ANDREI DOESN’T WANT TO WATCH THE FLOWER WILT. it is repulsive : the idea of yellow giving way to brown and black, fragrant scent becoming acrid, beauty for a moment becoming long, drawn out hours of hideous death. no. he does not want it. he does not want to watch a reflection of himself in this flower whither as he will. this uprooted, fragile thing. his head turns from it, so that neither its golden hue nor its bearer, seated upon that long - empty chair, are in sight. the other doesn’t need to see the disgust, or worse, the distress, in andrei’s expression.
his muscles, atrophied and exhausted, will ache if he tries to take the flower to dispose of it. he would not do such a thing in front of this practical stranger anyways —- he feels nothing for him, and so has no desire to offend him for callously.
“ it doesn’t matter to me. ” his murmur is too quiet, too withdrawn, as though he doesn’t want to speak at all. and he doesn’t. has his heart not given up on loving? has his soul not given up on wanting? in company he feels but the dull echo of a need to be around other people, to be loved, resonating in his chest, making so violently loud the hollow of him. there’s so little left of him, so little that isn’t ruined flesh and spilt blood and rot, rot creeping down into his core. why anyone would want to sit at his side and inhale the putridity around him, andrei does not know.
and … he doesn’t want to ask —- for even the smallest tenderness would drive him to ugly tears. hasn’t he been shamed enough?
“ THANK YOU, ” though his friend is turned away, luke’s smile is like sunlight. he responds as if the other has welcomed his presence instead of all but disregarding him. it is luke’s belief that no one would truly, deep in their heart, want to be alone here. not every moment. isolation turns the soul to a hollowed-out stone, cold and hungry for something to fill it. this is a scary place, a place bound to memories of the most horrible time of his life, and yet he seeks it out. as if he is searching for his past self, reflected in others, and seeks to give him comfort he never had. there are no happy memories here for anyone, but perhaps, if he tries hard enough, he can soften them.
“ I don’t live in the city so I’m making the most of the visit. getting to know new people. ” from his bag, he withdraws a scrapbook. well, it’s a notebook, but there are leaves taped to some of the pages. he digs out a crayon, among a handful floating at the bottom of his bag, and starts coloring a page. the lines he makes are nonsense, abstract if judged generously, but it keeps his hands busy while he talks. grass green begins to fill the page. “ I’m luke. what’s your name? ”