roses without thorns [Eon/Quinn]

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

There's something wretched about this
Something so precious about this

Winter settles into spring with an air of hope, and things feel more normal. Mom and Dad have gotten better about calling me “Eon,” a name I’ve chosen for myself because I like the sound of it. Eons and Eons and Eons, generations and lives and worlds wrapped into a single person. At least, that’s how it feels sometimes.

My parents gave me shit for the name, sure, because it doesn’t follow in the family pattern of palindromes. I think they’re mostly joking. I try not to think that I don’t fit in with them like I used to, but it’s hard. They’re still learning how to treat me like a boy, and I’m still learning how to be one.

Or… to pretend like I know how to do this correctly.

Like, what if I’m not doing this whole “boy” thing right?

(Do I just worry too much?)

Still, with the blooming of spring through the frost, I don’t dare take time to pick the flowers by my path to school. Boys don’t like flowers. Or maybe they do, because I’m a boy, and the dandelions growing through the fields make my heart soar like my Word.

Boys don’t make wishes on dandelion seeds.

Or so I thought.

I passed by a flower shop one day, and I’ve been passing by just about every day since. At first, I was fascinated by the bouquets of all sorts. Hopeful sunflowers turned toward the sky, vibrant roses, perfect tulips, sweet-smelling lavender…

It seemed like the kind of place that shouldn’t exist. Not in District Two. I’d wandered by this shop a few times in the past, but I guess it didn’t occur to me to stop in. Maybe if I asked my brother Raxar for some money, I could buy Mom one of the bouquets. For some reason, I didn’t dare enter. Maybe I figured the florist might shoo me away if they saw me.

I don’t know why I thought that.

.I can’t control what I think, and that’s probably going to be the death of me someday.

Like this:

I was wrong about the florist. I guess I expected someone older, someone with years and years of life stacked up in piles. The neatly-trimmed stems and intricate bouquets suggest that whoever owns the place has been doing this for a long, long time. But no -- the florist is a boy about my age, maybe a year or two older. I was so taken aback by the thought of a young florist who was a boy, a boy who liked flowers, that I literally stopped in my tracks and stared through the window, probably looking very bizarre.

I’ve made a point to walk by the shop every day after school since then.

I mean, it’s already on my way home. All I have to do is walk on the other side of the street, and there I am, strolling casually down the road, gazing into the flower shop with the same hope of a blooming spring tulip.

As you do.

I can’t control what I assume, and I can’t stop myself from thinking and doing things I shouldn’t. Today, I walk closer to the shop with an anxiety that won’t ebb, but my feet keep carrying me forward. I keep walking and keep walking and keep walking and now I’m at the door--

I’m at the door.

I could turn around any second now.

Why am I even here, anyway?

I lie to myself and say that I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here.

Ha.

I’m dumb. I really am. I’m standing at the door and I’m an idiot who’s perfectly capable of lying to himself. I don’t know why I’m here! I don’t know anything! Sure!

And I’m at the door, and --

I’m at the door.

Ripred, boy, MOVE.

I grasp the handle with sweaty palms and push, but the door doesn’t budge. Ah. Maybe it's closed? But the lights are on--

Someone exits the shop, startling me backwards.

I’m so stupid. It’s a pull door.

Mildly hoping that nobody noticed my confusion, I pull the door open and step inside. The room smells like freshly turned earth on a warm day, and I lean in to smell a bouquet. I wish I could hide myself among the petals. Or better yet, I could become a bee and buzz through the pollen and hide in the eaves, observant but never troublesome, present but rarely perceived.

I think life would be a lot easier if I could hide from it, one way or another.

Seeing as I’m not about to become a bee anytime soon, my eyes circle the shop for the reason I’m here in the first place.

My heart thumps with anxiety, and I wish it would calm down. This is nonsense.

I find him, eventually, in the corner of the room, arranging a bouquet. I think perhaps he didn’t hear me walk in. That’s comforting. I turn my head toward the nearest arrangement -- some kind of red and pinkish bouquet -- and try to hide behind it. Maybe he won’t look over he--

Ah. I think he saw me.

I give up on hiding and nervously step closer.

”Uh, hi…” is all I know to say.

Maybe turning into a bee wouldn’t be so bad after all.

lyrics: From Eden by Hozier