(Reserved for Satyr)
Halwyn was bored. Excruciatingly, frustratingly bored. And for Halwyn, boredom felt a lot like quicksand; if he stood in it for too long, he feared he'd sink. As soon as night had fallen, he'd stepped outside and began roaming the city, dressed simply in a black button-up shirt, dark washed jeans and motorcycle boots.
After two years, Sachi's novelty had finally worn off. He went through the motions, smiling and laughing when she did something that he’d once found adorable and endearing, but it felt hollow.
He felt hollow.
Lazarus, if he hadn’t fucked off to wherever he'd fucked off to, probably would've rolled his eyes at his predicament, pointing out that he only had himself to blame, seeing as how he was fucking a woman. Not that there’d been much of that going on, given his other predicament. He cringed, because he could imagine what the Ancient would say if he knew.
Really, love? Can't get it up?
Fuck him. He wasn't even there, and what the fuck did he know, anyway? He just... wasn't interested in Sachi anymore.
Halwyn continued without real purpose, his lips set grimly. He supposed he was searching for something that could stimulate him, but with his head down and his eyes riveted to the ground, it wasn't anything he saw that made him stop and finally look up - it was the indisputable scent of flowers.
Next to the path he'd stumbled upon, there was a stout little plant with bright yellow flowers that had recently unfurled to greet the night. Nine o'clocks, his mother had called them. Despite their name, they rarely opened exactly at nine (as a child, he'd sometimes spent hours waiting for the vivid yellow petals to reveal themselves in front of his eager eyes), and he was saddened that they'd all opened already. Then another cloying fragrance wafted past and he was moving again, so focused on finding the roses he smelled that he didn't register he was only walking farther onto private property or that, briefly, there was another's presence in his mind.
His doggedness paid off, because there, within one of the larger greenhouses he'd seen in the city, were easily hundreds of different flowers - many he'd never encountered before. But it was the roses that drew him close, had him cradling blooms gently between his palms so he didn't bruise their delicate petals and leaning over to inhale deeply.
They smelled like memories.