Summary: It all starts with a single paper flower. AU.
Hana
~ by memory's marionette
Hana
1. (Noun) Flower. (Japanese)
2. (Adjective) One. (Korean)
.: (1) :.
The first time she gives him a paper flower, it is when they are but six. On a fine August day with clear skies of amalgamating blue hues and sunny weather, he finds her sitting on a bench near a huge oak tree with a few books as thick as doorstoppers stacked next to her slim frame.
Ian has noticed the girl with the red hair that is as bright as fiery flames of ambition and jade-green irises for a few days already, but he has never talked to her. (He just doesn't see the need to, because from the look of her Union Jack-themed accessories, he knows immediately that she's just another passing tourist; even if they do hit it off, it's not as though she won't be leaving soon. So he just looks at her from afar, because it's just not worth the hassle.)
His amber eyes also notice that her fingers are nimbly folding and creasing a tiny piece of paper into some shape or other.
'She's at it again,' he thinks to himself, noting that this is the eighth day she has created paper art. The young boy stares curiously at the movement of her slender fingers and he becomes transfixed without even realizing it. A few minutes pass, after which his inquisitiveness finally overpowers his being, and he approaches her.
Amy is focused on her origami and only notices his presence when Ian blots out the Sun, casting her entire entity in shadows. Her gaze travels to the handsome boy in front of her, though her hands do not cease working.
She swallows a gasp of surprise that threatens to erupt from her throat, because she recognizes him to be the same boy that she has been watching from afar ever since she had initially seen him. A finished rose rests on the contours of her palm as she waits for him to say something, since at this point in time, she is quite incapable of doing so. He doesn't, however, and simply remains rooted to the spot with his gaze still locked on the piece of paper art in her hand.
Awkward tension pervades the air, and finally, Amy decides to take her leave before she goes mad from the sonorous silence. In one swift motion, she collects her books and gets up, balancing her paper flower precariously on the edge of the topmost book's spine. Her line of focus shifts between the white bloom and Ian, before she presses it into his right palm when she passes by him.
Honestly, she thinks that the flower is slightly overdue, because he has been a denizen of her thoughts ever since she first laid eyes on him, but Amy believes that it's better late than never, especially since they'll never cross paths again. She hopes it conveys her feelings, considering that this will probably the last time she sees him.
Love at first sight.
(But it isn't the last, and the flower is simply the first of many.)
.: (6) :.
Ian is lounging about in his dormitory room when he meets her again. Crepuscular light glosses weakly over his sharp features as he breathes in the crisp evening air and enjoys the picturesque view of Oxford University from his window.
An aura of calm exists in the air, before a loud crash disturbs the peace. His eyebrows furrow into a frown, and he marches over to the front door to shout at whomever it is in the hallway that's making such a racket. The scraping noises and grunts become increasingly louder as he gets closer to the wooden door that is his only barrier to the outside world.
A mane of red hair pulled up into a high ponytail greets him at the door. He glowers at the owner of the glossy locks who is currently crouching down in exhaustion, wondering why she has stopped in front of his room, and opens his mouth to mutter something at her in caustic tones. He stops short, though, because when she looks up him from under her lashes, he recognizes her.
"Hi," she puffs out between short breaths, "I'm your new roommate." Amy holds out a hand and smiles at him. "Amy Cahill. Nice to meet you." He doesn't take it, instead staring at her. She studies his jewel-tone eyes, and a flicker of recognition ignites in her memory. Amy adds softly, "Again."
"Ian Kabra," he replies stiffly, unsure of how to react: Cohabitation has never really been his strong point, and he was quite sure that when he bribed the authorities in charge, they had assured him that the chances of him getting a roommate were extremely low. (Liars.)
Slowly, he sidles to the side and leans against the doorframe, silently telling her to enter. She grabs the handle of her suitcase and heaves it up in a manner that makes him fear that she'll put out her back. He sighs. "Here," he grumbles before he can help himself. "Let me get that for you," he offers, mentally wondering why he's bothering to assist a stranger when he shrugs his sister off all the time when she asks him for help.
She grins at him in gratitude and walks in, surveying her new home for the next few years. Her head bobs up and down in an approving nod: Amy can tell that she's going to like it here.
