Ever since he was born, flowers follow Daryl wherever he goes.
His mother calls him blessed, his father calls him a freak. But no matter what they call him, no matter what they do, flowers will always appear depending on his mood - blooming around him regardless of what he wants.
It's not natural, whatever he is, that he knows.
It's not right.
So Daryl does his best to stay away from the town and the people, afraid of their reaction and of what they'd say. They already see him as redneck trash, what would they think if they knew? What would they do to him?
It's not hard at all to do it, really.
Daryl has always been quiet and after his mom goes up in flames he goes from soft-spoken and shy to dead silent, only the mourningful dark crimson roses that show wherever he goes to prove he's there at all. That he's feeling and alive.
Even if he wishes otherwise.
Even if his dad does too.
He tries make them stop by force, a belt in one hand and ripped off flowers in another, punishing Daryl for every carnation, every petunia and every grass that grew in an unnatural way until he learns how to keep his emotions subtle and numb around his father.
He doesn't see the small, resilient cactus that grows hidden inside of Daryl's palm instead.
...
Daryl keeps his feelings hidden, not giving anything away as much as he can and keeping his distance from people, but the flowers… the flowers follow his heart. And he can't control it no matter how much he wants to.
Instead he finds solace in the woods.
The same deep Georgian woods he got lost as a child once, forgotten by the world with tiny anemone flowers blooming at his every step and nobody that'd miss him at home. The woods where he first learned to hunt with Merle.
It's more of a home to him than the old run-down cabin he's lived ever since his father bit the dust, a place where Daryl can just be.
Be useful, be free.
Be himself.
He doesn't need sleeves to hide the occasional leaves and flowers that grow on his arms and hands nor does he need to pay attention to every single feeling and little thought that could cause something to bloom. Instead he can let himself truly feel things, with no need to watch his back in the quiet woods as his only company there are the animals he hunts.
Lonely mushrooms and peaceful olive flowers surround him as he stays still, watching, his eyes on his prey and crossbow in hands.
It feels natural, the weight of the weapon comforting as he takes one step forwards, like Daryl was born to do it. To do this. He takes a deep breath. The world around him going slow and disappearing. A finger on the trigger. He breathes in.
One silent shot and the deer drops dead.
And out.
And he feels whole again.
...
Daryl's on his way home dragging the game when he realizes he's not alone. There's a person - a man, he notices - a few feet in front of him, clearly lost and in need of help. He closes his eyes, debating with himself if it's really worth it.
Nobody was supposed to be here. After all those years, rarely ever someone entered these woods and surely no outsider. It's the reason he likes it in the first place: he's completely alone here.
Or he was, until now.
Maybe he'll find his way back on his own.
Maybe he ain't need him.
"Hello? Someone there?"
Daryl sighs, a quick check assuring him there were no flowers to be seen, and steps into view. The man is younger than him but not by much and he clearly didn't belong around this parts, if his clothes and accent had any say on it.
"Ya lost?"
"Oh, thank God! Yeah, I am. I might need a little help here, I have no idea where I am," the man answers easily. "You're a hunter?" He gestures at the dead deer and hides well his grimace at it, smile barely faltering. "I'm Paul, by the way. Paul Rovia. But most people call me Jesus."
Daryl nods at him, turning away with a gesture for 'Jesus' to follow him and keeping his indifference. "Daryl Dixon."
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Daryl. Not so much on the circumstances but you know. Still."
He doesn't answer - doesn't look back at him, either. Instead Daryl just keeps on walking, hoping to get rid of the man as quick as possible. It's not the path he usually takes, but he knows these woods like the palm of his hands.
Speaking of which, he can't help but ask.
"What were you even doin' out here?"
"Hiking?"
It's more of a question than an answer and it makes Daryl stop for a second.
"Balls-deep in Georgia?"
"Look, I'll be the first to admit it wasn't such a great idea," Jesus says laughing, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I thought I could do it, I've done it in different places and managed, but clearly that wasn't the case here."
"Hm. You got lucky, ain't nobody in these woods but me."
"I'm glad you found me then, without you I'd still be lost, thank you. I like visiting places and seeing new, interesting things. Like curiosities! World's Largest Ball of Twine, that stuff. You never know what you'll find. So I'm always going from place to place. Get me in trouble sometimes, like today."
"You're crazy," he snorts, probably more amused than he should be by the stranger.
"Probably, yeah." There's no hurt in Jesus' voice, his smile if anything even bigger at the offense. "But it makes life interesting."
Daryl nods at that and says nothing else, trying to take advantage of the peacefulness between them to focus on making his emotions still - he doesn't like the way the other makes him drop his guard, how easy it is to talk to him. That means trouble, and Daryl didn't get this far by being careless.
There's no reason for them to keep the conversation going anyway.
Clearly nobody told Jesus that.
"You do this a lot? I mean hunting, not helping strangers lost in the woods," the man asks, interest clear in his tone as he continues on. "Well, actually, do you always help strangers here?"
"People don't come here," comes the short answer. "And I like huntin', and the quiet."
Either Jesus doesn't catch what he means or he doesn't care, because the chatterbox keeps going. "Oh, so I'm just special like that, huh?"
"Or maybe you're just a dumbass, going where folks don't."
"Maybe, but I get to be rescued by a handsome hunter and they don't, so it's their loss," Jesus says teasingly, making Daryl freeze where he stands - dumbfounded and with his face pink as bashful peonies bloom all around. "Sorry, did I make you uncomfortable? I know sometimes I can be too—what was that?"
Shit.
