Nostalgic

third in the Found Series
scribblemoose

Aya stopped for a moment, and took a deep breath.

His nose filled with the scent of roses and lilac, heady, rich essence of petal and leaf and rich earth. Bustle and chatter and shouting, familiar even in this foreign place. He found himself drawn to old friends: succulents, roses, and he ended up, as usual, by the orchids.

"Mornin', Aya. I was hoping you'd stop by, mate. Hang on a minute, I've got something for ya." The stallholder rummaged around in the boxes in his van, pulled out a little plant in a blue pot.

"Tea rose," said Aya, with a little smile.

"Just my way of saying thank you."

"What for?" Aya accepted the pot, gently stroked the little leaves.

"You were right about the pigmy orchids. Punters can't get enough of 'em. My customers think I'm the best since sliced bread."

"They're very versatile," said Aya.

"That's what they say. Table arrangements, big displays, gifts, the lot. Bloody marvellous." He nodded at the plant in Aya's hands. "That's a new indoor variety. I remembered you don't have a garden. It'll be fine indoors."

"Remembrance," Aya murmured.

"Sorry, mate?"

"That's what it means, the tea rose."

"Is that right? Well I never. Quite right then, you being in the trade and all."

"Thank you," said Aya. "It's beautiful."

"Anything else I can do for you? Got some lovely stock this morning. Always good on a Tuesday."

"Well yes," said Aya. "There is something."

* * * * * * *
The pinkish grey of first light was in the sky by the time Aya got back to the hotel. A change to his routine; usually he went from the market to the coffee house for breakfast and the newspapers. But not today. He didn't have to read the newspapers any more. He had his answer.

His answer was still asleep, swathed in crisp white sheets, duvet kicked to the bottom of the bed. Blond hair tousled, one hand curled under his beautiful face, the other resting on his too-thin ribs. He stirred when Aya sat on the bed, rolling a little into the dip. Curled his body around Aya, rested his head in Aya's lap, without opening his eyes. Aya swallowed the lump in his throat, and started gently to stroke Yohji's hair. Just long enough to tuck behind his ears. Thick and wavy as ever.

"Flowers," Yohji murmured softly. "You smell of flowers."

"I've been to the market," said Aya, softly. "I brought something back for you. And bagels."

Yohji opened one eye. "Any cigarettes?"

"Of course not," said Aya, smiling.

"Hn. Well. You'll have to give me something else to distract me after breakfast, then."

They never got as far as breakfast, as it happened. Yohji opened his other eye, and tugged Aya down, and kissed him. Kissed him again. Kept kissing him for several minutes, during which Aya somehow lost his clothes. Kissed him some more, rolling him over onto his back. There was wet and warm and fullness and fucking, and arching, and coming in a flood over Yohji's hand while Yohji pulsed life into him. There was more kissing, and holding, and Aya wanted to cry, it was so good.

Then there was breakfast.

"It's beautiful," whispered Yohji, laying the cattelya on Aya's chest. Stroking him with its soft petals. "You know, when I woke up, and I smelt flowers, and you, I thought for a moment we were back there. Then."

"The Koneko?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to be?"

"No." Yohji paused for another kiss, his lips soft and languid, mouth warm and wet. "At least, not like we were. But there are times, when... when I was... lately... I remembered those times, the four of us, you and I and ... it helped."

That was the most Yohji had said about what had happened to him since Aya left him injured and bleeding in that building. Part of him wanted to press him to find out more, but he couldn't, somehow. It had to come from Yohji, when he was ready.

"I know someone who's selling a flower shop," Aya said, quitely.

Yohji's eyes lit up, and he smiled. "Good," he said.

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