Months later, her opinion has yet to change. Her classes are interesting, and the university itself is wonderful. Even her roommate who she thought would be an amazingly titanic prick at first because of his cold demeanour isn't too bad, and they have become fast friends, due in part to them liking the same books and authors, as well as having a matching affinity for the humongous library the university provides. She sighs audibly, wondering when he'll be back from his family vacation, because though books have always been her oldest companions, he is quickly becoming her best one.
When he finally returns from the Caribbean, it is on a chilly autumn morning and Ian finds her making a paper flower in a far corner of their living room. The first thing he does is to plop onto a settee across from her and watch as her fingers repeat the same moves he saw years ago. She catches him staring and muses that some things never do change.
Seeing him like this makes her reminisce, and just like in their first meeting, she hands him her finished artwork. He counts five red carnations, making a total of six blooms if he includes the first one she gave him years ago that he keeps hidden in some safe and secluded corner of his room, away from prying eyes.
I missed you.
.: (11) :.
He fumes inwardly when she gets asked out on a date, for reasons unbeknownst to himself. At first, the thought of envy flashes in his mind, but he is Ian Kabra and simply doesn't know the meaning of the word; he is above and beyond such petty feelings. So this irresistible urge to punch the other male, he concludes, simply stems from the fact that he thinks that the man isn't good enough for his roommate. (Never mind that the man – James - also happens to be a very good and respectable acquaintance of Ian's. He's still bad news at this moment.)
Amy glances at Ian as she turns to leave for a short coffee break with James, giving him a cheery little wave. Usually, that would elicit some sort of reaction from him, whether a grunt or a non-committal flick of his wrist, but today, he remains impassive and subdued as he glowers at her.
A worried look flits about her face, because this behaviour of his simply isn't normal, and she's about to ask him whether something is bothering him when James tugs on her hand lightly to go. The door closes with a soft click, and Ian is left glaring daggers at the spot she had stood in a few seconds ago.
God, he hopes James falls on some slippery patch of road or something. Or that James gets eaten by ice weasels, whatever those are. (He needs to stop watching that silly American show with the stupid yellow people that Amy liked to put on the telly. 'The Samsons?' he thinks, trying to remember the name. 'The Simpsons?')
He curses and wonders what was going through his head when he declined his parents' offer to get him his own private place in the city (The Lamborghini he opted for instead doesn't seem nearly as nice now.), as well as why Amy just had to be so –
A knock on the door breaks him out of his reverie, and he's surprised to hear her voice echo from the other side. "Ian?" she calls out. "I forgot my keys."
The moody look returns, because she'll probably rush out afterwards to her darling James. He sulkily pulls the door open; she comes in and haphazardly throws her winter coat onto the couch, prior to switching on the television to the Simpsons. She opens the middle drawer of the coffee table, grabbing sheets of paper and placing it by her side.
His mouth sets into a wry grin and he starts, his timbre tinted with just the smallest bit of curiosity, "Isn't James waiting for you?"
She's only half-focusing on his moue look when she tells him, "I decided to stay here instead." She doesn't, however, disclose the fact that she came back because she'd much rather spend time with Ian whom she adores than with his friend of whom she doesn't even like.
He grunts in response; Ian hopes the feeling of triumph he feels doesn't show too much on his face and he conceals his smirk as he takes a seat next to her.
Soon, five paper daffodils sit in her lap, and Amy sets them in front of him. (He doesn't know why she gives them to him, but he keeps them anyway since they're from her.)
This tallies up to eleven blossoms now.
You're my favourite.
.: (13) :.
They're celebrating their paper anniversary at the nexus of the Thames and Cherwell rivers. The glow of spring seems to radiate from every seen corner, and the vista is a vision of beauty with thousands of blooms carpeting the ground and azure skies that stretch on for infinity.
He's running late, but honestly, she's just glad that he promised to come, knowing that the university's business school was holding some sort of party or other. (She doesn't know the exact details, because the archaeology students aren't exactly the most social ones on campus.)
Amy greets him with a cheerful smile when he comes up beside her because she knows that the lecturer holding the party is his favourite one and that he's missing quite a celebration.
"You're late," she chides him half-jokingly, the joy in her eyes belying her somewhat cool tone.
He shrugs. "But I came."