That startles Daryl back into reality, a scowl in his face as the flowers wither and die in a matter of seconds and he quickly returns to his path, ignoring Jesus' confused noises. He fucked up, he fucked up, he fucked up.
"Nothing."
"What do you mean 'nothing', that was something! Please tell me you saw it too." Jesus follows him, still obviously distraught, but when Daryl looks back the man is still staring back at the little that was rest of flowers. "That… That doesn't just happen, Daryl. Plants don't just grow in a second and die."
"It was nothing, you hear me? You saw nothin', you say nothin', and you ain't coming back here," he spats at Jesus, voice almost a growl with his thick accent. Please don't say anything, Daryl pleads mentally.
Please agree.
Jesus nods a little frantic, and the relief Daryl thought he'd feel at the sight is short-lived as the man starts to hyperventilate and back away from him. "R-right, ok. Yeah, I'm just gonna… go, alright?"
Disappointed bellflowers taunt Daryl for the loss as Jesus disappears in the woods, and he allows himself to sit down and try to breath. If Daryl closes his eyes he can see Jesus' distress as his father's voice booms in his mind, confirming his every thought, his every insecurity. He isn't normal, that is sure, and the other man's reaction just proves it even more.
He's just wrong, wrong, wrong and Jesus is now aware of it.
Worthless, cursed, useless, freak.
Daryl doesn't cry, not there and not now, he doesn't allow himself to. Instead he tries to control his breath as he rips the flowers one by one with shaky hands, ignoring the slight pain from where they're pulled from his arms - already too used to it to bother. It doesn't bleed, it never bleeds, and he regrets that fact then.
It takes until all the flowers are dead and gone for him to calm down, and only then he notices that, in his confusion, Jesus went the wrong way.
Logic tells him to leave Jesus behind, let him find his way home alone. That he can't afford to be around the man now. But Daryl knows he can't: he's Jesus' way out of the forest, and the guy doesn't deserve to be left astray. Chatty as he is, he didn't do anything wrong, not really.
Daryl's the one who didn't pay enough attention and fucked up, getting worked-up over a joke Jesus probably didn't even mean. He's to blame.
It's not long until he finds Jesus again, the man didn't go far and the messy tracks he left behind point straight to him. And there, with his hands on his face and clearly fighting his own panic attack, is Jesus. Daryl doesn't make his presence known; the other knew he was there already, having moved to acknowledge Daryl while still hiding himself.
After a minute or so watching Jesus regulate his breaths, trying his best to convince himself he's not concerned for the guy, the other finally looks up. Staring straight at Daryl, still unstable, yet the hunter could see as Jesus' mind tried to make sense of it all.
"Is it these woods? Is that why nobody comes here, because of the flowers?"
Daryl ignores the question, helping the man find balance and gesturing for him to follow. "C'mon now."
He focuses on his path, even when the thoughts are too loud and too much, even when Jesus keeps asking questions. Daryl keeps his direction clear, the only goal to get away from the other as soon as he can - he can let Jesus get to whatever conclusion he finds, let him think the woods are magic or some shit, anything is better than the man looking at him and seeing what he truly is and know he ain't normal. Daryl can't stand that thought.
Each question is a stab, and Daryl does his best to ignore the flowers wanting to bloom. He ignores Jesus, too. Not wanting to give away even more to a man who was only a stranger.
To a man who looked at him and didn't see some worthless trash.
But somehow Jesus sees through Daryl anyway.
"Is it…" Jesus starts again, his voice now soft where it once was loud and frantic. He sounds hesitant. "Is it you?"
"Shut up."
"Daryl, please, I just—I just want to understand, ok? Help me understand," he continues, ignoring the glare Daryl sends his way and coming closer. "You can't blame me for being curious."
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
"I don't know if it's real or not and I'm just seeing things, if I really am just crazy. So talk to me, help me. Please."
Jesus is looking at Daryl, so eager and just so fucking sincere even if slightly freaked out, and it just makes Daryl want to tell him. To open up about things he's never told anyone. Totalk, really talk.
Instead Daryl snaps and pushes him into a tree as lavenders and angry petunias gain life; colorful and vibrant flowers to represent stormy emotions. Jesus seems so shocked at this that he barely reacts, throwing his hands up.
"I ain't one of yer curiosities, ain't some freak show for you to stare," even if he is, "I don't care what you think of me," even if he does, "so just shut the fuck up and be quiet for once. You don' gotta understand shit."
They stare at each other, eye to eye, a whole conversation happening almost fully through looks. Maybe Jesus sees something in his eyes, maybe his words finally sink in, because the next words that come out of his mouth are:
"You're right."
The flowers wither together with his anger, and he lets go of where he's holding Jesus by his shirt, confusion clear in his face but the other isn't done talking yet.
"I know that, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound… I've never seen anything like it before, so I didn't think. I'm sorry." Jesus takes a step forward when Daryl takes one back, trying his best to show he's sincere. "And if it means something, I don't think you're a freak and I don't think it makes you one. I think it makes you special, somehow."
The peonies come again together with his blush, but they don't make the distrust go away. Daryl doesn't believe him. Can't believe him, really.
He's not special, no, he's cursed.
But Jesus doesn't know that.
"It's pretty cool to be honest. And the flowers! They're so pretty, and really, who doesn't like flowers? So… I'm sorry I pushed and made you uncomfortable."
Daryl nods, unsure. He doesn't know how to answer the man, how to process any of it, but he's thankful to see the honesty on the other's face. So instead he turns and walks a couple of minutes until he finds what he's been looking for: the road.
When he looks back, Jesus is smiling again. Daryl doesn't know what to do with that either.
