Chapter 11: A Bouquet of Intentions
The cobblestones were slick with a predawn chill, the last of the night’s mist clinging to the valley as Yamato made his way down the winding path to The Ember & Stein.His breath fogged in the air. In his hands, the bouquet felt absurdly fragile.Hawthorn stems, tough and thorny. Silver-green sage leaves, soft as a whisper.A single, straight sprig of rosemary, its scent like crushed pepper and pine. Tied with a plain strip of leather, not silk.
Koushiro’s tutorial had been exhaustive.Hawthorn for resilience.Sage for clarity.Rosemary for remembrance. Not a promise, not a claim.An observation.The tavern was a dark silhouette against the lightening grey sky. No lamplight yet glowed in the windows. Yamato settled against the rough-hewn stone wall beside the door, out of the way. He could hear the faintest sounds from within—the scrape of a heavy barrel, the clank of a fire iron, a muttered curse. Taichi was already at work.Yamato waited.The cold seeped through his cloak. He didn’t shift, didn’t try to peer inside. He just held the bouquet, the tips of his fingers going numb, and watched the sky bleed from grey to a pale, watery blue.
Finally, with a sound like a sigh, the heavy wooden door swung inward. Taichi stood there, backlit by the low fire he’d stoked in the hearth. He was dressed in simple, worn trousers and a loose linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was even messier than usual, as if he’d run his hands through it a dozen times already. He held a bucket of ash in one hand.He froze when he saw Yamato. His body went taut, his knuckles white around the bucket handle. The familiar defensive sharpness flashed in his warm brown eyes, and his lips parted, ready to fire.Yamato moved slowly. He pushed himself off the wall, keeping his shoulders rounded, his head slightly bowed.He didn’t speak. He simply extended the bouquet toward Taichi, an offering held between them in the cool, quiet air.
Taichi’s eyes dropped from Yamato’s face to the flowers. The angry retort died, unsaid. His gaze tracked over the hawthorn’s fierce blossoms, the dusty sage, the needle-like rosemary.A slow, complicated understanding washed over his features, smoothing the lines of irritation.He knew. Of course he knew. An omega who worked with herbs and grains for his craft would know the language of plants.The silence stretched, filled only by the distant call of a waking crow.
“You’re an idiot,” Taichi muttered finally, but the venom was gone.It sounded tired. Almost fond.He set the bucket of ash down with a soft thud. He wiped his hands on his trousers, a quick, nervous gesture, then reached out. His fingers, calloused and strong, closed around the stems, just below where Yamato held them. For a second, their skin brushed.A static shock, warm against the morning chill.Taichi took the bouquet. He brought it to his face, not quite sniffing it, just letting the clean, sharp, green scent surround him.His eyes closed for a heartbeat too long.
“This doesn’t mean I’m letting you in,” he said, his voice low.He didn’t look at Yamato.
“I didn’t ask to come in,” Yamato replied, his own voice rough from the cold and the tension.A faint, incredulous snort escaped Taichi. He turned, stepping back into the shadowy warmth of the tavern.He didn’t slam the door. He left it open an inch, a sliver of firelight and heat spilling onto the damp stone step.
Through that gap, Yamato saw him walk to the polished bar. Taichi found a simple clay jug, filled it with water from a pitcher, and placed the bouquet inside. He set it at the end of the bar, where the light from the hearth would catch it. He stood there for a moment, head tilted, looking at the arrangement of thorn and leaf.
Then he ran a hand through his hair again, shook his head, and got back to work, his movements slightly less hurried, slightly less angry.
Yamato remained on the step for another minute, watching the light play over the hawthorn blossoms through the cracked door. Then he turned and walked back up the path, the ghost of Taichi’s touch on his fingers, and the first true ray of sun broke over the ridge, gilding the mist golden.