and down with lines which traced the shapes of jaws with surgical precision. If you could not be loved by the flesh which founded your own, surely, it would be a ludicrous dream to wish for any other being to love you at all, to take the weeping, patchwork meat of your body and consume it.

You want to get rid of all these carnations, give them all away at once. Take them, take them all. Yes, your mother would love these‒ yes or course they're a sign of eternal love, pure love‒ anything and everything that is alive, they would be a wonderful gift. You offer them as extras to people, suggest them instead of those beautiful roses or lilacs or lilies. These gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Take them, take it all. Take everything from me.

You smile, squeeze your eyes to mimic candor.

"No, I hate them."

His expression is like sand, shifting in a thousand ways. You try to inspect each grain of lustrous sand to feel how they shape around your words, but always, the waves. Wait here, you tell him, to go toss the flowers back into the decomposing earth to become the blood and body their children will sprout from.

You set some lavender tea and dandelion honey cakes on the table‒ the bareness of the table is odious to you, sways you with abhorrence. Even with it filled, you sign. "I'm sorry, I wish I had more to offer you."

"This is plenty." He signs. You avert your eyes from that soft smile, but the warmth that bubbles in your chest knows the angle of its curve, the way his mole stretches across his chin, the world in his eyes.

"So, what exactly are you looking for in the twins’ bouquet?”

He thinks, you know he folds his arms to do this. “I trust your tastes. You were always better at reading people than I was.”

“I…” You pause. Yes, the dance‒ breathing in the world raw. But part of it is remaining silent to that ripening wound. “I guess.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I think blue star would be great. Perhaps some ragwort, and I believe I have some dried sea lavender left from my aunt’s shop. Salvia would be great too, and some Zion, beauty berry as well.”

“What do they all mean?”

“Blue star and salvia mean trust‒ something they are bound by. Zion flowers signify that someone is thinking of you, even if they are far. And sea lavender lets someone know they are thinking of you. Beautyberry means a deep understanding. I can of course fill up the space with roses, some chrysanthemums, of course.”

Azul writes in his small pocketbook, scribbling your words across a page, then another, then another. He was always like this when you talked‒ recording the medicinal properties of plants, committing your sensitives to flowers with a fervor. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d say he was excited by your words, but you didn’t.

“Is it alright if I came and watched?”

“Watched?”

“Yes, if I came and watched you work on the twins’ bouquet.”

“It’s boring work, you would fall‒“

You feel your hands in his, your words quickly swallowed by the warmth of his palms. He speaks with softness which reaches deep within your ears, tingles the back of your neck.

“I think it’s quite brilliant, the way you work.”

You want to clasp your ears shut, squeeze your eyes until you see stars‒ knees tucked into your body, forming an embryo to protect yourself from those words. Your tongue shakes in your mouth. You want to scream at him. However to realize this rejection through your trembling fingers would be to deny him something, even if it was the mangled scraps which make your bundle of flesh. You'd keep this revolution plunged deep inside the heart of your whirling sea, a war raging at your marrow to keep the shores lush with anything he'd wish to take. Take it, take it all.

You're still for a moment. "Have it your way, then."

He smiles, but this time, you can't look away.

——————————————————

When he comes a few days later, he brings tupperwares full of food.

"What's all this? A feast?" You see various dishes from the nights your mother brought you to perform at the Ashengrotto’s restaurant‒ fragrant steamed fish that falls off the bone, crunchy seaweed salad, steaming bowls of fish-broth soup, bursting with flavor.

“My mother’s recipes. Your favorite, at least from back then.” He remembers fondly of the times you would finish performing, joining him at the seat right beside him. You’d point to the aquatic plants, bring him to the magic and wonders of their chemistry, their mythos, your sensitivities to them, the world. He's shaped his shores against the curve of your gentle waves, your words always returning to his sandy beaches to leave a million gifts from the sea. This is this, this, and this. He'd hold each sparkling grain of sand, each seashell nymph like an exquisite pearl, cupping his ears to every single one to catch the whispers of eternity bundled in each of them. No matter how you would run yourself raw against jagged beaches and the maws of dark coves‒ he would remain a mirror to your sun faced sanctuaries, hoping that in this lifetime, you would realize that it was you‒ you all along‒ that he'd chased, parodying your brilliance to finally become himself.

His words almost bring you to tears. You gulp it down with the nausea that rises on your tongue, cindering the muscle with its heat.

"Why are you‒" your hands spit out these words in a fervor. "Why are you so fucking nice to me? What is all this?"

You hate the way his expression softens, the infinite arctic blue which melts against your image, the elation in your chest upon devouring such delectable things. It’s revolting.

"Because…" He begins out loud. There’s breath that swells his shoulders, before he gathers his fingers to a shaking fist, locking it under his chin.

Precious.