"Done helped ya find the road, now you can go."
Jesus steps out of the woods, sun making his hair shine gold now that the trees no longer hide it. "If I come back—"
"Don't."
"If I come back," he repeats, the flirting tone back in his voice as if none of the mess happened at all, "will you be here?"
It takes everything inside of him to not get flustered again, to not get hopeful. Instead Daryl reminds himself exactly why meeting the man again is a bad idea and why he can't. It'll be best for him - for both of them - if Jesus stays as far away as possible.
He doesn't need the trouble.
"No," Daryl lies, and orange mocks bloom in deceit, hidden away in his palms, "now go home and leave me alone."
Jesus chuckles, as if he knows. "We'll see. Bye, Daryl! Thanks again for helping me out."
Daryl tells himself, as he watches him go away, that it's the last time he'll ever see the man; there's no reason for him to hope for otherwise. Nobody ever came back for him, so why would a complete stranger?
He tells himself it's good riddance. He can finally have some peace and go back to his routine.
Repeats it so much he almost believes it.
...
And, of course, Jesus comes back.
Daryl tries to ignore it the best he can and keep his way until he realizes the prick likely got lost again, given his tracks. Goddammit. It only takes him a couple of minutes to find the man and when he does, Jesus is sitting on a fallen tree's trunk and drinking a bottle of water. Almost at home.
Waiting for him.
Goddammit.
"The fuck you doin' here again?" Daryl asks instead of saying hello, mostly for show than anything, "Stop gettin' lost, I won't help ya every time. Damn city slicker, stomping around like an elephant and leaving tracks everywhere, scaring the game."
Jesus smiles brightly at him. "You calling me fat, Dixon?"
"I'm callin' ya careless, an' stupid. Showing your face around here again."
"I wanted to see you."
Daryl doesn't have to look to know purple flowers bloomed somewhere - knows himself too well not to - so he ignores them. He ignores more than just that.
He snorts instead. "Right. Bullshit."
"Hey, I'm saying the truth. But good to know I didn't hallucinate the whole thing." Jesus looks at the flowers near him, awe on his face. "Those are lavenders, right? The purple ones? I've seen them before, yesterday. Why do they bloom?"
Because I don't trust you, he doesn't say. "They just do."
"Right, ok. And the other one? They're different." He points at the joyful delphiniums. "There must be a reason, right? I mean, why those specific flowers?"
"Ain't none of yer business. They just do."
"How does it work though?"
"Don't know, don't care. If all yer here for is them stupid flowers I can show you the way back," Daryl answers curtly, already getting impatient. "Ain't telling you shit."
Of course Jesus isn't here for him, not really.
"Was worth a try." He shrugs, sounding nonchalant, and his smile stays on. "So, what do you usually do around here?"
Daryl stares, not knowing what to do with that reaction. In spite of himself, slowly one by one the lavenders die out being replaced by more joyful flowers. He doesn't want to admit he's happy at that, because he isn't, but his heart won't let him lie to himself.
"Huntin'."
"Yeah, I know that, but besides hunting. What can we do? How do you have fun? There must be something you enjoy doing. Show me."
There's not really much to do in the woods; Daryl imagines Jesus will likely get pretty bored quickly around here, around him, being from the city and all. He should want that - want Jesus to leave and never return. But he doesn't.
For some reason, Daryl wants him to stay. To enjoy being around.
He's been alone for far too long.
Agrimonies bloom near both of them as Daryl watches Jesus put his water bottle back in his bag together with the handkerchief he apparently was sitting on, ready to follow the hunter wherever he goes - little yellow flowers to show his thankfulness. The silence stays for more than necessary before Daryl awkwardly cleans his throat.
"Ain't do much," he says, and as soon as Jesus' face falls he completes hurried, "but I can teach ya how to hunt, if you want. So you ain't so useless all alone. Ever eat a rabbit?"
Jesus laughs, unoffended.
"If I promise to give it a try, will you let me bring a deck of cards or something next time?"
Next time, his traitor mind repeats. There'll be a next time.
"Maybe," Daryl jokes with a hint of a smile.
"Come on then, show me how to get Bambi's mom."
Turns out, Jesus can't hunt for shit. He manages to keep scaring the game away until Daryl scolds him, and he keeps losing his hold on the crossbow no matter how much the hunter adjusts his arms for him, but Daryl was expecting that already. Nobody is good on the first try.
They still manage to bag two rabbits and Jesus seems to have fun, if the smiles he keeps throwing his way says anything.
That's what matters.
Flowers still grow, but Jesus doesn't pry again; he doesn't stare at Daryl weirdly, doesn't ask anything else. Instead he compliments the flowers with a soft smile on his face, touching the petals but never picking at it, never pulling any of them. It shouldn't mean so much to him, some hippy prick accepting this part of Daryl. But it does.
God, it does.
Somehow Jesus stays until the night comes as they sit around a makeshift fire, trading harmless stories. He tells Daryl about the things he's seen, the cities he's gone, the people he's met - always managing to get a reaction out of the hunter. In place Daryl tells him a little bit of his own ones.
"No way you saw the Chupacabra, I don't believe it!"
"I'm tellin' ya, I did. The ugly sonuvabitch was right in front of me," Daryl defends his story, remembering the day clearly - or, well, as clearly as he could. "Right here in these woods."
"You're pulling my leg."
"Merle says it was them shrooms, but that's bull. I know what I saw, ok?! I saw that blood-suckin' thing with my own eyes. It was real, and it was ugly."
"Shrooms?" Jesus has a wide smile now and amusement clear in his eyes. "Well, now it makes sense."
