💟PFM: V-day snippets

Prompt list used: [here]

• ♡ “that’s more roses than i’ve ever seen in my life.” - Jewel

When a knock resounds, repeating in a quick pattern that only Jewel would think to use, you excitedly jump off the couch and run to the entrance to let her in. 

With how packed all the local restaurants are this week, you decided to play it safe and celebrate your first Valentine’s Day together indoors, with a romantic movie and takeaway, nothing too extravagant.

As the food and the entertainment were all prepared, the only thing missing was the ‘lady of the hour.’ However, when you crack the door open, it’s not her face that you see, but a storm of color - ruby red roses, with buds verging from blossoming to about-to-bloom. 

Their fresh scent - as well as the sweetness of Jewel’s affection - fills your nostrils, giving you a well-needed respite from the persistent odor of smog and fumes creeping through the cracks in your windows.

“Wow. That’s more roses than I’ve ever seen in my life,” you exclaim, stepping back so that Jewel can squeeze herself in, walking half-blindly as her field of vision is, likewise, obscured by the foliage.

From her slightly rushed breath, you can tell she hurried here. And on foot, at that. You can’t imagine her fitting in a taxi or even a bus without squashing the flowers. 

“That’s more roses than I’ve ever bought in my life,” she admits, a little sheepishly. “But I really wanted to try. With you.” 

Her voice is warm, though slightly nervous. You wish you could see her face now, no doubt as red as the petals. Alas, you simply accept the bouquet when she hands it to you. You need to spread your arms nearly all the way to contain it.

“Thank you, Jewel. I love them.”

“I’m glad!” After she speaks, you hear the sound of shuffling. She takes off her shoes, then hangs her jacket in the hallway. “Okay, I don’t think they are anywhere close to wilting, but we should put them in water before they can get there.”

“Oh, right. Hold on, let me find a vase.”

There are not many spots in your cramped apartment where you could have stashed it, but even after ruffling through them all, you come up short. In the end, you’re forced to settle for a... bucket. 

You can only be glad that there’s no hole in it, otherwise your second option would have been the tub.

As you observe the final arrangement taking up most of your kitchenette counter, you can’t help but snicker. 

“I can’t tell if it’s very rustic, or very dramatic,” Jewel mutters, sounding as though she’s unsure whether to groan or laugh. 

As usual, her relatively rare impulsiveness makes her feel conflicted and uneasy. Reaching for her hand, you give it a reassuring squeeze. It’s a welcome reminder that this side of her, too, is one you're fond of.

“Sorry, I’m usually more practical about... well, everything.” She sighs, gazing at the bucket, semi-obscured by the densely stacked stems and leaves. Her brow furrows. “I meant to get you something simple, candy, a lollipop, or something like that. But I’ve been seeing the flower stands set by the perfumery on this day for ages, and...”

“Today you thought of me?” 

“Yes.” 

She says it plainly, like it’s a given, and you discover that you find this admission more precious than any gift she could have ever gotten you. You want to ask her if she thought about you, too, the previous year, and the one before, but dreading an unfavorable answer, you decide to keep your musings to yourself. At least for now.

“I’m honored.”

“Shut up.” Jewel snorts, sending you a skeptical sideways glare. “Maybe we could place them on the balcony—”

“I’m serious. I think it’s cute,” you drawl, watching her cheeks slowly stain crimson. It seems you did get your wish after all. You grin. “It’s really cute. I like it.”

Jewel returns the smile, unaware that you’re not actually talking about the flowers. Not anymore. 

“Enjoy it while it lasts, then,” she jokes. “Next year, you’re getting socks.”

• ♡ “i wish every day could be like this.” - Reed

After making sure to win the title of the unprecedented number one customer of every establishment that offers couple-themed deals, Reed sprawls himself over your bed, basking in his hard-won glory. 

It’s only when you join him - squeezing into the thinnest sliver of the unoccupied mattress - that you realize why he always insists on sleeping at your place. Your bed is much, much more narrow than his, forcing you to rest the majority of your body on top of his.

“What’s up?” he asks, noticing your amused expression. His lips, too, twitch upwards in an absentminded mimicry. “What? Tell me.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just wondering if I have enough space in my stomach to finish these.” 

The interior of the paper box you retrieve from your bag is greasy, but fortunately, the exterior has been spared the same fate. Nonetheless, Reed eyes it warily when you balance it on your lap, huffing when you accidentally elbow him in the gut as you settle into a half-seated position, with his thighs as your backrest. 

The donuts inside are cold and slightly squashed, but they still smell appetizing. Their scent mixes seamlessly with the cloyingly sweet aroma that clings to your hair and matching sweatshirts - sugar and love.