('For you,' he adds mentally.)
And, honestly, that's enough for her.
Silence invades the air, and they sit side by side on dewy grass, languid forms telling of a carefree world; it is anything but, however, because Amy innately knows that something has been different lately. She's not sure what that is exactly, but she feels the lull of change penetrating the normalcy of their halcyon days: something big is about to happen.
She fishes two purple irises from her bag and tucks it into his shirt pocket, a serene smile gracing her face as she looks at her friend through her peripheral vision.
Because even if the something big does happen – enough to make their fates hang in the balance or what-have-you – she knows for certain that some things will always remain constant.
Best friends forever.
.: (15) :.
The change she predicts happens a mere few weeks later.
She comes home one night to the sound of loud giggling echoing from their dorm. Amy cannot picture Ian laughing giddily at any age, and she assumes that he's invited a girl in; he's never done it before, since he says that their flirtatious manners put him on edge, and it definitely feels weird, to say the least.
She enters and expects to see a young girl – his cousin, perhaps – but is put into shock when she registers the fact that there is a female hanging onto Ian for dear life, with her hands latched onto his arm and her neon-yellow fingernails digging possessively into his flesh.
"Amy," he annunciates somewhat tightly, as though his throat is constricted in a vice-like grip (- much like the one her heart feels trapped in right now), "This is –"
The other girl flounces towards Amy, her gait lively with excitement. "Jessica. I'm Ian's new girlfriend," she says, and it looks almost as though Jessica's chest has welled up with pride at the fact she so cheerfully announces.
Amy can only open and close her mouth wordlessly at first, before she manages to reply in a brittle murmur, "Amy."
Ian's voice is strained when he asks Jessica to kindly wait for him outside, to which she readily complies. "So..." he starts lamely.
"When were you going to tell me?" Amy inquires, once his new beau is out the door. (She doesn't know which one hurts more exactly, whether it's the fact that he kept her out of the loop even though they're best friends or the fact that she fancies him and – Amy just can't bring herself to finish the thought.)
"…Soon." He sighs in frustration. "I, myself, only found out recently from my parents. They insist that I invest in a romantic relationship with someone that matches our family's status," he words carefully.
Silence.
Then, "I see." She all but collapses onto the couch, and offers him a wan smile. "Shouldn't you get going?" she asks.
He answers in the affirmative and grabs his coat. A bouquet of flowers he bought this afternoon for his new acquaintance lies on the kitchen's countertop, and he takes them with him, hesitating as he nears the door. Ian frowns, then pivots on his heel and offers the posy to Amy instead.
She stares at it, not knowing why he's giving this to her when it's meant for Jessica; truth be told, Ian doesn't know why either, other than because he feels that Amy deserves it more. Gingerly, she takes it from him. "Thank you," she replies, and he stalks off for a romantic dinner at some fancy restaurant in town. Amy looks at the flowers, wondering if the irony of it all is intentional.
'Knowing Ian, he probably just waltzed to the florist and picked out the first thing he saw,' she thinks to herself, fingering the snow-white petals that seem as fragile as glass.
(The blooms are beautiful, but chrysanthemums are the flowers of death and she ponders if this is the beginning of an end.)
And as she stares at them after he's gone, she wonders why she harboured hope in the first place, because, truthfully, the odds of her feelings being reciprocated were dismal at best. She puts them in a vase and positions the container in a spot where they will be mostly out of her sight. Her jade-green eyes glimpse at all fifteen stalks for a fleeting moment.
I'm sorry.
They do not take long to wilt.
.: (25) :.
Amy's in a shop searching for an appropriate gift for Ian's engagement party, but everything in the store seems so insincere with all of its fancy lettering and varicoloured shades.
In the end, she walks out without having made a purchase and goes to the celebration empty-handed. She seats herself at a table and her jade gaze spots the would-be happy couple instantaneously: Jessica has threaded her fingers through his, looking at Ian with adoration shining in her bright-cerulean eyes, and he says something to her with an impossibly cool façade plastered on; Amy knows by his stony expression that he is simply tolerating the girl at his side at best, trying to be as civil as possible.
She feels that she should also be civil and offer them her best wishes, no matter how empty they are. Without thinking, her idle hands reach for a paper napkin and begin her little ritual, albeit just a tad half-heartedly. When she's done, there are twelve flowers in a multitude of loud hues that are meant to look beguilingly blithe.