The man's sitting next to him on a log while Daryl's on the ground, Jesus' hand stroking one of the affectionate Stock flowers that surrounds them together with a few lilies of the valley. He doesn't comment on it, instead he stares right at him and smiles.
"Fuck off," Daryl complains in mock offense, kicking the tip of Jesus' boot with his own and making the other laugh.
Jesus throws his hands up in surrender, still chuckling to himself like the dumbass he is. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I believe you," he assures. A few seconds later he asks more softly. "Who's Merle?"
"My brother," is the only answer that he gives.
Maybe Jesus sees something on his expression because he doesn't ask anything else, instead starting another one of his stories about some douche named Gregory and something about a pregnant lady; Daryl doesn't follow it very well, but it still makes him snort entertained at times as the weird mood disappears like it was never there. Jesus is good at that.
When Daryl tells him about the time he got lost in the woods, the other seems worried for his past self. It's touching, really, even if it wasn't the reaction he was looking for. Nobody ever cared about it before.
The prick still laughs at his itchy ass though.
Overall, it's the happiest and most relaxed Daryl's felt in a long, long time. There's no threat when he finally walks Jesus back to the road, only quiet goodbyes and a promise for more, and delphiniums join him once more.
...
It ends up becoming a thing for the two.
Jesus shows up in the woods and waits until Daryl finds him, everyday at first then three or two times a week. Daryl complains halfheartedly about it yet every single time he allows Jesus to follow him, smiling, as flowers bloom from every footprint they leave behind.
It's routine, now. It's them.
And Daryl doesn't know how to feel about it.
The days where Jesus doesn't come Daryl refuses to let himself feel sad over it. Even when mushrooms and dead leaves taunt him, he keeps his head firm, ignoring them. Daryl'd been alone most of his life, he's not going to start caring now.
And he doesn't.
He also definitely doesn't scout the woods all over looking for signs of the man.
...
Daryl ends up allowing Jesus to ask questions even if he rarely ever answers them, and the man has taken as a job to come up with crazy theories as to why it happens going from superpowers - "What a shit ass superhero would that be?" - to a blessing and even goddamn fairies, taking inspiration from comic books and folklore.
"Maybe you're Jesus, who knows?" the prick jokes once.
Daryl doesn't see the point of thinking about it, considering it a waste of time and dismissing the questions of why. He's not special, he's not blessed.
It's a curse, as simple as that, and he's accepted it long before.
But Jesus disagrees.
And as the days go past, one by one, the flowers change blooming instead ones that had never before.
It's when Jesus smiles wide and radiant, face slightly flushed from being under the Georgian sun, that purple lilacs appear. Taunting Daryl with the growing feelings that he didn't want to face and admit. He keeps his denial over them, even when the flowers show him what a bunch of bullshit that is.
He ain't—he can't.
And so he won't.
Or so Daryl fools himself.
...
The first time Jesus follows him back home to the cabin where he lives, with the first tellings of rain threatening them, Daryl isn't exactly happy about it. Peonies and cautionary oleanders accompany the duo as proof of that. He'd been avoiding this for a reason: it screams redneck trash.
Daryl doesn't want Jesus to see how he lives, to see what kind of life it is.
But the man doesn't seem to notice his reluctance, instead choosing to keep it light by pestering Daryl every three seconds asking where they're going and if it's near already.
"Is this when you reveal to me that you're secretly an axe murderer and that you're taking me somewhere to kill me?"
"I wish," Daryl huffs.
"Aw, don't say that! You know you'd miss me too much." He nudges the hunter with his shoulder, smiling teasingly. "Who else would keep you company and win against you on Gin?"
"Ya mean talk my ear off against my will an' cheat?"
"Whatever you want to call it, Daryl. Whatever you want to call it."
When they get there it's almost as if he was seeing the small run-down cabin for the first time: he could see every flaw, every ugliness, as the back of his neck burned with shame. The moss on the roof, the clear lack of care of the wooden walls and even places that had broken up or rotted. The entire place was in need for repair.
For the first time in his life ever since he was a kid Daryl wishes he had something better going on his life.
Daryl'd never been one to complain or desire after what he couldn't have, always took what he could get and survive with. But a nicer house, one he could show Jesus with pride and actually feel like it's a home, instead of just a place where he sleeps, well… he can see the appeal of it now as he pointedly doesn't look at Jesus and instead plays with the flowers on his arms.
"You live here?"
He ignores how hot his face gets and nods in answer, but Jesus seems to realize how it sounded and backtracks.
"I was almost sure you lived in the middle of the woods, like a guardian or something," he explains. "Now I have to scratch that from my list of theories. Damn, it was a good guess."
Daryl throws leaves at him, huffing. "Dumbass."
But the flowers bloom pleased anyway.
And it ends up becoming normal for Jesus to show up at his house, having learned how to get around the woods a while ago.
Sometimes they just sit on the porch and talk, sometimes Jesus brings food or they'll eat whatever Daryl's either hunted or managed to coach the other into catching; Jesus will whine about eating what once was a fluffy white rabbit but always downs the meat anyway, moaning at the flavor and making pleased poppies bloom as red as Daryl's face.
They play cards and even chess once, bantering as the game goes on. Usually it ends with Jesus winning, or Daryl angrily calling it quits and accusing the other of cheating. Not that he ever has any proof against him, the prick was damn good at it, but he knows. He just knows it, mints growing in suspicion at every game.
And by the fake innocent look Jesus gives him every single time he's accused, Daryl is right.
"I'll get you one day fer it, just wait. Don't think ya fooled me with them puppy eyes," he says one day grumpily in response to it, but his threats only make the other laugh and laugh, entirely too amused by it. "I will!"
