happiness is a butterfly — buck & rimi / before

Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jan 14, 2024 18:53:52 GMT -5

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One year after Vern's death, Buck still brings flowers to him on the first Sunday of the month.

In January, the dregs of snowfall cling to the roads, half-thawed and muddy. Winter feels like the sting of gravel in Nine, a kind of bloodiness in the mouth from the cold that doesn’t leave. The garden's still frozen, and the bare branches twist in a strange mirroring of skeletons from his window.

He goes to pick up a bouquet in the frigid breath of morning, same route as always, walking by the abandoned houses of the east side.

The only warmth comes from the exhaust vents of buildings. The cough of smoke out of the factories curls gray into the blue-tinted clouds, and he watches his breath turn to vapour the same way, dark in the lungs.

One year, and time settles dust into the holes of his life. Mourn feels farther away these days. There's a separation, he supposes, when your brother can no longer care for you like a brother. Heir now, and everything Mourn must do is for the family, for the name Adroxis, something a little bigger than him. It's alright. He doesn't blame him. It just is what it is. Never that close to Vern for the same reason.

But the flowers rest on his grave anyway.

Sometimes it feels less out of sentiment than routine. A person can get used to anything if it happens gradually enough. The winter numbs, slows time down.

He'll get white lilies. He doesn't know much about flowers, just that they were the first ones he ever got. After, he'll stand at the grave for a little, change out the wilted ones, brush the snow and leaves off the headstone, touch his name, and go.

Then, Buck will walk down to the warehouse, pick up the books for the week, spend the afternoon reading the production records, the expenses, and the profits. He'll stay awake at night, engraving an old revolver, just something to do that isn't sleep. Reams of paper from practice, stacked in the corner of the room, hundreds of little drawings. New habit. Another routine.

Life goes on steadily. He walks through it.

The door chimes as he steps in, small store, barely enough standing room with all the plants on the floor. It's more humid in here, light condensation on the windows, blurring the light. In Nine, there aren't so many flower shops in the city. Maybe it's frivolous for most to buy something that only dies, maybe he thinks so too but does it anyway. He comes in the cold seasons, when there's nothing left in the garden.

No one at the counter. A sign says to ring the little bell, but Buck doesn't mind waiting. There's enough time.