roses without thorns [Eon/Quinn]

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.