"I'm counting on it, Daryl."
He ends up losing - again - but it's worth it even through the exaggerated indignation if only for the fun they have at it, and the cocky smirk Jesus sends his way at the victory which just makes him huff and give him the middle finger.
It's a different kind of peace Daryl never had, the days he spends with Paul. Those days...
Those days almost feel like home.
And Daryl's starting to fear for when the next shoe will drop.
...
It's in another rainy afternoon that Jesus speaks up. "What's the name of that flower? The white one?"
He seems hesitant about it, as if Daryl might refuse to answer - which he's done quite a few times - or get offended. Daryl has to look back at the flowers to make sure there's nothing wrong or suspicious about them; they'd been joking around before that and Daryl had managed to make Jesus lose his breath laughing, face flushed and all, and he knows exactly what flower it is before he even sees it.
"Gardenia, why?"
"They're beautiful," Jesus answers. Which is true, they are, but Daryl knows the other well enough now to know he's stalling so he keeps staring at him, waiting. It's not longer before Jesus sighs and continues. "I just—they grow depending on your feelings, right? On your mood? And flowers have their own language so I thought I'd try to learn it. I want to understand what they mean and what they represent to you."
The admission leaves Daryl not knowing how to react. "Oh."
"You never wondered?"
Daryl didn't need to - he knows exactly what his flowers mean. He knows every name, every meaning.
Daryl remembers sitting in an old and dusty library with Merle, the only person who ever really accepted and tried to understand him before, learning all about flowers from one of the big books there. They'd joke about some, get quiet and pensive about others. But Daryl remembers memorizing each page with all the attention he could manage, desperate to understand, devouring the information even of the ones he didn't think he'd ever bloom.
Like this one.
'Gardenia: secret love, joy, 'you're lovely' and/or sweet love.'
The memory seems to mock him now, leaving a bad taste in his mouth as he thinks about Jesus finding out about his—about him. Daryl wishes he had denied an answer, that he knew before he'd given out the name.
But the fact that Jesus is willing to do it. Not just willing, really, but thought of it on his own...
"Are you…" Jesus starts once the silence had gone on for too long, hesitance now back at full strength and his face contorted in worry. "Are you ok with that? Because I won't if it makes you uncomfortable, I get it."
He can't say no.
Daryl shrugs, trying his best to not sound bothered. "Yeah, if you wanna. 'S whatever to me."
The relief is instant and soon enough that damn endearing smile is back on the other's face like it never left, making even more flowers bloom around them as Daryl ignores both his worries and the warmth inside of him.
"That's great! I found a book a while ago but it doesn't have pictures, which seems a bit of an oversight if you ask me, and I wasn't sure if you'd agree to it. I remembered some, like lavender and petunia. My mom used to like them, y'know, before." Before the group home, he doesn't need to add. Daryl nods when Jesus trails off for a bit. "But that didn't give me a lot, I already knew more or less what they meant."
"My ma liked them too," Daryl's voice is quiet as he shares it, almost as if to himself, but Jesus looks at him attentively regardless of that. "Used ta smile whenever she saw them flowers, callin' them miracles."
It goes silent for a bit before Jesus asks, softly. "Do you miss her?"
"I didn't know her much, used to hit her waist by the time she wen' up in smokes. Not a lot to remember."
Even as he tries to shrug it off a single grieving aloe still grows by their feet. Jesus doesn't mention it, doesn't say anything else, but the hand on his shoulder stays there for long a while.
...
Jesus starts writing down the name of the flowers every now and then, and Daryl tries his best to not think about that and what it entails. He tries and tries and fails every time. The prospect terrifying to even try to imagine.
It's a question of time, he knows, but he still tries to keep his denial until then.
Maybe if he doesn't think Daryl can enjoy the time he has left with Jesus before things go sour. That's enough for him, it has to be. For good things never last, even his flowers follow that rule, so why wouldn't Jesus?
So Daryl answers with the name of his flowers, knowing very well he was dooming himself for later, and ignores the hopeless yellow tulips that bloom each time he does so.
...
Jesus ends up being a somewhat decent hunter after a while.
He can be quiet when necessary, a discipline to him that Daryl didn't know the prick had, but he's still far from good. Jesus hesitates before most shots, and bemoans the death of his preys even as they eat most of it later to avoid waste. Doesn't enjoy skinning either, going green on the face when watching Daryl do it instead.
A damn city slicker.
But still, the man learns how to track fast and is surprisingly good at traps. It's fun to watch him go at it, barely even looking back at Daryl for reassurance as he works with confidence. Daryl is almost proud.
"Honestly, I never imagined hunting could be this fun."
"An' useful," Daryl reminds him.
"Sure, useful." There's a twinkle in Jesus' eyes as he agrees easily. "I'm certain it'll save our lives when supermarkets and food delivery stop being a thing and society falls apart." He dodges as Daryl goes for his ankles, laughing.
"Or maybe when you get yer dumb ass lost in them woods again."
"That too."
Daryl shakes his head, entirely too amused by Jesus' attics, as fond stocks and joyful delphiniums flowers bloom all around. "At least now ya finally learned how ta hold the crossbow right."
"Unfortunately," Jesus agrees in mock-mourning. "Now you won't hold me to adjust it anymore."
This time he doesn't escape Daryl's kick.
...
"You don't really talk about your father," Jesus brings up one day. "You've told me about your mom and even Merle, but never him."
