( 08 ) BOUQUET TECHNOBLADE ✓
TECHNOBLADE x 2ND POV READER

( angst, death )

YET THERE WAS ONLY ONE YOU SHARED TRUE MEMORIES WITH.

THERE WERE SO MANY DIFFERENT WAYS to describe people. Some rather poetic fellows out there loved to liken their loved ones' personalities to... perhaps an ice cream flavour, or the celestial beings you were lucky to spot in the sky, like the sun, moon, and the stars-while others were more direct, more blunt, using simple words to describe complex personalities.

And you? You described people with flowers.

Ever since you were a child, your twinkling, curious gaze would look over the soft petals of roses, taking in the shades of red that were so often bought and given romantically. You'd watch from the sidelines as your parents helped a fumbling, evidently nervous student pick out the perfect arrangement of blossoms, so they could impress their crushes or their partners with petals that came in all the colours of the rainbow. The twinkling of the shop's bell would echo in your ears, and you'd race downstairs in your apron, the cloth stained from the dirt that you handled everyday. Your fingers, scarred from the thorns you so often pricked yourself on, already curling themselves around a slim green stem as you studied the new customer's appearance, guessing the type of arrangement they'd come in for.

Over those years of watching your parents lace colours with colours; after watching them come up with different blossoms, each symbolic in their own special way; you'd developed quite the eye for flowers and personalities. In school, you'd take to studying each of your schoolmates appearances, attaching blossoms to personalities, creating nicknames that you'd link to appearances.

Along with flowers, your parents grew a little garden in your backyard as well, labelling each plant with a small, paper sign that showed each scientific name, as well as each short name. Your gaze fell over a certain herb through the tinted window, eyes tracing the rosemary's outline as you thought on what it had been like before.

The rough, worn edges of the hardback volume you held in your hands brushed against your skin, and a small, subconscious smile surfaced on your lips. Pages worn and frayed from time and a spine curved from all the times you had flipped through the thing, as well as the golden lettering of the title, were the telltale signs of the book gifted to you by a special someone. A very special someone. In it lay the different symbolisms and meanings of plants and flowers, ranging from one word messages to complex emotions and responses.

Delicately, you lifted the cover and opened the book, the slightly yellowed pages and comforting scent reaching your senses. A few crumbs lay stuck to the old paper, all from the times you'd sat at dinner, reading and rereading the words over and over again. You knew all of the meanings by heart now, though some slipped your mind every once in a while.

Beautifully drawn illustrations greeted you once you'd started going through the pages. Coincidentally, you landed on the page of the last plant you had given to him; a marigold.

MARIGOLD, read the bold letters written at the top of the page. A bitter feeling erupted in your stomach, and you yearned to look away and distract yourself from the words and statements below the subtitle, but you couldn't. You couldn't look away.

So you kept reading.

MARIGOLD

The marigold blossom has many different meanings, each circumstance it is shown is being the reasoning behind the symbolisms.

For example, due to the tendency for it to be open whenever the sun is up, and close when the sun is down, one of its many nicknames is 'herb of the sun,' which may be used to represent passion, or even creativity.

The bitter feeling turned sour, your heart pounding in your ears as you read on.

However, these golden blossoms may also symbolise cruelty and grief, as well as jealousy, it continued. It can mean to showcase a strong passion; this being associated with the legendary brave and courageous lion.

It's Victorian meaning, which is desire for riches, is likely consequent to the legends of the flower being Mary's gold, depicting coins.

Used in weddings and as decorative pieces on many occasions, the marigold is an excellent choice to symbolise beauty and freshne-

Before you could read on any longer, you closed the book. The two halves of pages slammed against each other with a dull thud, and the sound echoed in your ears.

The sour feeling had returned to its original state of bitterness, except the bitterness was now mixed with a tinge of heartache and nostalgia. Bittersweet, might have been the best way to describe it.

You clenched your fists; the nails dug into your skin.

A marigold described him perfectly. The thought plagued your mind at least once a day, even occasionally making it into your dreams. It seemed to haunt you-and it was torturous.

