Ken was sick of seeing red everywhere he went. Red ribbons, red boxes, and especially red roses. They had taken over the back room already, those blood-red blooms on spindly stems, all velvety petals and sneaky thorns. All the same, all waiting for someone who thought they would bring a spark of originality and romance.
"Aren't you supposed to give chocolate on Valentine's day?" He had complained to Youji the day before, while trying to find space for that many cut flowers in their coolers. He didn't understand the rush of men suddenly buying up roses and more roses for that specific holiday. Wasn't that what White day was for? He had meant it as a rhetorical question, but Youji had taken pity on his ignorance and tried to tell him that it was romantic because it was unexpected. Ken suspected that calling it romantic was dodging the main motivation, but he didn't encourage Youji to elaborate.
Privately, Ken thought he would never give out red roses. He had managed to slice his own hand trimming thorns from special orders, and afterward told Aya that if he ever gave someone a plant it was going to be a cactus. Those were at least expected to keep their thorns.
He hardly slept the night of the thirteenth, trying to get things arranged so they could work quickly tomorrow. Even when he dozed off at last, Ken only dreamed of an endless sea of red petals behind his eyes, after staring at so many for so long.
Of course, Youji had a date for Valentine's day. One of the last, carefully preserved, bouquets went with him when he left for the evening. Omi had disappeared on something that was Not A Date, as he insisted. Aya had a solo mission that took him out into the snow and dark before Ken had even finished cleaning up for the evening.
Ken had an evening of empty hours to fill. Watching B-grade horror movies on the old television, where sets were splattered in gory rose-red, wondering if it was worth it to get out of his comfortable seat long enough to choose something else. Not when he was too sleepy to pay attention while teens were eaten by monsters in the woods, or other monsters gnawed on the Tokyo tower, and it all became one nonsensical story in black and grey and green and red.
He woke with Aya standing over him, an angel of death all in black. Still wearing both sword and frown, he bent to kiss Ken on the mouth, bringing him up out of surreal dreams to taste the coppery-sweet tang of blood at the corner of Aya's lip.
"Go to bed," Aya whispered against his mouth. How he had gotten home with blood still clinging to his clothes and hair, Ken didn't even know. He didn't care. He hooked his hands into Aya's dirty, bloody coat and held on, too awake to be shaken off yet too sleepy to listen to reason.
At last Aya had to insist that he needed a shower and he would join Ken in bed in just a moment if he would just go. But Ken couldn't just go, because he knew he would be asleep long before Aya got there.
Instead he was the one to join Aya in the shower. He worked his fingers into blood-flecked hair until streams of diluted blood and soapsuds ran over Aya's body, like fragile diamonds and pink ribbons. He pressed kisses to the back of Aya's neck and didn't care that he tasted soap on Aya's skin, the same way Aya didn't seem to care that he couldn't stop after one kiss.
When Aya finally returned the kisses, Ken knew he would always prefer those roughened lips to velvety rose petals. His firm touch made it plain that he wanted Ken to stay just as he was, without the slightest hint that his thorns might drive his lover away.
They ended up tangled together in Aya's bed, too tense and tired to do more than curl together and breathe. Ken basked in sleepy warmth, spooning Aya between soft, clean sheets. He pressed his face into still damp-hair, and for the first time in weeks, Ken was glad to be seeing nothing but red.