They've been sitting in silence until then, watching the quiet rain at the end of the day and drinking a beer or two with the crappy chinese Jesus got them. It's one of those days, Daryl knows, where the chatterbox is silent and observant instead but still gets to him all the same.
The days where it all just feel so personal and intimate, everything they do and every look they share, leaving Daryl not knowing how to react except to be honest.
"Not much to say, the old man was a piece of shit."
The question comes at the same time resentful petunias and indifferent candytufts bloom. "When did he die?"
"While ago," Daryl dismisses, not dishonest but not wanting to get into details either, "hunting accident."
Jesus nods, looking back at the rain where the flowers now stand. He seems to think for a while, hesitant, before putting aside the take-out box he's eating from. Daryl's still not looking at him but the hunter rarely is; sometimes he feels like Jesus can see into his soul when they look at each other and so he avoids it when he can.
"And Merle?"
A snort. "Sonuvabitch's alive, ain't nothing kill a Dixon but a Dixon. He's in prison." He feels Jesus' attention snap back at him and continues before the other can question it. "Hunting accident," Daryl explains with morbid humor.
"Oh."
"Yeah, exactly."
He remembers that day. They thought nobody would miss Will enough that maybe Merle would get away with it, but with Daryl looking the way he was and the fight hours before it wasn't long before the pigs took him in custody, and with the risk of going so public being too much Daryl hadn't even been able to testify.
Merle went down, his shitty public lawyer not being able to help much given his past records, and he went down hard.
And it was all Daryl's fault.
"I'm sorry, Daryl."
Jesus doesn't say anything else, but maybe he understands it from the detached way Daryl described his father's death, or the way otherwise he never speaks of him. He puts his hand on top of Daryl's, grounding him and offering comfort as the hunter looks back at him, and they share a moment of silence together before going back to their food.
It makes something warm twist inside Daryl's heart, as a single red carnation blooms.
He pulls and crushes the offending flower as if it was the cause of all his problems before Jesus can notice it, hoping it had been a fluke and would never come back even as he knew otherwise.
...
Once the red carnation bloomed, however, they apparently refuse to leave him alone.
Taunting him whenever Jesus smiles or touches him in a certain way, never letting him forget about the feelings deep inside of him. Sometimes even when Jesus wasn't there - if he so much thought about the man the flowers would appear.
Daryl crushes every single one of them out of spite, angry both at them and at himself.
He refuses to tell Jesus the name, and as small mercies go the man seems to understand and back off, but that doesn't stop them from appearing and it doesn't help the fact that Daryl had fallen deep and hopelessly in love with the prick that refused to leave him alone.
And as much as he wants to deny it, the flowers don't allow it. Always a constant reminder of it.
The damn things.
He hates them now more than ever, more than anything, for what they won't let him ignore.
...
"So… I read the book. You know, the one about the language of flowers."
Daryl's heart stops, before coming back at full speed. He can feel his hands sweating as he closes them into fists and the daffodils that grow somewhere near. "Yeah?" At least his voice didn't shake, unlike himself.
He can't look at Jesus - he can't - so he does his best to act normal and pretends to be fixing his crossbow instead.
This is when Jesus will reject him, call him out for being the freak he is and tell him that even if he's gay he's not that desperate, and Daryl'll have ruined the only friendship he ever had by making the other uncomfortable. Jesus will laugh at him, or maybe he'll turn him down kindly with pity in his eyes.
Or worse: he won't, and then Daryl will be certain he's everything his father ever accused him of being.
Daryl doesn't know which is worse to think about.
"Yeah," Jesus says, and his voice does shake slightly. "A while ago, actually, but I wasn't sure how to… I didn't know if…" There's movement on the corner of his eyes where Jesus fidgets and moves around nervously when Daryl doesn't say anything or looks up. "You flowers don't lie, do they?"
He knows what Jesus is trying to do, giving him a way out. But he doesn't take it. He can't.
"No."
"Oh." It almost sounds as if Jesus had been expecting it. "Daryl, can you look at me?"
Daryl doesn't answer - doesn't look up, either. Instead he keeps cleaning a spot on his crossbow that has nothing on it and might soon enough even lose color from the way he keeps scratching at it giving all of his focus.
This is where the rejection comes, he knows.
"Please? I know. I already know, so please look at me, Daryl." Jesus begs, and Daryl does it already expecting disgust. Expecting the pity that comes with the 'I'm sorry, but I can't'. He prepares himself for the rejection.
Instead full lips meet his, more touching than kissing him, as his mind tries to work around what's happening and why. Only when Jesus hands cups his cheeks that he kisses back, eagerness making up for inexperience and losing himself to the soft gesture. It's so, so perfect.
So Jesus.
So—
A crash noise as he drops his crossbow.
—Wrong.
"I didn't raise no faggot, boy, now ya better stop that shit before I kick yer teeth in!"
Daryl gets away from the man, almost pushing him in the process, and stares in shock. Frozen. Words once yelled at him haunting his mind, taunting him so loudly he could swear they were being shouted right by his ear. He couldn't stop them, he couldn't, fear icing his heart as he looked at Jesus' worried expression.
"I see ya, with yer flowey bullshit an' stinky eyes. You thin' ya fool me? Yer nothin' but a freak, a worthless piece of shit queer! Come back here now, son, I ain't done with ya yet!"
No.
"Daryl? Are you ok, did I do something—?"
Soft hands touch his arms but all he knows are the rough ones that grabbed him instead, the ones that punched, that shook, that whipped, that hurt. Daryl flinches, hard, and pushes the hands away from him.
"What do ya mean, lil' brother? You some kind of fag now? Is that what ol' Merle is hearin'?"