The flower, which you had planted in your front yard during a moment of weakness a few months prior, had never failed to dredge up old memories. Old memories you'd wished to have forgotten, to tuck away in some deep, dark area of your mind long ago.

But your mind had never worked in your favour, and every time your gaze landed on those flowers; each time you caught even the slightest glimpse of the golden blossoms; he came to mind. It was automatic, you couldn't stop it. And because it was automatic, it was painful. Because you couldn't get rid of the reaction-there was literally no way to just... erase all the thoughts that circled in your head.

So you learned to deal with it. You learned to deal with the pain; you learned to get used to it. By now, the ache of your heart was normal. The twist in your stomach and the pull on your emotions was a regular occurrence. There was no getting rid of it.

Once again, you glanced at the yellow petals of the marigold that rested at the front of your home, and your stomach twisted. That previous statement was wrong, now that you thought about it. There was a way to get rid or the feeling-or at least numb it slightly.

With a sigh of defeat and resignation, you got up from the wooden chair, fingertips tracing the gold lettering of the hard cover. You packed it all as fast as you could-umbrella, jacket, phone, wallet, keys-and got out the door so quickly you'd almost forgotten to lock it. And with one last click, you were off.

The cold air pinched your cheeks, nose already tinging red from the autumn breezes that ruffled your hair. You gripped the handle of the small umbrella you'd brought with you harder, letting your feet lead the way as you took in the sights around you.

Streets, normally bustling and busy and noisy filled with people on their way to work, were unusually quiet from the rather late notice of a looming storm. The scent of freshly rained upon grass hit your nose, and you breathed the smell in deeply, eyes darting upwards and taking notice of the dark clouds that lay overhead, covering what should have been a clear, sunny day. Rough cement scratched against the soles of your shoes, scraping the dust off of the bottom.

It was the way you'd taken the path so many times that kept you from getting lost in all the intersections and one way streets of the village. A silent breath escaped your lips, and a puff of smoke-or was it mist? Wait, technically wasn't it just warm air-formed in front of you.

You pursed your lips as the dainty little flower shop came into view. Potted blossoms lay underneath an overhang, their colourful petals bringing vibrance into the monochrome roads. A few lanterns lay beside them, lighting them up and helping illuminate the numerous shades under the dim lighting caused by a cloudy sky.

Gripping the handle of the umbrella harder, you stepped in-and the smells hit you. Fragrances, so many fragrances hit you from all directions. You shivered as the air conditioning over the doorway hit your body, tucking your hands into the pockets of your jacket.

The shop was very quiet. So much so, that if you hadn't seen the Open sign that lay stuck the little glass window of the painted red door, and if you hadn't known the schedule of the place by heart, you would have assumed that it was closed.

Tufts of chocolate brown hair popped up from a doorway behind the counter; the familiar face brightened as they stepped forward, lips stretching into a grin ( You could see how it had undertones of dread and sorrow-they came with the nearly unnoticeable twitch of the eye and fidgeting of fingers behind their back-though you would never speak the thought aloud. ) as they took you in.

"Y/N!" greeted Wilbur, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the smile on his face. "How are you doing today?"

You smiled back. "Alright. I'm fine." Your shoulders sagged and your smile dimmed as you said, "I'm here for a bouquet, Wilbur. For... him."

His smile dimmed too. Wilbur's eyes filled with something indecipherable, something so intense you simply couldn't figure it out within the flurry of emotions those chocolate depths contained, and then, like always, darted towards the flowers you so often used in the arrangements you gave to him.

"Ah, yes, of course," he murmured, hands already picking from the plastic sheets they kept under the counter. He gave you a forced smile. "Just give me a minute. The same ones, right?"

"Yes," you confirmed. He nodded, the sorrow in his expression subtly increasing, and began walking over to the blossoms. As he plucked a few carnations from their basket, the crimson shades catching your eye, a thought came to mind.

It had been a very long time since you'd included them in his bouquet. It hurt too much to give them to him, and yet... you doubted you'd do so for anyone else. In your mind, he was the only one you'd give the flowers to; he was the only one you felt deserved your vulnerability. Your love.

