Standard disclaimers apply here.

When I write AUs they generally become bigger/longer/more extensive than I originally intended. This was going to be a long one-shot but then it decided that it wanted to be split up. Influenced a lot by The Great Gatsby and The Country of the Pointed Firs, though the latter more than the former (meaning this isn't so much an intricate story as it is a bunch of connected sketches). I've wanted to write something with flowers for awhile, and here it finally is. Their meanings will come in later so I won't say what they are now. I know they don't all bloom at the same time, but please suspend disbelief. This is pre-internet, also. It's not set too long ago, just before they started connecting those tubes. Feedback would be lovely~.


They met in cliché circumstances: she played the part of a "spoiled rich girl" who had a comfortable life and would have one for years to come; he was the penniless gardener they'd hired to keep up the lawn around their summer house. He slept in a little shack behind it; it was small but comfortable.

Lenalee objected to being called a "spoiled rich girl", however, because she didn't think she was. Sure, her family had money and had had it for a long time, but that didn't mean she was spoiled.

She didn't go to the summer house right away that year. She spent time with her friends at home instead, considering them more important than the lavish building on the lake. When she finally arrived, she noticed that the lawn and garden looked amazing, and said as much as she stepped inside.

"Oh, go thank the gardener instead, dear," her mother told her.

"You hired a gardener?" she asked, almost in disbelief. Normally she and her brother would take care of the flowers and grass; they enjoyed doing it together, though the work was sometimes hard. Nevertheless, this year he wasn't there and she'd arrived late.

"Yes, darling," her mother responded; she always called her different terms of endearment when they spoke. She liked the variety, she'd explained when Lenalee had inquired once. "You weren't here and we couldn't have an overgrown yard and garden, after all."

To that Lenalee had nothing to say. They were sitting just inside the house, facing out toward the other large summer-occupied homes, where the air conditioning effectively cooled them. It was almost unbearably hot outside.

"Love, why not fetch the gardener some water? A pitcher filled with ice and a glass will do." Though she acted lofty around others, Lenalee knew her mother had more caring in her than she showed.

"All right," she said with a smile. She stood and smoothed down her short summer frock; it was too humid for anything else. "Oh!" she burst out as if surprised; "What's his name?"

"I don't know, sweetheart," her mother returned with a smile. "Ask him."

Her behavior threw Lenalee off a little. It seemed that the woman had expectations for them, but she couldn't figure out why. She imagined that the gardener would be a man much older than herself: his posture stooping from the years of bending over flowerbeds, his skin creased and tan from being in the sun for so long, the flesh of his hands thick from the many thorns and bristles. She couldn't see why her mother would be pushing her toward someone like that.

After she filled a pitcher with ice and turned on the tap until it ran as cold as it would, she grabbed a glass and set the heavy pitcher of ice water on the tray with it, ignoring the cook's offers to take it for her. She did allow the large and pleasant woman to open and hold the door because her hands were full, and she stepped out into the balmy mid-afternoon.

A hot, gentle breeze passed by, making her dress dance with it for a moment. She glanced around and found him kneeling near a red rose bush; the flowers had all fully bloomed and held their petals out proudly.

As she walked toward him, she was struck by how he didn't fit the image in her head. He was leaning over but it certainly didn't look like he'd carry that with him when he stood: his back was straight and she thought he would stand tall as though there was a rod in his spine. His skin was pale with a tinge of red – she'd have to offer him some sunscreen if he was getting sunburned. And he was most definitely not a good amount older than she was; in fact, if one can tell by someone's posture and their general person from the back, she judged that he was near her age.

Lenalee stepped lightly on the perfectly trimmed grass, so he did not hear her as she approached. When she cleared her throat, however, he didn't jump or seem startled. He simply turned with an expression of complete irritation that disappeared as they made eye contact.

Another gust of wind arrived and left after whispering to them, telling them each a secret that they could not understand at that moment. The mysterious, heated wind wanted them to figure out what it knew. Because it, after all, had no form and therefore could move anywhere it wanted throughout time.

The ice, rapidly melting, shifted in the pitcher as it grew smaller and smaller. The two were pulled out of their mutual reverie as it bumped against itself in the water, and Lenalee laughed a little. It didn't feel awkward, though, and she smiled.

"Mother thought you might be thirsty, so I brought you some water." She left out the part where her mother suggested it; anyway, it wasn't an untrue statement. She brought the tray out for him. He made a noise of what she decided was appreciation, and walked closer.

Kneeling on the ground, she tipped the pitcher sideways so the ice flowed more freely into the glass rather than catching on its lip. She offered it to him and he reached for it. He didn't grab it out of her hand, though: he slipped his fingers around the cool glass and held it for a moment with her, their fingertips brushing each other, before gently pulling it away. His touch, she thought distantly, was not rough at all.