You swing your head left and right mutely, wrapping a hand around your neck as if to choke any sound that could be ripped from it. Still, it comes out like dried leaves, a strangled rasp, a whimper which rattles in your tightened throat. You hate how he pulls your trembling fingers from your skin, you hate it. But you let him.

His warmth comes as a cosmic storm stirring the oceans into inescapable waves. You were a fool to even try to shelter yourself from it‒ his tenderness beat against your form so loudly it hurt. You can’t pull away, your body does not let you.

Azul sees the fear that bruises your eyes, the way your chest lurches, in heaving, shuddering, controlled breaths to mathematically contain that terror inside of you. There’s a moment where he suspects himself to be the culprit, the distaste of his form, the vile nature of his weaknesses. But you had always consumed all of him, everything‒ his unsightly body, his awful shortcomings, all of the best and worst parts of himself with what surely was heavenly grace. Everything but his adoration for you, a mirror to your givings to the world, and most of all‒ him. This was something within.

He brings you to a seat, a cup of water to your hands. He lets you take time, sipping the moment in small gulps like the drink he sets in your hands. Silence, even with the lack of words exchanged between you two, was never something which was present when you were beside him. His mind always rushed with thoughts about you‒ all the more louder in the eight years you had been absent from his side. Even then, your likeness was always carved in the back of his mind, coming and going like a haunting oceanfront.

“Do you remember the first day we met?”

You remember. “Tell me.” You sign.

“You saved me from those awful kids, remember? I still got so scared of them I got ink everywhere. You were in such wonderful garments I didn’t want you to get dirty, so I told you to back off.”

His smile makes your own. He continues. “I was such a brat back then‒ even after you fended those kids off I told you to get away from me‒ ‘don’t come crying if I spoil your garments!’” A stiff chuckle escapes your nose as you remember the expression on his face. It was much like your own‒ frightened. “But you told me‒“

“Stain them, I don’t care.” Of course you remember. The surprise on his face, the stutter of his hands as you held them.

“Yes. We spent the whole day together. You took me to the shores for the first time, facing the field of‒ what was it?”

“Memorial roses.”

“Memorial roses. You told me they meant love for the honest form." He drags his gaze from his hands, and into your eyes. "I didn't even see the sun set when you talked about flowers the way you do. All my current knowledge of horticulture comes from you, you know.”

"Surely not all of it."

He shakes his head. "No, all of it. I've inscribed every word you've said to me in my mind and I've carried you with me all those years I spent toiling away in my octopot." The hand he rests on your own warms your fingers. "I have you written all over me."

You grip the heat of your throat, hands heavy as you raise them to retaliate, again. "No. Why would you want‒ ."

"I'm not. Why do you think so?" That softness, again, his eyes. Revolting.

You threw the words from your hands in frustration. Didn't he understand? "Why would you want someone like me to‒ to poison you?"

"I could say the same for myself. Why did you defend me that day?"

You remember the look in his eyes, the way he crouched low to the ocean floor in shame. "I saw myself in you. I couldn't‒"

"You couldn't bare it." He finishes.

"Yes, but you're different. With me, I'm not‒ I wasn't‒ "

"But you aren't different." There's a growing lump in his throat, frustration, heat‒ it rises with the volume of his voice, erupting raw at the back of his tongue. "Why won't you let me show you that you're worthy of the same treatment you give to the world?"

“How could I let you?" Your legs ascend from beneath you, your hands feel hot in the air as you flare them out from yourself, hurling them for Azul to see. "Look."

"Look at me." He would see, finally.

The nail of your thumb digs on your chin as your splayed hand sharply juts from your skin. It says, "My own mother".

You slip the ribbon from your throat, unraveling yourself in front of him. Azul sucks a tense breath in‒ you revel in it, your venerable mirror‒ it breaks against your old stitches, bringing you an ineffable bloom inside your chest. You don’t know if it's pleasure or pain which tightens it, but you feel as living, as chemical, as whole as a flourishing chrysanthemum‒ blazing your florid petals every which way, splitting the bud in a thousand directions. Here is proof. You lay yourself out, to him, flay your fragmentation against his eyes. The wounds burn fresh the air. This was your wish, wasn’t it? Still, the seafoam bursting against your skin, the ache, in waves. You hold the emptiness in your hand triumphantly, or, you try to.

He looks when you tell him to, of course, but the softness in his eyes tightens your chest. He's silent for a moment, thinking. "Aright." Finally, he speaks.

"Will you make a contract with me?"

"...what?"

"A contract. Will you make one with me?"

Your knees fall from you when you lean towards the table in support, seating you in the chair across from him. You open your arms, facing your palms towards him, empty, silent.

"I don't have anything I could trade you."

He reaches towards your emptiness, filling it with his warmth. "Then give me this. If you have nothing, grant me you."

You bring his heat near your face, hoping to harbor‒ at least‒ next to it. You won't take it, you couldn't. The fear laps upon you like stormy waves, it's force tearing your fingers from his. "I don't have enough of myself to give you."