Reed, lacking your affliction, can only distinguish the former. Even so, he can see your emotions reflected in your eyes, and the sight keeps his mood high. 

So high, in fact, that he doesn’t grumble at the crumbs that inadvertently fall out of your mouth and onto the sheets as you finish the heart-shaped snacks. He simply gathers them himself and, moving as little as possible, dusts them into the small trash can wedged between the bed and the nightstand.

Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up to the wail of the vacuum and his nagging, but for now, Reed is perfectly content to watch you make a mess, eyes glued to your cheeks, puffed up like a chipmunk’s. 

“Lemme try.” Lifting himself on his arms, Reed leans in as though to take a bite, only to press his lips to yours at the last moment. The tip of his tongue flickers over your skin, gathering the remnants of the glaze. He flops back, saying, “Not bad.”

“Really? And here I thought you hated the ‘outside’ donuts.”

“I mean, you can taste the stale oil—”

“Here we go again. Forget I said anything.”

Reed laughs at your grumbling, but the chortle breaks on a yawn. When you reach your free and clean-ish hand to caress his face, he only faux-frowns at the texture of dry sugar on your fingers.

“Sleepy?” you tease while he nuzzles into your palm. “Maybe if you haven’t spent three hours doing your hair, you wouldn’t have to wake up at the crack of dawn.”

“And what, was I supposed to take you on a date lookin’ all worn out and unkempt? On this day of all days? Yeah, no. Pass.” 

“As if you could ever— Ah, I see, you peacock,” you huff, pinching his cheek before he can retort. “I won’t fall for your old tricks again.”

After stuffing the last piece of the donut into his mouth, you push the now-empty box to the ground, draping yourself fully over Reed’s lap. His arms curl around you with near-mechanical precision, warm hands splaying across the expanse of your back. 

In the silence that ensues, his drowsiness seems contagious. “You know,” you mumble, stifling a yawn, “I wish every day could be like this.”

Reed makes a soft noise of agreement as he chews. When he swallows, he asks, “What’s stoppin’ us?”

“Oh? So you’re saying you’d let me eat in bed—”

“Don’t push it, dolcezza,” Reed groans, as you knew he would. “I’m already tryin’ my best to ignore the filth we’re lyin’ in right now.”

“‘The filth,’” you chortle. “I guess we’re overdue a bath, hm?” 

That perks Reed up. Your bed, as it happens, is not the only piece of furniture he prefers to use at your place. The reason, though, remains the same.

• ♡ “i could marry you right now.” - Laurent

It’s supposed to be a secret, but as it stands, even calling it an open one would be laughable.  

Given the change in the shopping mall’s playlist and the presence of a calendar with all holidays listed on your desk, even if Laurent was a better liar, it still wouldn’t be hard to guess the reason for his recent covert behavior.

In fact, you can point out the exact days he spent searching for the right gift, and the one when he settled on his victor. From Flavio’s pleased smirk that particular afternoon, you can go as far as to hazard that it was his idea that won the contest. 

From then, for the week leading to the ‘V-Day,’ as Laurent covertly marked it in his notebook, he’s been making himself scarce after work. Your already short meetings became shorter, but you magnanimously refrained from calling bullshit on his excuses. 

And if you saw him, by chance, stepping out of a building that hosts culinary lessons, then... no, you didn’t. Though, to be fair, you didn’t need that visual hint to guess what he’s been doing after clocking out. 

Even with the scent of his emotions concealed by the blocker, you still ended up catching the faint traces of baking powder and fondant clinging to his skin every time he dropped by to wish you a, ‘good day.’

And so, when he finally asks you to reserve the date, then shows up to pick you up in a brand-new suit, you do your utmost best to act as surprised as you can manage.

“I brought you a couple of other things as well,” he says once he ushers you into his living room. 

The aforementioned purchases, wrapped in slick red paper, wait for you on the table. A piece of soft, sensual music fills the apartment, setting the mood, though aside from a single heart-shaped pillow on his brick of a couch, it seems Laurent puts his foot down on the matter of seasonal decorations.

“‘As well’?” you prompt, watching at least five different emotions shuffle over his features. It would be just like him to talk himself out of it at the last second, but you’re not planning on giving him that option. “What else did you prepare? Show me, show me!”

Unable to refuse in the face of your visible excitement, Laurent trots to the kitchen. 

“Flavio said it would be more impactful if it was homemade, so I gave it a try,” he grunts, pulling out a paper box from the fridge. Inside, there’s a cake. As befits a perfectionist, it seems too pristine to be real. “The visuals are... presentable, but I can’t comment as to the taste.”

With how earnest he looks, you vow to eat it until the last crumb, even if it tastes like concrete. “If you made it yourself, I bet it’ll be delicious.”