And so you called out, "Wilbur, could you include some of the red chrysanthemums in this one? It's been... it's been a long time since I've added them. Since I've, uh, told him. I think he'd like a reminder."

Wilbur's head tilted in your direction, glancing at your nervous stand, and after a few seconds of silence-excruciatingly painful and awkward silence, might you add-he nodded once more. "Okay. Red chrysanthemums it is."

You gave a grateful bob of your head, and watched as he picked out the ones you always included in the bouquets. It took a few minutes, but he got it done, moving around the shop and turning towards groups of flowers so well it seemed as if he was dancing. A small, unconscious smile surfaced on your lips, as you watched him work in the shop-it seemed as if your decision to let him stay there was a good one. Not the right one, as those didn't exist, really. No, the choice was just a good one.

When he finished, there was a bunch of flowers held in his hands. The colours and shades of the arrangement seemed rather unorthodox-they weren't ones that you'd usually see together-but, in a way, they worked. But despite that, they still managed to look good together. There was something special about the way that the arrangement was created. Even looking at it, you would know that it had been made with not the colours in mind, but the meanings behind each of them.

Wilbur gently pressed the stems together, wrapping the clear plastic around the colourful band of blossoms, and then tied a thin, red ribbon around it all, finishing the small bow with a flourish.

He looked back to you, stepping closer, and held out the bouquet.

"Tell him I said hi," he said softly, his stomach knotting bitterly, and his heart clenching filled with sorrow and guilt, as it always did when you'd come over to get the familiar bouquet.

You smiled sadly at him, grasping the flowers delicately in your hand, and placed the payment for the arrangement in his palm in return.

"I will. Thank you, Wil," was all you said, before the biting cold of the outside hit you and you were pulled away from the temporary warmth of the shop.

The feeling of dread came back tenfold, twisting and turning your guts and squeezing the sorrow out of you, and making you grip the flowers harder in your hands.

This visit would be the... tenth one. In October, alone. Perhaps the trips over were one of the many reasons behind the why of how you couldn't get over him. Perhaps they damaged you far more than you realised, bringing in a sense of comfort before taking it away so abruptly, so quickly, that they ripped the cracks in your heart bigger. Perhaps the thoughts of want that plagued you so had a far larger impact than you imagined they had.

But as these visits brought forth feelings of nostalgia and warmth, and as these visits dulled the throbbing pain in your heart that you experienced ever so often from catching just the slightest glimpse of the golden marigolds planted in your home, you couldn't find it in yourself to stop. To rid yourself of this warmth, however short and bittersweet it may be ( there was more bitter, in truth. But at least there was sweet in it, right? ).

It seemed like seconds, merely a few, short moments before you arrived at your destination. The familiar smell of the forest hit your nose, piercing your lungs with its cold breezes. Soft sounds, like the quiet chatter of birds in trees as they finished up last touches on their small nests, or the rustling of grass underneath the weight of a doe and her fawn, or even just the swaying of the tree branches as their leaves brushed against each other, filled the once suffocating silence, bringing forth the warmth that you'd so often though about and described.

Your footsteps echoed in the eerily silent graveyard. Fitting for a place like this, you thought.

There was a quiet crunch beneath your feet, and you cringed at the sight of the tiny, crushed flower when you lifted your shoe. You couldn't identify exactly what it was, but it was a plant. A flower. A beautiful blossom that lived its own life and had done its own thing before you'd come along and stepped on it, crushing its little petals underneath the soles of your shoes. Nearly ending its small, yet just as precious as yours life with one single step.

You murmured a soft, "Sorry," before continuing on your way, eyes scanning the mass of tombs that lay before you. Each held its own special carving; its own special name and person. Each held the remains of what had once been alive-or rather, who. And every one of them, laying on every single grave, was a bouquet of flowers. Every single one of them. Some looked fresher, as if they'd been placed there only a few days ago. Others were wilting already.

They had all been placed there by you.

