Work Text:
There's a woman in Revachol most drinkers are familiar with, an older lady who pushes a think metal cart at night, wheels rattling against the cobblestones. She has a silk scarf wrapped around her hair and tied under her chin, a rich green and yellow pattern. The folds and wrinkles of her face give her a permanent warmth, a smile she can never—and would never—shake from her expression.
Her cart is filled with cut flowers, stems resting in a bucket of water that sloshes and drips as she pulls the cart along Boogie Street, passing out flowers to passersby in the night. She comes by on Saturdays as the bars shutter up for the night, always punctual, always present. She doesn't say anything, just smiles as she hands out the roses or carnations or daisies. One night, she had a cart full of peonies, Harry's favorite, and when she saw how longingly he looked, she gave him three.
He had tried to pass her a few reál, but she shook her head, pushing his hand away firmly. He wasn't the exception, there was no one in the city she would accept money from in exchange. This was her way of taking care of her city and her people, she feels no need for compensation. She trundles along as people spill out of bars, passing from the bucket until it empties, then disappears into the night.
She is not on Boogie Street yet tonight, she is making her way there, passing underneath Kim's apartment window as she goes, and he stands in his kitchen, watching. He is waiting for Harry, tea kettle whistling in the background, but unimportant in the moment. He sees Harry come down the road, a shuffling, unsteady jog. Gottleib has told him to walk with a cane more than once, but Harry has never been good at listening to the lazareth. Kim watches as Harry sees the flower woman, his face lighting up in the orange glow of the sodium street lamps.
It doesn't entirely surprise Kim that Harry is familiar with her. His drinking has lessened but never stopped entirely, and they both know it never truly will. What does surprise Kim is the jogging—Harry had called drunk, or at least a few in, but there he was, bright red sneakers pounding against the street. He stops in front of the woman, hands resting on his knees for just a moment, before popping back upright. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and she swats his arm, a playful gesture. She's familiar with his antics, and Kim can almost see the cheerfulness rolling off Harry in waves—it's hard to miss.
She hands him a carnation, a long stem dripping slightly, and he takes it. Harry starts to turn towards the apartment, then pauses. He turns back to the woman instead, and says something more, gesturing up to the window where Kim is silhouetted in the night, just hidden in the shadows where Harry can't see him. He pulls the shrieking kettle from the stove, finally, as a downstairs neighbor thumps a broom handle against the floor between them, breath held as he continues to look out the window. The woman follows Harry's pointed finger, looking up at the apartment building, before reaching down, and handing him a second flower.
Kim's heart squeezes slightly, something tugging at his lungs as Harry beams down at the two flowers in his hand, and gives the woman another kiss on the cheek. Kim can almost hear it, a silly, over-exaggerated gesture, and there's a smile that spreads across his face, too. She waves him away, continuing on into the night, cart rattling against the road, flowers packed into the bucket of water. Harry disappears into Kim's building, and within moments, knocks on Kim's door.
Kim opens it, cup of tea in his hand, outstretched, meeting Harry's mirrored gesture, a flower extended towards Kim. Harry smiles, and Kim turns away, looking for a vase. When he returns to the living room, Harry is still in the doorway, awkwardly perched, eyes averted, blush spread across his face. Kim sets the vase down on the kitchen table, light pink petals warm in the light from the street lamps, and turns back to Harry, head cocked to the side, eyebrow raised.
"Are you alright? he asks, mildly concerned.
Despite the flower and the scene on the street, Harry isn't just dropping by to say hello— he'd called Kim earlier, words slipping off his tongue slurred, and Kim had invited him over, against all better judgment. Harry had been lonely, upset, a bitterness in his voice Kim hated hearing. He didn't want to play therapist or make Harry a project to fix, but he could offer Suzerainty and tea when needed. In this moment, however, all of the uncertainty rushes back, as Harry stumbles over his words, looking around Kim's apartment like he's never been inside.
"You're—you're not wearing a shirt," he says quickly, and Kim's ears are hot.
The night settles in after Kim finds a shirt, and when Harry is curled up on his couch, snoring softly, Kim presses a hand to his mouth, still warm and buzzing from the kiss. He moves into the kitchen to get a glass of water to set out for Harry when he wakes, and the sight of the carnation on the table catches his attention. Harry had hastily put his own in the same vase to keep it alive, stems crossed over each other, both flowers bending towards the light coming in from the window, orange sodium tempered by the silver moon. Kim breathes in sharply, the smell coming with the air in his lungs, and he affords himself a small smile before going to bed for the night.