It had been years, so long that in fact he had thought he forgot what it was like—-forgot the smell, and the name. Forgot, even, that those flowers had once been home. So to smell them now, in a place like Yorknew, with blood still drying against Kurapika’s black suit felt like an affront to who he had once been.
And yet there they were, bouquets hanging like corpses upside down in the butcher’s window. Had it been a different time, different scenario, perhaps it would have been nearly comical—a fanciful funeral for cows and pigs that had barely seen the sun. Instead, it was clear the real purpose they served: the scent of the flowers masked that of the meat.
Fitting, Kurapika thought as he tore down the street at a quick clip. It was not feelings of grief welling up inside, no, it was simply he had somewhere else he had to be—that was all. And if the smell of the flowers had lingered in his mind until he finally found rest at dawn, there was no correlation.
Bunches of unremarkable clumps of white petals had lined the pathways to each Kurta home by the start of spring, turning a pale pink from the sunlight and fading away before summer began, fleeting but beautiful . It was the change in color, from average to the reddish-pink hue that had given its association to the Kurtas.
Kurapika remembered as he lay silent in bed how his mother always warned him and Pairo not to pluck the flowers before they were ready. How she had scolded the blonde, far younger and less world-weary than he was now, after he brought a bright white bouquet to her early on in the season. He had been so eager to please, thinking it so simple to bring a smile to her face. Instead all he received was a look of sadness.
Over time he had learned, though, the flowers were not sacred in any truly religious sense but their continued survival held meaning. It was evidence of the care the families had taken not to accidentally trample over them, to ensure that even in dry springs that the plants survived. The persistence of these flowers had come to symbolize, in some way, the persistence of the clan.
The last time Kurapika had seen the petals they had been painted a different red.
The butcher stared at the cash that had been slammed down onto the table. He shouldn’t ask any questions, he knew better than to turn away money for something as simple as a few bunches of flowers, but the fierce eyes and severe expression the blonde in front of him wore raised a few questions.
“ ‘m not a florist,” he blinked a few times, letting out a nervous huff of laughter.
The blonde nodded slowly, “I know. But I would like those flowers.”
The butcher waited for a few moments, hoping that there would be more said—more of an explanation. Instead, all he received in return was a flat expression.
Leaning across the counter, he jerked his head his head over to the side, “I get ‘em from the shop few doors down. She’s probably still got some and will let you buy ‘em there.” Especially with that amount of money, he left unsaid.
“I would like the ones you have—would this not be enough money for you to re-purchase the flowers too?” The tone was ice cold, dripping with an assuredness of someone who would not be denied. If the butcher had any lingering questions on what kind career this stranger had to flaunt his cash so freely, they had been answered.
“Right.” Turning around warily, and doing his best to keep an eye on the stranger at all costs, the butcher took down the days old bunches of flowers. Even though up close the smell was still strong, it was not the same as it had been before. Worried what would happen if the flowers were not up to par, he forced a laugh and comment of, “Just so you know, if you got ‘em fresh they wouldn’t smell like a buncha dead cows.”
He watched carefully as something crossed the blonde’s face, something unreadable but intense. “Just give me them.”
The butcher was more than happy to oblige, pocket the money, and not ask any further questions.
With his fists filled with flowers, Kurapika trudged back to his apartment in a hurry. His eyes stung, the contacts feeling drier against the pupils he knew were a vibrant red.
Why had the butcher said that—questioned why Kurapika would want these flowers? Had the money not been enough to keep his silence? Unfortunately, the butcher had not been wrong—the flowers were not the same smell Kurapika remembered from his childhood. No, they were marred with the scent of death. Perhaps that was for the best, perhaps it would have been too much to sit and remember the days in which his soul had been pure and unmarred, too much to remember the scent of innocent. After all he had done, Kurapika no longer felt he warranted such forgiveness nor understanding.
In the barely furnished apartment, Kurapika let himself have these flowers—not as a decoration, no matter how beautiful the petals, but as a reminder. It would be easier to think of these flowers as the mutilated collection of his family became complete as opposed to remembering their bodies.
As he fished around in his cupboard for something to be used as a makeshift vase. All of his glasses were of a standard set, cheap and utilitarian, with he exception of one. It was slightly misshapen, painted with a surprising amount of detail given its creator. It had arrived a few months prior with a short note from Gon, apparently he had a pottery class in school and had already made more than enough for Killua and Alluka. Leorio had provided Kurapika’s address, only given in strict confidence following everything that had transpired on the Black Whale, and suddenly Kurapika had a new coffee mug. And now, a new vase.
It was somewhat odd seeing the flowers being held by something made by a dear friend and yet Kurapika could not bring it in himself to change it. Instead, he took out his phone and snapped a quick photo. Though rarely used, he still had the other three’s phone numbers saved. With no comment or explanation, the photo was sent off.
Kurapika had never liked when the past and present commingled, the messiness of all of the feelings too complicated to consider. It was far easier to keep them separate and distinct—and yet he couldn’t help his lips curl up into the faintest of smiles when looking at his newest addition to the apartment.