Seeing all those empty tombstones years ago, when you'd first visited this place, it had sparked something inside of you. That spark had you clenching your fists in anger and sighing in disappointment and blinking away tears of sadness. So many people, left forgotten. Quite literally left for dead. Ever since then, you'd made it a habit to fill up the empty areas with flowers of all sorts-you knew nearly every name in the place now.

Yet there was only one you shared true memories with.

A small grave, a simple grave, the only embellishments on it the carvings in latin across the top and the gold plating of a name in front, lay across you. Fallen leaves of the bay tree planted by the tomb lay resting on the rocky soil beside it. His bouquet shifted as you held it gentler, walking towards the grave.

Technoblade, it read.

A spike of sorrow hit you. One of guilt and of pain and so much sadness, much nostalgia and heartbreak.

It was only fitting that it hit you. After all, you were the cause of his death, were you not?

Another bout of mist slipped from your lips, the sigh forming into a small cloud again. If anyone caught a glimpse of you right then, they wouldn't have noticed the way your eyes shone with happiness. They wouldn't have noticed how the stars seemed to turn brighter when you grinned, how your laugh seemed almost musical mixed with the breeze.

They would have seen a broken child with lines deeper than they should have been resting on their face. They would have seen a child sniffling away tears in the freezing cold, lifting a hand up to brush the droplets away from their flushed cheeks. They would have caught a rare sight of a broken facade, a destroyed mask once worn by the happy go lucky flower child.

They would have seen you.

Your eyes took it all in; the dust that had once settled on the cracked, frozen stone, now swept away from the wind; the curve of the frame; the golden plate engraved with a name, an alias; and now a bouquet made up of heliotropium, red chrysanthemums, pink carnations, forget me nots, dark crimson roses, and purple hyacinths.

As your fingers felt the soft caress of the petals, and you imagined for a second, just a second, a small, quick moment what life would have been like had he not died, had you not stood frozen in place, had he not been such a self sacrificing fool, your fool, the warm orange of another plant caught your eye. This plant wasn't one you'd planted there, nor was it a part of his colourful bouquet, which was strange. It was a butterfly weed, its tiny blossoms dancing in the freezing cold.

The three word symbolism came to you so suddenly, so automatically, you hadn't had time to process anything properly before you thought of what the orange flower meant. What it's message to you was. What his message to you was.

Let me go.

But you couldn't. How could he possibly ask this of you? The painful tingle of your chest and the loud rumbling of the dark clouds were so familiar by now. You couldn't just let it all go. Let him go. It wasn't that easy.

Techno's eyes looked on sorrowfully from the sidelines.

"Oh but it is, dear Y/N," he whispered, and a cold breeze brushed past your ear. You shivered. "But it is."

AUTHOR's NOTE

- i had literally no idea where to go with this one BYE

- anyways. yeah. angst! i never know how to end these one shots.

- also im not sure if i made it clear but this is sipposed to be set in medieval times??? originally i made it uh modern but my writing was super sophisticated ( imo ) and it didnt feel right so i changed it up a bit aha

- by the way! the flowers ive included all have their own meanings. like in the bouquet. so if u guys wanna get the link to translate them or whatever ill leave that in my bio

- i kept using the same adjectives in here it kept bugging me ew. anyways i hope u guys enjoyed this one! img etting very sleepy. this might be a bad one bit i havent reread it yet lol ( ill do it in the morning )

- theres a coupla references towards my other book for letters named "dear nobody." and one of the letters in there lol. i think you guys will be able to find it if u look! its pretty obvious i think.

- alrgith my thoughts are like slurring now if thags even a thing and i keep making spelling mistake so im gonna go now. gn yall!

lotsa lotsa much love!!
lea.

[ PS this reach 3k words just like mondays dream and im kinda proud of that ok bye ]

[ PPS i'd appreciate it a lot if you guys could vote on my book! it motivates me to write and update regularly :)
u dont have to of course if you dont want to but im just saying if you enjoy the chapters maybe u should give it a try 👉🏽👈🏽 ]

EDITED 1 AS OF 5.3.21