Flowers were culturally significant to the Air Ashari. From buds that grew where the ravens nested on the Raven Tree, to the cherry blossom petals that danced in the ever present breeze, their meanings were learnt from the very source themselves, druidic magic allowing the conversing of humanoid and plant.
Orym had never been one for this sort of thing. Magic was well beyond his knowledge, parsing the moods of plants and the feelings of flowers left up to others more capable. His stem was his sword and his leaves were his shield. When he practiced his forms, air glancing of the edge of the blade, he could almost imagine himself drifting through the currents like those petals, the closest to ever understanding the all encompassing thrum of the wild in many of the Ashari’s veins.
He still had a favourite flower though. A favourite meaning, one tucked away in the roots of his chest, where he kept all the seeds of grief and loss, the things that reminded him of....him.
It almost hurt when upon first meeting Dorian Storm, he was just as blue as those flowers were.
Orym glances up at his friend, seeing him chew nervously on his bottom lip. Being put on the spot to play, to prove something seemed to strike a quiet nerve in Dorian. A discordant harmony plucked, one not yet resolved.
Their newfound, rag tag group were not to be thrown off key however, lending their support and giving him confidence, perhaps literally in Letters’ case, if the subtle flash of their aqua eyes meant anything.
This moment seemed to flit within time to Orym, a sense of déjà vu overtaking him. If he let his mind wander, let everything else slip away, he’d feel the sensation of fingers ghosting over his cheek and the telltale warmth of magic tingling above his ear. A voice, whisper quiet, tinkling like bells. “There. For luck, my love.” The heady scent of new growth, a kiss of sun on his forehead. It was too much. His chest ached with it all, branches shaking in the wind that pelted them. It was blue. It was all blue, just blue and more blue until it created nothing but a sea of blue that meant and didn’t mean what it should.
“Orym?”
The blue scatters, leaving him with yet more blue. The colour that adorns his friend’s clothes, his skin, his hair. That very friend looking down at him with those piercing blue eyes. He breathes in deeply, letting the air flow out like the constant breeze around Dorian. Around his home.
“There’s something in your hair.”
Dorian leans down, and saplings begin to push through the surface of his heart, reaching for the light of the sun. The scent of ozone fills his lungs, and it’s so familiar yet different. New growth cannot start without rain. Without a storm.
He reaches out, letting his fingers dance over Dorian’s cheek, pushing that wind-swept hair back to reveal his ear. With a couple of murmured words, the trickle of magic he possesses opens its petals. A small, blue, forget-me-not grows where he directs his fingers, unfurling like something Orym doesn’t yet want to name in his chest.
“For luck.”
The blue of Dorian’s cheeks colour purple, a hand delicately running over the fresh flower. His face is open, eyes wide. There’s no hiding here, no ability to hide when those same eyes crinkle softly from a fond smile. Orym realises he forgot about the others standing there, watching a moment that felt too tender to be seen. Time distorts, lengthening out, drawing every quiet breeze to a stop, hanging in anticipation for where the loose leaves will be scattered next.
Then it’s gone. Dorian snaps back into action, the performer’s mask fitting without a crack. He winks (and god he will either be unpacking or suppressing that later), before launching into his instrumental battle with gusto. That once dissonant harmony resolves itself into a clean major chord.
Orym watches as Dorian plays. He’s as wild as the bluster in a storm and gentle as a slight caress of air.
....He knows why he chooses to not name that feeling in his chest, for naming it will let the wind rush in and scatter those seeds he has been holding on to for so long. And he’s..afraid. Afraid that by allowing himself this, this small, blue, forget-me-not, it will tarnish the memory he has of him. Like he doesn’t love him anymore.
The flash of Dorian’s cape catches his attention, and he lets his gaze slide over the now bashful man, settling on the flower still tucked behind his ear. It sits there proudly and the residual guilt lessens, unwinding like a tightly packed spool of vines.
Maybe...he will be okay. Not now, not yet, but eventually. Maybe his favourite flower with his favourite meaning will begin to embody it again, and not just a fleeting smatter of half withering petals.
Maybe he’ll be comfortable having desired his late husband, treasuring their time together, and now....well, wanting something with Dorian, their futures with one another expanding endlessly. (Even though he’s thinking over this, he still won’t name the feeling. He’s not ready to give blue it’s proper meaning).
But for now, he reasons as Dorian continues to accept praise, it can simply mean luck. The true meaning will stay buried under the soil, ever inching closer to the surface.
All that’s left to do is hope that Dorian doesn’t know what it means.