[ Valentine’s day. Not a day that Luther’s ever in his life had an excuse or a reason to celebrate, and never, in his life, had a person that he’s wanted to celebrate it with—
Except for one.
Except that’s not what they are to each other, except that the cities and shops and screens are overflowing with persistent ads for the holiday (closed off from the media his whole life, he never realised how irritating advertising could be). And there’s lingering memories from the City, ones that he can’t quite see clearly but which leave Luther with a restless nagging instinct. Like there’s something he forgot to do. Like there’s something missing.
And in the end, it’s not really a big gesture. It’s not the locket. And he doesn’t think he’s very good at gestures anyway. (This is the boy who, once upon a time, brought an axe to a romantic picnic, just in case.) But Luther uses his teleportation ability for a hop, skip, and a jump southward, to warmer climes, where spring’s sunk in its teeth properly, and he finds a patch of wildflowers and he picks a few. Takes them home. Wraps them up in twine.
Deposits the simple bouquet on Allison’s bed, when she’s not around. He doesn’t label it; there isn’t really anyone else left, nobody else that this might have come from. ]
a delivery.
Except for one.
Except that’s not what they are to each other, except that the cities and shops and screens are overflowing with persistent ads for the holiday (closed off from the media his whole life, he never realised how irritating advertising could be). And there’s lingering memories from the City, ones that he can’t quite see clearly but which leave Luther with a restless nagging instinct. Like there’s something he forgot to do. Like there’s something missing.
And in the end, it’s not really a big gesture. It’s not the locket. And he doesn’t think he’s very good at gestures anyway. (This is the boy who, once upon a time, brought an axe to a romantic picnic, just in case.) But Luther uses his teleportation ability for a hop, skip, and a jump southward, to warmer climes, where spring’s sunk in its teeth properly, and he finds a patch of wildflowers and he picks a few. Takes them home. Wraps them up in twine.
Deposits the simple bouquet on Allison’s bed, when she’s not around. He doesn’t label it; there isn’t really anyone else left, nobody else that this might have come from. ]