He lets out a wounded snarl. "Go away!"
"Daryl?"
"Ain't no son of mine. I knew I shoulda killed ya the moment yer ma spat yer weak ass outta her. An abomination, that's what ya are!"
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Daryl?" someone repeats, and suddenly Daryl sees him again.
Jesus.
But the anger is too much, rotting him inside and not letting him think; old fears and words blinding him.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Leave me the fuck alone. I don't wan' ya here, I don't wan' you," Daryl yells, face and words as cruel as the marigolds in his arms, harsh lies coming out of his mouth as orange mocks and petunias bloom all around. "So why don't you get the fuck out of here, fag—"
"Ya ain't no queer, lil' brother, not under my watch ya ain't."
"Because I ain't no queer," his voice shakes as he sneers, repeating words that aren't his, and he doesn't stop. He can't stop. "I jus' wanna be alone. So leave."
Daryl's breath is too heavy and unstable but he doesn't care as he waits for a response.
"Ok."
He looks up, startled, and Jesus' face almost makes him cry. It hurts more than any of his family's words, any of the hits or scars. Because that… that he did himself, on someone he loved. He caused that pain himself.
Jesus' cold voice hurts even more.
"I'm going now," he say, collected, "I'm sorry you feel that way, and I'm sorry that I offended you."
Daryl doesn't watch as the other grabs his stuff, cursing under his breath as his shaky hands drop his bag more than once, and he doesn't look up again to see if Jesus' hitched breath meant what he thinks it meant. Instead he stares at the ground and the flowers, like the coward he is, and waits.
"Goodbye, Daryl."
He doesn't say it back.
He doesn't look as Jesus leaves either.
It's long before he comes back to himself, on his knees crying as if he'd been opened inside out, and the guilt and heartbreak and hurt aches all over. Jesus left, and it was his fault. What had he done? Why?
He left, he left, he left.
"I don't think you're a freak," Jesus had told him when they first met. And maybe he's right.
Maybe Daryl isn't a freak.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to the wind, voice broken from the crying and yelling, "I'm so sorry."
But that doesn't mean he's any less of a monster.
...
Jesus stops coming.
For weeks, there's nothing of Jesus. Daryl looks in every corner of the woods, every path. He looks and looks and looks, and waits. But there's nothing: Jesus vanished completely from his life, as if he'd never came at all.
And with him, so do the flowers.
They simply stop, withering away from the moment he first wakes up after that day and never growing again. No dead leaves, no petunias, no rue or bellflower or even yellow roses for his broken heart.
Even when he trashes things around in anger, even when he cries at night. Even when he thinks about the little shit who stole his heart. There's nothing.
Nothing blooms.
Not a single flower.
It should be freeing. He should be happy, he's finally normal now. No more flowers to taunt him about feelings he'd rather ignore, no more being a freak. No more curse. It should feel good.
Instead he feels incomplete.
...
The first days are void of everything. When the guilt and self-loathing isn't killing him slowly, leaving a trail of burn marks on his hand now that he has no flowers to pull, he's numb. Dead inside.
Then comes the anger, then the despair.
The pain.
Loneliness hurts now that he has to relearn how to get used to it again - now that he finally knows what it's like to not feel completely alone. But he does.
Slowly, he relearns to be alone.
He gets back to his routine, drowns himself in hunts and traps even managing to go to the city to sell some stuff with no flowers to follow him there. After a few days he stops walking around the woods looking for the other, knowing he likely went to the next town - to the next curiosity.
He lost his chance.
Not by being a freak like he had feared, but by being something worse: a Dixon. And Dixons destroy everything they touch, cursed by their own nature and the cycle of it.
And Jesus ain't ever coming back.
...
But he does.
Jesus has the annoying, utterly endearing, habit of always coming back.
He surprises him again when, as Daryl's coming back to his cabin with a deer in hands, only to see the other waiting for him sitting at his door. Face calm, with no tellings of what's in his mind. It takes Daryl a second to gain courage to keep his path.
They don't say anything as Daryl gets near him and Jesus gets up, just look at each other hesitantly, before the hunter speaks up.
"Thought ya had skipped town."
"I told you that you wouldn't get rid of me that easily, Daryl. Didn't I make that clear?" Jesus tries to joke, though his face and tone is all wrong. He sighs. "I thought about it, but I couldn't." The answer doesn't surprises Daryl, though it hurts all the same. "Did you want me to?"
"No. No, I didn't." He looks down, ashamed. "Jesus, I'm—"
The other interrupts: "Paul."
"Wha'?"
"Call me Paul."
Daryl nods. "Paul." It shouldn't feel so freeing to say that name out loud, so intimate. "I'm sorry, alrigh'? I'm an asshole, I know that. I didn't—I just—I'm sorry. Ya didn't deserve that, none of it."
"I know. You didn't either," Paul says, making Daryl stare at him confused. "Those words, they didn't sound like you. It sounded like it was something said to you. I hoped… I hoped it was that, at least, instead of you meaning it."
"It was. I'm sorry."
"It's ok, Daryl. Well, it isn't, but I get it. I do. I shouldn't have just kissed you without talking first either, I knew I was pushing you a bit and I still did it. So, I apologize too."
What? "Nah, ya didn't do nothing wrong. 'S me."
"I did, though. I saw you weren't ok and ignored it as fear of rejection. That's on me, Daryl, I should've known better. I'm sorry."
"Yer sorry ya kissed me?" he asks bashful, already thinking the worst.
"No, not at all. I'm sorry we didn't talk before, and what happened after. Those few weeks were a nightmare, I was always so careful to not get attached and then you just… yeah. But I feel the same, you must know that."