As he drank the water, she took in the garden. The flowers that she and her brother had planted there last fall before leaving were thriving; they'd decided to dig up the old flowers, which were very, very old indeed, and plant all new ones. Lenalee would be going away to college this year and coming to the new garden before she left would be refreshing, they thought. Not only that, he was moving away, having gotten married there that summer, and it was one last thing for them to do together.

The carnations – the darkest red they could find, along with blossoms of pure white – stretched up from the ground, straining toward the sun. Next to them, red chrysanthemums – the white carnations sat between the two red blossoms like a buffer, as though they needed to be there to separate them – burst out like they were trying their best to grab the attention away from their neighbors, not knowing they needn't. The red tulips spread their petals almost arrogantly, attempting to draw the most eyes to them.

Off to their left, the honeysuckle climbed up the side of the house, vainly reaching out for the porch's railing, only a few inches away from where it ended. Another whisper of wind brought the scent of lilacs from the bush somewhere behind them. Lenalee noticed some new flowers in the shade that she and her brother hadn't planted. They were familiar; she racked her brain but couldn't come up with their name.

She turned back to the gardener, who indeed appeared closer to her age than she expected, and found he was studying her. She faintly thought of how warm it was: it felt like some of the heat had settled intimately on her cheeks. Instead of commenting on that or his rather intent stare, she asked, "What are those flowers over there? I don't think we planted them last fall."

His eyes flicked over to the blooms before returning to her face. "Forget-me-nots. Your mother asked me to plant them."

"Oh," she murmured, taking them in. "It looks wonderful," she commented while scanning the garden, intensely aware of his continued gaze. "I wasn't sure everything would grow when we planted it. He said that it should, but I still wasn't sure." Realizing she was rambling a bit, Lenalee stopped.

The gentle breeze picked up again, urging them, but they didn't heed it. She stood, brushing off her knees. "I'll come back in awhile to refill the pitcher," she promised, turning. The lilacs had never looked so lovely as they did in that moment. She paused and faced him once more. "By the way, what's your name? Mother said she couldn't remember." An odd expression passed across his face, but she couldn't place it.

"Kanda," was all he offered, returning to what he had been doing before.

"I'm Lenalee," she returned warmly, the tone attached to her words somehow surpassing the heat that blanketed them. She left, humming and hopping over invisible obstacles every few steps.

As she got back in, her mother asked, "Did Kanda tell you about the forget-me-nots?"

Lenalee stopped, considering the woman. "I thought you said you didn't know his name."

"Did I? It must be this heat!" She waved a hand when her daughter tried to say that they had been inside, shrouded by the air conditioning. "Invite him to lunch tomorrow when you get him more water."

"How did you –"

"Dear, how could you not get him more water in this heat?" There was a smile on her mother's face; a gentle, knowing smile. She wondered if they'd been spied upon, just now.

Still, Lenalee had no response; it seemed her mother knew much more than she ever let on or chose to divulge.

As she almost tiptoed away – for Lenalee always had a light step, no matter where she walked – she went over their meeting in her head. She realized, quite belatedly, that when she was speaking to Kanda, she hadn't told him that she and her brother had planted those flowers. All she'd said was we and he.

It seemed important, suddenly, to not let him to get the wrong idea about that. Even so, she couldn't simply race outside and blurt out, "I meant my brother and me! We planted the flowers, not anyone else!" There was no delicate way of approaching it, so she didn't.

She went to refill the pitcher a few hours later, but he wasn't around. She wondered if he wouldn't be there when she went to fetch it that evening; she could knock on his door and ask him in for lunch there, but she wasn't sure she wanted to do it like that.

Kanda was there when Lenalee left the house in the slightly cooler evening. He was standing like he'd been waiting for her, but she dismissed the thought. That seemed too unlikely.

"Mother wanted me to ask you in to lunch tomorrow." For some reason, she couldn't invite him in on her own; she was not physically there but her mother's figure stood behind them, an unseen wraith which they were both aware of.

"When?"

When? She almost repeated his question but instead said, "Around noon, I suppose. I've only arrived today so I don't know when they usually have lunch." Her parents never did eat at the same time, but she didn't mention that.

"Hm." The sun had descended and they stood in the shadow of the house now. The empty pitcher had already been passed between them, along with the glass. She stooped to pick up the tray, which still sat on the ground.

"All right." She smiled, and he was staring at her again. No, he wasn't simply looking; it was definitely a stare. "I'll see you then."

As she walked back toward the house, barefoot again, she paused; somehow she seemed to know that he had been trying to say something. However, she didn't glance back and he didn't speak. The breeze agitated their hair and her dress, irritated with them.

Lenalee ignored it and walked inside. Kanda watched her and went to his little home.

The wind nearly howled that night.