"This." He replenishes the absence in your hands again. "This is more than enough‒ it will always be enough." It's a firm grip, it quells the tremble in your body slightly.

"So, will you make a contract with me?"

Hesitantly, you nod.

He guides you towards the shop window where the flowers swill in the moonlight, violet chrysanthemums shining pearly, plump with their honeyed sap. He slips one between his fingers, holds it between the two of you. "I lied when I said I only liked these. When you tell me of promises of success, of love‒ I feel like I can crack open this world with my bare hands. I don’t just like it‒ everything that comes from from you soars my soul."

He continues, bashfully. You feel filled with his words. "You're my ocean, the waters that shape my shores. You've always been where I belong, and what comes back to me to mold me to what I am even after your physical absence." The heat of his hands feel like fire on your skin as he pulls it towards his own. "This is a contract, a promise. Will you let love victor over you?"

You trace that spot on his face as he smiles, you find the small way that it curves mirrored on your own lips. You drink in his smile, returning it with your own; you breathe his scent in, exhale with the breath in your lungs that stirs his and yours‒ you mold yourself against him like you've done so many times against gnashing teeth and jagged seaside cliffs, but this time, your rolling waves kiss warmly against his sun faced sanctuaries, melding together to refract the light in your joint tenderness. The feeling begins as a seed he implants in your chest, pressed firmly against your heart, and you feel it slowly burst open when it is showered in his gaze, his touch, all of him against all that you can muster‒ an ineffable thing, a bloom which you could never put into words, even with the language of whispering flowers and the spectacular earth. It comes in heaping waves like the tears that draw flushed lines on your face. He takes all which falls from you in his hands, staining his hands with the salty fragrance.

"Stop that. I'll get your hands all dirty."

"Stain them, I don't care."

You sob, you smile harder. The tears make it impossible to neurotically measure the twinge of his muscles, the shape of his expression. But you don't think of this, filled with the knowledge of his tenderness, the precise shape of his smile, the softness of his seaborne eyes that fossilize deep within you. "You know I'll be difficult. I always am."

"And you know this about me to, don't you? But this feeling for you comes as easy as water to me."

It's true what he says, you feel like you're floating‒ weightless in the mild seas, drinking in the sunlight which trickles from the skies. Waves upon waves of this brilliance that tilts the light a thousand ways for you to admire. The chrysanthamum petals seem to widen with his warmth, the same unraveling comes bursting, flowering forward in your chest. Victory of love. It comes not as a whisper this time, but loudly as the beat of your blood. You feel it within you, that victory. At last you hold it in your hands, and it shines and lusters like a brilliant peal seeped into each of its petals, blooming forward with all of its love. You allow yourself place the flower in his hair, decorating his face with your love, your victory.

——————————————————

Notes:

All sign language is based off of American Sign Language

Part of the reason why I wanted to use hanakotoba (Japanese flower language) rather than western meanings for flowers was not only because I was more familiar with it, but because the twins I believe are Asian coded. The Octavinelle dorm is seen as the "yakuza" one (Japanese controlled crime syndicate), since they demand those Azul signs contracts with to pay the price, whether through general intimidation, or just straight up physical violence. Tweels also unfortunately sort of fit into the 'Asian twins' stereotype seen in Disney media (Siamese cats in Artisocats), but their overall design (ie eye shape and bristle-y, straight hair) fit into a pseudo Asian look. You know, as much as the fictional land of twisted wonderland will allow. But either way, I think it would be cool to see different species of seafolk have different cultures, and I think sirens in particular would have their own beliefs, systems, and traditions connected to verbal storytelling.

Not entirely sure if this is the case in the western world, but the east is very sensitive about numerology‒ so “bad” numbers are usually avoided when picking out the number of flowers to give to someone.

Chthonic gods are gods connected to the underworld

Carnations were used in coronation garlands for the Romans

Christians believed that it was the flower that sprouted from Mary's tears after the crucifixion of Jesus

Also associated with Artemis, who gouged a shepherd's eyes out because she blamed his flute playing for the lack of game that day. Therefore, they are a symbol of innocent bloodshed

Carnis, the word which is speculated the word carnation comes from, also means flesh. The genus name Dianthus comes from Zeus, connecting it to his daughter Artemis' story

Memorial Rose (ノイバラ) : In the western world, it is often a symbol of wisdom or talent, used often on literary and musical symbolism by writers such as Goethe. But in Japan, it symbolizes "love for the raw/honest form", as it is usually a wild flower that grows in the plains. Modest, but lovely. In Japan it is also called the ノイバラ or "thorn of the plains", so this modest but definitely still packs a punch. Just like Azul lol

Also often grows in the coasts

Omg I just noticed all of the fics I have written has had a toxic maternal parental figure don’t worry I’ll even it out soon lol

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