Daryl stares at him, dumbfounded. Liked him, maybe. He could see that. But loving him?
"Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you except me, lil' brother."
He can't see that. It'd be too good for him, too much. Why would he? Daryl waits for the catch as Paul comes near him, cupping his cheek with one hand so close he could feel the man's breath. Almost there, almost—
"Daryl, can I kiss you?"
"Yeah. Please."
That kiss is nothing like their first, now that Daryl had been expecting it. It's soft and sweet even as they kiss with their whole body, molding into each other. Daryl's completely lost to the sensation before he feels something on his hand, making him move away slightly, confused.
"I love you too, Daryl," Paul whispers as Daryl looks at the two small white rainflowers tied together Paul had handed him.
Flowers appear everywhere in an explosion - around the two, in his arms, even on his hair - so suddenly it startled both of them and made Daryl flush red. No bloom had ever been so violent before or so… all over the place. He pulls one to look at, curious.
A small chuckle. "Ambrosia."
"Interesting flower you got there," Paul tries to tease, though he looks too awestruck for it to count. "Ambrosia: love is reciprocated. Does that mean you believe me now?"
"Yeah…" He stares at the flowers in his hand - ambrosia and rainflowers, together - and smiles, looking up at Paul as more bloom on his hair, this time red carnations, to help complete the crooked crown there with the others. "I believe ya."
"You're adorable," Jesus says, his laughter filling Daryl's heart with warmth. "I missed the flowers."
His answer is almost a whisper, a revelation that only when he says out loud he realizes how true it is. "I did too."
The other looks at him, still smiling but confused, and plays with the flowers on his hair seemingly pleased at the ridiculous sight. A twinkle of happiness in his eyes that Daryl will forever be grateful to see.
"They stopped, after ya left. No more flowers 'til now. For the first time in my life, they jus' stopped."
"Do you know why?"
Because my heart went away with you.
"Who gives a shit?" he asks instead, sneaking his arms around Paul as he pulls him closer, face-to-face. "You're here."
"I am indeed. What are you going to do about it?"
"This."
And he closes the gap between them.
...
They kiss and kiss, happiness flooding Daryl as they make love in a bed of orange lilies and roses, desire and love being shared by every touch, every kiss, as they melt together into one. Sensual, and breathless, and awkward, and perfect and imperfect. They laugh as a flower or two stabs them a bit, but soon it's muffled away as their mouths touch again.
Leaving trails with their mouths and fingers, marks to see the next day and just know it was all real.
Know they're each other's.
Jesus is on his knees, and isn't that ironic, as he worships Daryl. His mouth on him as he makes the hunter see stars, each hitched breath and each groan making more and more flowers bloom all over Daryl and around them. Paul doesn't seem to mind, one hand caressing a rose and the other holds his thigh open, as Daryl loses himself to it.
Though his actions are of a starving man, Paul touches Daryl as if he's something to adore, as if he's as precious as the flowers he blooms, treating him in such way he'd never thought anyone ever would: devote.
In love.
"Please," he begs, his quiet and desperate pleads encouraging the man between his legs. "C'mon, please. Fuck!"
Paul winks and moves away slightly so he can tease. "Maybe later!" Making Daryl blush furiously as red as his flowers as his hips hitch forward without his consent, needing more. Needing everything: Paul's mouth, his touches and his love. And then he's back at it, mouth driving Daryl insane as he cries for more.
Daryl can't look away from the man, watching his movements with hunger as he claws at the blankets. "Paul!"
"Tell me what you want, Daryl," Paul says against soft sensitive skin, his lips touching him just enough to be torture but not enough to give him release. The fuckin' prick. "Come on, love, tell me?"
For you to stop teasing.
For you to touch.
For you to—
"You!" The groan that leaves him is loud and hoarse, so much that he barely recognizes his own voice drowned in so much lust. "I wan' you—fuck—please, Paul, I wan' you!"
He's taken so deep - so, so deep, - that for a second he's not sure if the world stopped or if it's just him, just the two of them together, and he can't take it anymore. Bliss hits Daryl as he releases down Paul's throat and the other just take it, moaning around him happily as he swallows it all to the last drop.
"Goddammit," he lets out, breathless and with jelly bones. "I—I've never—"
"I know. You were perfect. So perfect, Daryl, so good for me."
They kiss again, slow as if they have all the time in the world, and Daryl can taste himself on Paul's mouth. He moans, wanting to taste more, wondering if Paul's would be the same.
Wondering how the two would taste together.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," one of them whispers to the other, and Daryl doesn't know anymore which of one of them it is. It might've been him, overwhelmed by everything and so damn happy. It likely was.
Or it could be Paul, filling his ears with encouragement and moans to drown out any of the remaining shame inside of him as they move together in a bed filled almost entirely by their bloomed feelings, bright colors against pale and tanned skins.
Either way it's perfect, it's them.
And he loves every single second of it.
...
They lay there together, utterly exhausted and still speechless from what they've done, time seemingly going slow just so they can enjoy their time together and not let it end so soon. Not ready to let it end, wanting to keep the walking-on-clouds feeling alive for a little longer.
There's tenderness in their touches, there's love, and even in the afterglow of sex Daryl's heart can't help but jump at the thought, entirely too enamoured by it.
"I'm glad you found me."
Daryl's back is exposed, history being told through old wounds that Paul can read from where he is caressing him, seemingly paying attention to every single mark before giving it a kiss, as small snowdrops bloom from each scar.
Hope.
For himself, for the future, for them.
"An' I'm glad ya didn't leave me alone, prick."