Guns & Roses (Larry Stylinson)

Flowers & Fervor

Chapter 15:

Harry and I were sitting on my sofa, eating some soup that he decided to make. My hands still felt a bit of a sting from how hard his punches were, but it was a good sign. It meant that he had the ability to defend himself and the capacity to get rough when he needed to.

"I shouldn't have punched your hand so hard," Harry suddenly voiced over the tv show we were watching about people flipping houses. It wasn't all that interesting, but it was something to fill the silence that grew between us.

"I'm fine," I said, squeezing my hand into a fist to assure him that he didn't break anything.

"Your stitches are still healing," He pointed out, pointing at the handy stitch job to my knuckles. "If you want, I can apply some ointment on them to help with the healing process. There should be some in the first-aid kit I gave you."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'll do it myself later."

Harry nodded before focusing all of his attention on the soup in his bowl. So far, I noticed, he'd only eaten a spoonful. He had to have been hungry after exerting so much energy.

His head was hanging low, and something about him seemed off. His mind was wandering elsewhere, and it didn't particularly seem to be a pleasant place for him to be. If anything, it seemed like a torturous place based on the way he was gripping his spoon until his knuckles turned white.

"Maybe you could check them," I said, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked back over to me, and I held my hand up. "Someone who actually knows what they're doing should make sure they're healing fine."

He smiled, an almost thankful smile, before he was standing up and walked over to me. He sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand in his, observing my stitched knuckles. As soon as he was looking at his work, his whole demeanor seemed to change. It was confident and professional. He only ever looked that way when he was working on a floral arrangement.

He seemed to really know his stuff when it came to medical care, and he took it deathly serious. If he had a tougher exterior and a drive for adrenaline and risk, he'd be a perfect addition to the gang. We could always use new meds. There were far too many jobs that ended with a few cuts and scraps here and there, and doctor's offices weren't really a viable option if we wanted to remain hidden while out on jobs. We could always use fresh blood.

"Why flowers?" I found myself wondering, thinking about the useless career path he chose. Most arrangement he made would likely die within a week or so. He was spending time on something that served no real purpose. It didn't have a function, and it wasn't exactly a masterpiece that could be in a museum. They sat on somebody's end table or dining table, and they would slowly wilt and die. They were bought only because they looked appealing to the eyes, not because people actually needed them.

Medics-- people needed those.

"What do you mean?" He asked, his eyes shifting from my stitched knuckles to look into my own.

I found myself fascinated by the bright green of his eyes. They seemed to hold so many conflicting emotions like a whirlwind of uncertainty and fear. Still, there was also hidden gems of assurance and comfort there as well. For a person so fragile, who wore his heart on his sleeve, he was a walking anomaly.

"Why would you choose to work with flowers, to be surrounded by them literally all of the time, when you could have worked in a hospital?"

A playful glint appeared in his eyes, and he smiled slightly. "My stitching isn't that good," He joked.

"Bullshit," I snarked out in a serious tone, and I saw Harry's eyes widen a bit in surprise, light pink lips falling open ever so slightly. "I've had stitches before, and this," I said, holding up my hand for emphasis, "is probably better than the professional that gave me mine."