bitters & begonias -- semper [lyonel+lou]

Black lines curve beneath the white of his fingernails - a combination of grave dirt and potting soil. One long night of scavenging the latest grave while the earth was still loose turned up with a few rings that might fetch some spare money. They were all bagged up with the severed fingers still and waited a good cleaning. And the potting soil, well, he’d finally gotten around to transplanting the schlumbergera - or Christmas cactus, as his grandmother informed him - to another pot to allow it more space.

There was no time to attend a party between the nightly antics, the secret florist projects, and working at the taxidermy shop to progress the mounts. Deadlines had to be met and graves had to be robbed.

His grandmother said otherwise when she’d caught wind of the social gathering for youngsters.

Clearly shoved far out of his comfort zone, Lou persisted a habit of biting his lip and sticking close to the wall of this stranger’s house. He hadn’t dressed nearly as well as everyone else: a white shirt beneath plaid, sleeves rolled up just below his elbows, pants that did not show evidence of the day’s and previous night’s activities, and the one pair of shoes that didn’t have holes. Compared to the rest, he wasn’t exactly fashionable, but wasn’t too poorly put together. Didn’t do anything to dilute his anxiety any, however: still biting his lip, fingers curling against clammy palms, and his desire to leave becoming more and more dominant the longer he remained hunkered by the wall, watching people he didn’t know sway to and fro to the music he didn’t care for. Going home to sleep sounded like a fantastic alternative.

His mind had been made up to leave just a moment before a rather frightening individual approached with a smirk and a drink offering. The blond froze on the spot, paralyzed by social anxiety and hyperawareness of the wall behind him. Wide hazel eyes looked at the other male as prey sees a predator, and as much as he wanted to flee, he couldn’t. All he could manage was to slowly accept the drink with a trembling hand.

”T-thanks.” He didn’t sip it, no, but he finally found the ability to lower his gaze, and his attention was caught on the jacket’s patches. ”Rosa - there’s about nine families of rosales and two hundred and sixty-one genera and over seven thousand species--” all it took was a small glance up at the stranger’s face to effectively stop the info dump. Lou’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, looking away once more. ”I, uh… sorry. I just… know… a lot… about plants…”