Akio sucked his bloody ring finger. "Hiro, I think you forgot to take off the thorns—Hiro?"
Hiro had slumped to the kitchen floor. His face turned cold and frozen, almost like the metal it was shaped from. He didn't care to smash windows and walls like he did with the oleander's birth. There was nothing left, not even an ounce of resentment, within the man. What a sting; he worked endlessly for the past month, actually enjoying himself, only to create a weaponized flower. A weaponized flower, dammit. He gave Akio, the most important person in the world, a deadly rose. He could hear the world laughing at him from all sides, its plan to topple Hiro's dreams complete.
"Hiro?" Akio said, kneeling beside him.
"Why can't I do anything right?" Hiro droned.
"Hiro, come on. Look, it's just a little bit of blood."
The robot-man was stuck in another world. "I guess I am doing things right. I'm a killing machine, after all. I'm made to harm, so whatever I make will harm people, too. It's only right. Prime directive."
"Hiro, I'm fine, you're fine, everything will be okay—"
"If I was made with two hands, then I was supposed to do something with them. What are my options?" Hiro whispered, staring at his gloved hands. "To kill?"
"A bandage will fix—"
"Or to press my self-destruct button—"
A sharp slap stopped Hiro mid-sentence. A little spot of blood from Akio's finger splattered on Hiro's flaming red cheek. Akio was willing to deal with Hiro waking up at insane hours to toil away in the shed. He also tolerated Hiro feeling as though he needed to hide his hobby. But this suicide thing again? Serious or not, Akio wasn't letting Hiro wrestle with those thoughts alone. Besides that, Hiro looked so happy five minutes ago. The way he twirled in the door, the wild, raw excitement in his eyes, the volcanic, hot flow of stuttered words—it disappeared so soon. Akio couldn't help but feel as though he caused Hiro true sadness.
"For one, Hiro, I'm fine. The flower didn't actually hurt me, just the thorns. You didn't hurt me, either. Secondly, I'm not even sure you have a self-destruct button, but we're not going to find out, not at least while I'm still around."
"Akio, I gave you the rose. It's my fault," Hiro said, his eyes watering, "I should be punished for it."
"But, you meant for it to make me happy, right? I know you didn't say that, but I wouldn't expect anything else from you, Hiro. You always try to make me happy. Who could punish you for that? You might be a battle robot, yet you'd never hurt anyone on purpose unless they deserved it. You know that, Hiro, even if you think otherwise."
Hiro didn't respond. He merely leaned on Akio, whirring quietly. Akio stared at the rose on the floor. It looked less malicious now on the cold, expansive linoleum. The tender little petals begged to be stroked again.
"You know, it's funny how similar you and that rose are—don't panic, I don't mean it like that. You both have the capacity to hurt and to make me happy. I love roses. Their smell, all the colors. But, like we just saw, they could harm someone. You're the same way, but you have an advantage: choice," Akio murmured, "Yes, you're programmed to be dangerous and deadly and whatever. So why would your code even allow you to consider building a garden? Hiro, you can choose to kill or create. There's no extremes, either. You can hurt a few things, like bugs or grass, but still exist as someone who creates. You don't have to fall into the violent life your programmer imagined for you. For you, there's the capacity to be anything you want."
"Anything?" Hiro mumbled, more to himself than Akio.
"Anything, even a backyard gardener who wakes up at crazy hours. No, especially that—just look at how lovely this rose turned out. I'd really love to see more."
Again, Hiro offered nothing in response. He questioned his painful little project. Did it make him "happy"? At the start, he remembered feeling nothing but anger. The futility of reading all of those books, hauling all those dirty, circuit-clogging supplies, and chattering inanely to a bunch of deaf plants made his stomach turn. Yet, it was in the pursuit of Akio's joy. Then, too, Hiro became happier as time went on. Soon he was honestly having fun. In a sense, he rejected the pre-conceived movements of a gardener and learned to enjoy himself. Yes, Hiro realized with a jolt of electricity: he learned to enjoy himself. He could be Hiro, the serial slaughterer. Looking down at his gloved hands, Hiro, the rose lover, was equally as possible. Why give a killer two hands if they were not meant to do something with them? His creator gave him hands and directive, but wasn't around to tell him what to do.
Hiro stared up at the other man. "You'd like to see more? Like—"
"More roses, more daffodils, more everything and anything you want to throw at me," Akio said.
"Then I'll do it."
"For who? If it's just for me, then I'll just pick at Yuki's leftovers. That girl gets plenty of flowers, I'm sure she won't miss a few. Heck, I doubt she even wants the ones she has."
"I-I'll do it for both of us, half for my happiness, half for yours," Hiro said, shaking with joy and a little fear, "I'll grow you the prettiest flowers in the world, Akio."
The smaller man nodded and stood up. "That's good. Now, if you need me, I'll be finishing the dishes. Call me if you need a gardening assistant."
Hiro laughed, "I'll consider it. You'll need gloves, though…"