Amy doesn't bother to saunter up to Ian and Jessica to offer her best wishes because she's quite sure that no amount of dulcet tones will hide the undercurrent of bitter nuances in her voice. (It's a fact that appals her, because she wants so much to be ecstatic for her friend but her feelings are rebelling in all sorts of ways.)
She goes off quietly, leaving the blooms at the registry.
Congratulations.
.: (36) :.
They meet again under an inky night sky that is embellished with scintillating yellow stars. She hasn't seen him on a regular basis for a while, since their schedules always clash and he's moved into an apartment in town on his fiancée's request. (Jessica thinks that Amy's a very nice girl, but she'd be lying if she said she was comfortable with the idea of Ian living with another woman; not to mention that she suspects Ian fancies his roommate, which certainly does make things very complicated if Jessica is to marry him, since she loves him and hopes – wishes – that time will make him feel the same way about her.)
The Oxford Lieder Festival is full of life with no dearth of visitors, but they choose to enjoy it together – or attempt to, at least, until the impregnated pause that fills the air decides to go away.
"I didn't see you the other day at my party," Ian starts, trying to strike up a conversation.
She stiffens slightly. "I couldn't stay for long; I had some coursework to finish," she lies through her teeth.
"Jessica liked your flowers," he continues. "I thought you neglected to show up before she showed them to me, honestly. I thought -"
Amy raises an eyebrow. "You thought?" she prods verbally.
"That you forgot."
At that, she cannot help but laugh: it's not a hoot of joy or giddy giggles, but a low chuckle that sounds like her heart is breaking with every gasp of air that she takes.
(Because his suggestion is simply too preposterous for words, and she supposes that he will never understand that one simply cannot consign such details to oblivion no matter how much she tries; there are just some things that can never be forgotten, imprinted in the mind's eye – and heart - for the rest of one's life.)
She rummages in her bag for the paper forget-me-nots she finished this afternoon, once she has stopped chortling, and hands it to him. And as Amy gives him the last one, she tells him solemnly, "This makes number thirty-six."
I'll never forget you.
.: (50) :.
Amy sits by herself at the bar where Ian's best man has arranged for his stag night to take place, with a bunch of paper blossoms strewn around her. Her glazed eyes glance briefly at Ian when he takes a seat next to her, and one look at her makes him state the obvious, "You're drunk."
"Finally!" she slurs loudly. "Where have you been, idiot?" She promptly hits him on the arm with a brute force that he hadn't known she possessed. (Ian sighs, wondering why she had to be one of those people who tended to have violent tendencies when intoxicated.)"I have something," A hiccup interrupts her speech, "important to tell you."
"Pray tell," he remarks, looking amusedly at her flushed cheeks.
"I'm getting an internship." She swats away his hand that attempts to steady her so that she doesn't fall off her chair. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," she tells him seriously. "I'm flying out tomorrow morning to a bunch of lovely ruins in a very remote part of Indonesia." She smiles dazedly at the last part.
He processes her words. "That means you'll miss my wedding."
"Yes! Exactly the point!" she exclaims, hands thrown skywards in a celebratory salute after she stumbles off her stool. "Because I love you, but you're too bloody stupid to notice," she mutters in a faux-British accent that she adopts whenever she's mad at him. And as she brushes past him, she plants a sloppy kiss on his lips before she smacks him on his head for good measure, leaving him in stunned silence.
He stares at her retreating back as she staggers out of the pub, and picks up her glass of liquor, bringing it closer to sniff out its contents.
It's odourless.
Odourless.
Ian realizes with a start that there's just water in her glass, but it's too late when he runs out to chase her down; all there is outside is the twinkling of the bright London lights for miles on end, and a sinking feeling settles in the pit of his stomach when he sees she's nowhere to be found.
He re-enters the place to find her paper flowers lined up in a row on the counter.
This is the fiftieth one.
No regrets.
.: (999) :.
There are dark circles under her bloodshot eyes when she wheels in a crate of purple paper tulips to the cathedral where Ian's wedding will be held.