Laurent doesn’t share your optimism. He sets the table like a prisoner getting ready for his trial, and when he serves you a perfectly even slice, you swear he’s holding his breath. 

“How is it?”

Whatever placating compliments you had prepared beforehand give way to a satisfied moan as the first sample of the luxuriously soft pastry with velvety filling spreads over your tongue. The taste is neither too sweet nor too bland, and you can spot the subtle notes of spices that further elevate the experience.

“It’s so good,” you mumble through another mouthful, quickly adding a third to the mix. “You should quit your job like right now. The SPD is really not your calling.”

Laurent laughs, short and startled, but his usual stiffness settles over his face quickly after. “You don’t have to spare my feelings—”

“I know. And I’m not.” Eager to prove it, you offer the next bite to him, moving the fork towards him. “Come on, try it.” 

As though being fed poison, Laurent accepts the morsel with an expression so grave you nearly burst out laughing. He chews, and as he swallows, his brow raises momentarily in pleased surprise. 

“It’s palatable,” he says, reaching for a tissue.

“That’s saying it lightly! Seriously, I could just marry you right now.”

“I— Ahem.” Laurent coughs, hiding his lips behind his fist. After wiping his - unchangingly spotless - mouth, he transfers another slice onto your plate. A second passes, and he adds in a third.

“My, officer. Is this a bribe?” you ask, grinning. 

“The act of bribery is a criminal offense,” he drones. When his gaze lifts to meet yours, his eyes squeeze in mirth. “It’s a bargain, if you will.”

Is it really a bargain, though, if the only answer for it is ‘hell yeah’? 

“Well, with a deal like this, how could I refuse?”

• ♡ “i can’t believe you remembered this!” + “of course i did. you’re important to me.”- Joran

The wind has no tangible feeling in dreams, and that’s how you know you’re not in one. 

When your door croaks in that specific annoying way it only does when it’s pushed closed from the inside, you force your eyes ajar, staring into the coiling darkness until your vision gets used to it.

A minute passes, but all you can discern are shapes. The nightstand, the armoire... the silhouette of a man hovering in the corner of your room. The soft, barely detectable musk of high-end cologne reaches your nose, soothing and familiar.

“Are you trying to scare me again?” you mumble into the pillow, too tired to do much else other than blink. “It’s getting boring, you know.”

“I wasn’t aware I was hired to entertain you,” Joran huffs, at last stepping fully into the room. 

The moonlight that peeks through your blinds illumines his side. His shoes look new, and so does his hairstyle. He’s still wearing a pair of black latex gloves, carrying a faint smell of disinfectant. He must have come here from the HQ right away without stopping by his place to change.

“No? I could have sworn I sent you a check,” you yawn, pressing your face into the sheets to stifle it. “After a job well done, we can discuss a different method of payment.”

Joran chuckles, watching you with a gaze that is both fond and pitying. “You’re hardly in the state to pay me in nature.”

“And if I were, would you have agreed? I thought you only accepted cash or credit.”

“Are you really surprised?” Joran wonders, faux-serious, as he slowly makes his way towards you. “I’ve been making concessions for you since the day we met. Give or take a few months.” 

“You were making concessions because you were paid to do so.”

“Semantics.”

The digital clock on the nightstand blinks measuredly. A couple of minutes past two in the morning. 

“You’re done for the day?” you hazard. Unable to keep your eyelids parted, you let them drift shut. 

A moment later, you feel the mattress dip. A snap of latex follows. Then, his voice, “No. I’m on a cigarette break.” 

“You don’t smell like tobacco.”

The sheets shift as he leans in, pressing his cold, bare fingers to your weary eyes, soothing the sting. “What do I smell like, then?”

Under the cloying sweetness of decay, the sharp disinfectant, and the blend of his cologne, there’s the scent of an emotion that you’re sure would make him run if you name it out loud. 

“The morgue,” you say instead.

He laughs. “I’ll take a shower next time.” 

His hand moves away, but a press of something equally freezing against your nose forces you to check out the source. It’s a jewelry box, black and sleek. There’s one more, exactly the same, perched on his thigh. 

“That’s for you,” he says, pushing the first package until you get cross-eyed. “And this one is for me.”

Wracking your brain for the occasion, you belatedly remember it after another glance at the clock. “I can’t believe you remembered this.” Even you almost didn’t.

“Of course, I did. You’re important to me,” he states, matter-of-factly, uncaring or unaware of the effect his words have on you. “Besides, buy one get one free is a deal only a fool wouldn’t accept.”

“…I never took you for a matching-couple kind of guy.”

“I did say I keep making concessions, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah. I guess you did.”