roses are red, yoona.
He’s been here for nearly a week, and despite being used to not seeing his mom for weeks at a time back home—mostly because he’s a delinquent—it’s different knowing his mom isn’t close by in case he needs her. He likes to think he’s a malcontent—always looking for danger, always running with crowds whose unspoken motto is live like there’s no tomorrow—but he knows, deep down, that he’s his mother’s boy.
Plain and simple.
He’ll do anything to protect her, be it physically or otherwise, and as uncool as that may seem, he’s not going to apologise for that.
And right now, he knows that she’s missing him as much as he is her. (At least, he hopes.) And because it’s been just the two of them the whole time—except her many boyfriends, but he likes to pretend they don’t exist—he knows her well enough to know she loves sweet gestures.
So here he is, on a Saturday morning, strolling to the flower shop instead of getting high or drunk (because with Eggsy’s, it’s never too early to drink). He’s ignoring the world around him, paying attention instead to the web browser he opens in his phone. He googles ‘flowers for mom’, almost missing the entrance to the flower shop as he does so.
Snapping his attention back to his surroundings, he holds his phone tightly in his hands, feeling awfully befuddled by the types of flowers there are (he didn’t even know petals could move like that) as he shoves the door open with his shoulder.
“Hi, uhm—” he stops when he sees who’s behind the cashier, blinks to make sure he’s not imagining it, then puts on the best charming smile he can muster, “hey.”
What is with this place and hot girls?
He saunters over towards the counter, and he almost gives up buying flowers for him mom (because God, that’s lame), but decides quickly that between his love for his mom and his love for women, he’d—oh, so sadly—pick his mom. And so he proffers the phone in his hand, a grimace painted on his boyish features.
“Yeah, can I get a dozen of…that flower? Thanks, love,” he requests, and points out the bunch of red roses top left of the search (hey, he’s seen red roses offered to girls before, so he supposes that’s suitable? for this situation). He scratches the back of his head in embarrassment, because she’s probably seen the google search input, and he just knows he’s not on his A-game today.
He was going to ask for a note, but even God himself cannot get Eggsy to do that now.