The place is beautiful in all of its arabesque glory, and she stares at the aisle that is both long and breathtakingly majestic, that looks like an avenue of fulfilled wishes. She doesn't know if it's a trick of the light or her lack of sleep getting to her, but all she sees is a boulevard of broken dreams as she strings the blossoms and loops them to line the aisle.
Once it is done, she takes a step back to glance approvingly at her craft that took her all night to finish.
This totals to nine hundred and ninety-nine.
I'll love you until the end of time.
.: (1000) :.
A single piece of paper lies in her jeans' pocket, and before she can help herself, Amy retrieves it and folds it into her last offering – a chrysanthemum. (Because even though it is the flower of death, in some cultures it is also the flower of life, and perhaps this is the end that leads to a new beginning.) She strings it on a thread of gossamer and places it next to the altar.
The thousandth flower does not hold any meaning, but she knows that hers represents a fresh start.
Goodbye.
.: (1001) :.
The hands of her watch revolve jerkily, and time slows to a wretched crawl as she toils under the scorching heat at the archaeological dig. She wipes some sweat off her brow and wonders why won't the next five minutes just come already, because though she loves her job, the heat of equatorial countries is something she's not entirely in love with. Amy gives up on waiting for the other three minutes to pass and climbs out of the dig to seek refuge from the Sun's blinding rays under the shade.
That is when she spots him.
Initially, she can only stare at him and wonder whether the heat has gotten to her head, but then she sees that he's brought his own umbrella and fan to keep himself cool and she knows immediately that he is the real thing. "What are you doing here?" she asks as she approaches him, dehydration making her speak in hoarse whispers.
Ian just smirks. "Honestly, Amy, I know you're not at the liberty to use the Internet and all other technological gizmos in this Godforsaken place, but do you really not remember your own birthday?"
Her eyes catch sight of his left hand – one devoid of his wedding band. "Where's your ring?" She locks gazes with him. "Where's Jessica? I don't think your wife," Her tongue struggles with that title and her voice sounds as thick as cottonballs, and she wonders whether she has moved on as well as she thought she had (– or at all, even), "would be pleased to know that her husband is out gallivanting halfway across the world to wish someone when a card would suffice."
"… She's not my wife anymore," Ian clarifies. She gapes slightly in shock. "Our divorce was finalized last month."
Amy blinks in surprise. "But you only got married six months ago," she mutters, confused. "And I know very well that Jessica adores you – she loves you."
('As I do,' echo her thoughts.)
"It became more apparent than ever to her that her feelings weren't reciprocated when I asked for separate rooms on our honeymoon and locked myself up with nothing but your paper flowers for company." He shrugs. "She said that being in a loveless marriage was a disservice to her feelings and filed for divorce," he explained without mincing any words.
Amy just nods, unsure of how to respond. "Oh," she finally manages.
"It wasn't a mutual admiration society, to say the least," he continues.
"Why not?"
"Because," he says simply, "I've only ever had a mutual admiration society with one person." She manages to croak out a small squeak that sounds like a faint "Who?" whilst hoping against hope that he means her. He hears anyway and the corners of his lips lift up to form the most imperceptible of smiles.
Ian doesn't say anything in response, however, and instead motions for her to open a crate next to her table that she hadn't noticed.
She complies, and the sight of all of the blooms she has given him over the years greets her viridian eyes; gently, he presses one more paper flower into her calloused hands.
And, honestly, Ian thinks that the flower is more than slightly overdue because she has been a denizen of his thoughts ever since he first laid eyes on her, but Ian believes that it's better late than never.
His flower doesn't look like any of hers – or like anything on Earth, to be honest – because it's dishevelled and deformed and there are folds and creases that aren't in the right place at all, but she can't help but smile at it anyway.
Because this makes one thousand and one.
I will always love you.
A/N: This was supposed to be fluff, but it took on a life of its own and refused to listen to me. It was also supposed to be short, and that didn't really work out too well, either. ^^;
I didn't want it to end on a sad note, so I continued until 1001, but the meanings of the number of flowers become slightly – shall we say sappy – towards the end. :/ Not much I can do on that front, I'm afraid. Apologies.
All facts used in the story are real, including the Oxford parts and the meanings of flowers. This was only given an onceover, so please be kind when you spot mistakes.
Reviews are very much appreciated. C: