Think They’ll Call Us Guns N’ Roses

 📅 Late October, 2023

Anarchy and Chey having been the first of the group to get engaged and married had come as a surprise to exactly no-one. They’d never been a friend group of the type to bet on who’d reach what milestones first; that hadn’t been their vibe, but everyone had seen it coming, and Kohao knew he’d had the clearest view. Seth and Aetos had been the next, though, and that had come as a surprise to exactly everyone, especially since they apparently forwent an engagement ring or traditional proposal, then tried to not even have a celebration-celebration, and both cited “tax reasons” as the biggest driving force behind the move to marry...though they’d tended to make eye contact after saying so and would crack up. Athena had been the one to insist they do SOME type of wedding party, and with both her brother and brother-in-law-to-be apparently relishing the chance to be difficult with their lack of preferences, Athena had ended up doing most of the planning.

Her own turn had finally come around, though, and Kohao felt truly thrilled for her. He knew getting to see her brother married and moving on from all the pain that had once plagued him had been a milestone for Athena, too, and maybe had been what afforded her the chance to do the same, now. She and Teagan had taken a leaf-peeping road-trip up through the Catskills and the Finger Lakes (lesbian jokes had abounded about that one) and had exchanged engagement rings up in front of Niagara Falls; the water roaring behind them in video and the surrounding hills technicolor with fall foliage.
It was a beautiful engagement, a beautiful new chapter for his oldest friend, and Kohao found himself wanting to get something with which to congratulate her for it all. He knew he himself had been a trying part of her history for a long stretch, and in a self-conscious sort of way, wanted to make clear that time was turning the page on that section of her life, too.

Athena had never really been the ‘flowers type’ before—but then again, she hadn’t really been the long-quiet-trips-through-the-countryside type before, either. Teagan had seemed to soften her edges, somehow, or tamed her wildfire into more of a...beachside bonfire. Which was remarkable, since Kohao was well aware that Teagan didn’t shy away from spitting flame if she felt it was warranted. Fortunately, he didn’t provoke her into sparks flying quite so often anymore, and he smiled to himself: Teagan would definitely appreciate flowers, and Athena would appreciate the gesture at the very least.

There was no shortage of florist shops nearby, not when living smack in the middle of the cemetery belt, but only one had a shop name in Latin, and it was also the weirdest one by far; so bizarre-sounding that he figured it would be worth checking out even if he ended up buying a bouquet from Walmart in the end.

The small Ridgefield flower shop had a heavy wooden door which needed a firm shove to open, with the protest of its hinges and the tinkling sound of the antique shopkeeper’s bell affixed to it—from which swung a set of brass chimes, too, apparently in case the bell alone wasn’t enough. More chimes dangled nearby, threatening to be shoulder-checked into cacophony, and Kohao carefully edged his way between them and the most intriguing floral display he could imagine. Most of the bouquets were exceedingly unconventional—at least one warned that it contained stinging nettle—and some were arranged in such a way that the flower colors made pentacles or other symbols. Beside each set was a small informational card to educate potential buyers on the ‘meaning’ of the arrangement, or what it “warded against,” or if they were “ingredient bouquets.” A large sign clipped to the display gave pricing for hexing or blessing arrangements, at the bottom of which were the bolded words “WE DO NOT DO BLOOD MAGICK.” 

Kohao was still double-taking at that when he nearly bruised his hip on a low table set up with boxes of incense and candles for sale, piled next to a wooden tray of loose crystals—some with long, delicate silver chains attached—and several dozen decks of tarot cards. Talismans dangled from the wall and more chained crystals slowly rotated in the air, suspended from herb-drying racks and casting flecks of light off like discarded starshine. The experience was so surreal that Kohao nearly jumped at the sound of a human voice.

“Welcome to Rosa Canina Floristry & Occult, can I help you?” a slim, purple-haired woman at the counter asked, her voice bored and customer-service robotic despite the strangeness of her business. She glanced up at an ornate wooden cuckoo clock just behind her. “Briar’s at lunch and I only do wards and charms, so if you want something cursed, come back in like...30 minutes,” she said, slightly more casually, with the scripted greeting out of the way.
“Uh.” Kohao blinked and awkwardly shifted his weight, taken aback by every aspect of the experience. “I just kind of want...Flowers…?”
The woman’s lips twitched upward in faint amusement and she leaned forward, propping her elbows on the counter.
“Good, that’s what I'm best at selling,” she said as he walked up; “What’s the occasion?”
“Sort of...congratulatory flowers? For a friend of mine? She just got engaged. I know it’s almost fuckin’ November—sorry—I know it’s almost November, but do you have anything seasonal? With oranges and reds? Her favorite color is red. But I don’t want roses.” Kohao grimaced; he didn’t know what exactly it was about the little shop that had him stumbling through his answer, but the air was thick with spirituality and the pretty, purple-haired florist with her Roman nose and pale constellation of acne scars had some kind of aura about her that had Kohao feeling undereducated in her presence. Her lavender eyes—complimented by the matching ombre of her hair—glimmered with either amusement or interest.
“Don’t worry, the fuck word is allowed here. But actually yes, we have autumn bouquets.” She beckoned him to follow and briskly led him through the crowded, mystical shop, winding past a brass bathtub full of plants and flower arrangements over to a display beside a crystal altar and a small fountain the size of a bird bath, filled with coin offerings that ranged from green-tarnished pennies to Euros to whole strings of Buddhist coin charms. 
The florist gestured to an assortment of pretty bouquets on the rotating stand next to the whole shebang. 

“Here: Alstroemerias—they often symbolize friendship and mutual support, for what it’s worth—; chrysanthemums—longevity, joy, love; and Hesperanthas. All currently in bloom and very autumnal colors.” She turned to Kohao and looked expectantly at him.
“Ah. Well...” Kohao leaned back with an apologetic sort of smile and pushed his sleeves up for comfort before loosely hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “...I know what flower a chrysanthemum is, at least.”
“And what a columbine is, hm?” She gestured to his crow skull and flowers tattoo, either ignoring or not noticing the way he tensed up; “‘Love, foolishness, faith, victory.’ It’s a beautiful flower. And tattoo. Did Fawkes do that one as well?”
“N-No,” Kohao stuttered, startled, desperately trying to kick his brain into gear so he could rack it; “I got that before I met...do I know...you…? How do you know—?”
She laughed. “I got my half sleeve at her studio, and your throat tattoo is in her portfolio. ...And your band flyers were on the counter. I heard some of your music while getting my tattoo done, actually. You’re Kohao, yeah? You’re very talented.” He didn’t have a chance to fumble through a response before she shrugged and gestured to the bouquet with a suddenly brusque, “So are you buying these flowers or not?” She gave him a small smile afterwards, her eyes dancing with humor. 
“Oh! Yeah, no, they’re...they’re great. Thank you, uh…” He glanced down to the small metallic name-tag pinned to her shirt, and his own voice collided with hers: “Willow,” they both said at the same time.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked, back at the counter, digging out his wallet.
“$37.95 and a phone call.” She scribbled her number on the back of his receipt and smiled nonchalantly despite his open astonishment. “Oh, also, Kohao—tell your friend to keep Rosa Canina in mind for the wedding.” Her playful eyes didn’t match the return to her ‘business’ voice.
“Y-yeah. Definitely,” he stammered. “Was...was already planning to tell her about you.”

He walked into the chimes on the way out, too distracted with chancing a backward glance over his shoulder.

———

Athena laughed when he told her, later, handing her and Teagan the flowers, which they fawned over—but which ended up paling in comparison (as far as sustained interest went) to the tale of the mysterious florist-witch he’d met and obtained the number of.
“Call her!” Athena grinned, lightly punching him in the shoulder; only hard enough to encourage, not to hurt. Kohao winced anyway and shook his head.
“No way. I’ll disappoint her.”
Athena sighed good-naturedly. “C’mon. She saw something in you that she liked, dude. Go for it.”
“No! I dont date for a reason, I can’t—I don’t do relationships. I’m not good with them.”
“Jesus christ, don't overthink it. It’s a fuckin’ phone conversation, not a proposal,” Athena said, rolling her eyes; “Just call her. Try it out.”

———

He ended up procrastinating it for four whole days, and by the time he finally did manage to dial her number, he’d just about concluded he’d already blown it and the late call could only come across as inconsiderate. He almost didn’t call at all just in case it would be a bother by that point, but Athena had threatened to leak the story to Chey and enlist him in being a pest about it if Kohao failed to kick his put-offery to the curb, so he steeled himself for a rebuff and listened to the ring, ring, ring, click.
“Hello?”
“Uh, hey, it’s Kohao? I bought—”
“Oh, good! I was wondering when you’d call. How have you been?”
Kohao nearly choked. ‘Good’?
“Um, I’ve been okay, thank you,” he stammered; “Uh. Both Tea and ‘Thena loved the flowers. Athena actually was the one who persuaded me to buck up and call.”
“Then maybe I owe her some flowers too,” Willow laughed; “Do you want to grab lunch on Wednesday? I’ll stick Briar with the afternoon crowd. We could go to Taheni, in Boerum Hill. And then see the waterfront. The park piers are only a ten minute ride from there, so.”
Kohao wished she’d stop leaving him tongue-tied, but was grateful to have not had the opportunity to make it quite so apparent that he’d given a potential date almost no consideration, having been so certain of rejection. 
“Er, yeah, sure!” he said, the smile he found on his lips bringing brightness to his reply, which might have otherwise sounded anxious but now read properly as enthused; “That sounds great—should I pick you up..?”
“Ooh, you’re not getting my home address that fast, Romeo,” Willow teased; her own smile was audible. “I’ll meet you there at 1?”
“Yeah, okay, perfect.” He figured it was for the best anyway; he didn’t have a spare helmet, for one, and didn’t know how she’d react to a motorcycle to begin with.
“Then it’s a date,” Willow said. 

A date. 
Athena quite literally cheered when he told her.

———

Even finding parking for a motorcycle tended to be a gamble in NYC, but that Wednesday Kohao lucked out for once and was able to find not one, but TWO spaces within a block from the restaurant. Just as he killed his engine, someone on a Harley-Davidson pulled straight into the space in front of him, driving home how short the half-life of parking space tended to be; he hoped Willow wouldn’t have any trouble.
“Nice ride. Kawasaki Ninja?” the Harley rider asked. He nearly fell off his bike with the velocity of his double-take.
Willow laughed at his expression as she pulled off her helmet, shaking her purple hair to her shoulders; “It’s no Harley, of course, but at least it’s not a scooter.”
He managed to scrape his jaw off the ground quickly enough to laugh in return and toss back a joking, “Oh, don’t tell me you’re actually a motorcycle elitist; I’ll walk.”
“Walking would be better than a scooter too.” She smiled cheekily as they both dismounted. “I'm not an insufferable elitist, how about that? I’m still going on a date with you despite your blatantly inferior bike, for instance.” 
She was fun; easy to verbally joust with in the short walk to the restaurant entrance.
“You’re lucky I’m not easily insulted,” he said, holding the door open for her. She brushed by him with a coy smile.
“Of course not; all you pretty goth boys are the same. You just eat it up.”

It was true enough to be funny and just as much in jest as the comments about his bike, but there was something about it that stuck, and he ended up eventually coming back around to it during a lull in conversation as they ate; pushing a black olive around on his plate and wondering just how much did separate him from the other ‘pretty goth boys’ she knew.

“Willow…” he asked, looking up with a self-conscious sort of smiled sigh; “...Why are you doing this?”
“What, getting food? Because I’m fuckin’ hungry, my dude.”
 He chuckled, but shook his head. “I meant...why are you getting food with me.”
“....Jesus Christ, you always bring your insecurities with you on a first date? Because I’m shallow and you’re a rockstar.” She huffed amusedly and pushed her hair behind her ear, then continued more seriously; “...Because you’re a talented guitarist and singer, sure. Because yes, you’re attractive and my eyes work. Because you’re intriguing.”
The praise brought a shy smile to Kohao’s lips. “Intriguing?” he repeated, tilting his head; “How?”

“Fishing for more compliments?” She laughed. “Fine then. I haven’t obsessively memorized your entire body of work, but I’ve done a bit of reading, because musicians are crazy and shallow as I am, I wanted to make sure that you hadn’t ripped the head off a bat or pissed on any minors. I’ve listened to some of your music; looked up some of your lyrics. And I’ll be honest, some of them are Red Flag Central. But the Latin and allusions to Rome impressed me—especially since they were coming from someone who supposedly dropped out of high school. Apparently, they impressed me enough for me to overlook some of the other material.”

Kohao winced at the last two words but swiftly straightened up, drawing on and brightening at the rest of the praise.
“My lyrics about Rome?” he asked, almost incredulously, though it brought warmth to his chest and the tops of his cheeks; “That’s what it was?”
Willow laced her fingertips together and rested her chin on them.
“Of course not entirely. But it was, as I said, intriguing. And it proved that you had interests outside of the Columbine massacre.”
The emphasis was a blatant prompt; Kohao’s face fell and he averted his eyes; a cold, twisted weight settling deep in his stomach.
“I’m not the same person I was when I was writing about that,” he said.
Willow took a casual sip of her drink and smiled again, easing some of the shame that had swept in.
“See, that’s what I’m banking on,” she said. “Tell me about Rome, then, prettyboy. Who’s the nerd you were hiding underneath the angst?”

She turned out to mean it. He of course reacted at first with instinctual hand-shyness; assuming the interest was just as joking as the ‘prettyboy.’ 
“For real?” he asked incredulously, ready to drop the topic at any moment; “Most people don’t...actually want to hear me talk about Mediterranean history. Are you sure you wanna get me going?” 

...But she countered his inability to haul himself past a couple false-starts and anxious stops by instead getting going herself about laurel wreaths and the uses of bay leaves in both symbolism and “magick,” and when she started speculating about their significance in adorning Roman emperors, Kohao couldn’t help but jump on the prompt. He reeled off what he knew about laurel chaplets; their origin in Ancient Greece; a story involving a vengeful Cupid; and their becoming a symbol of martial victory and power in Rome. He found himself rambling animatedly how Emperor Tiberius had declined the Civic Crown and laurels, along with multiple titles that came with being Princeps, and how his whole reign nearly never happened anyway because he’d already tried to duck out of politics and retire to Rhodes, even though Augustus’s kids were young and he needed a successor around just in case, and man, didn’t it seem like the guy was just waffling as shit? And then he had Jesus killed.

Much to his surprise, Willow failed to look bored. Rather, she listened and asked questions with definite interest, for all appearances nothing less than delighted by the extended info-dump. She talked about her own knowledge of Latin being owed essentially to memorization of plant names (“Still impressive. The Latin name is why I chose your shop,” Kohao said) and her familiarity with general Roman culture reaching only as far as what had been touched on by a Mythology course she’d taken in college, where mostly she’d gotten the impression that Roman mythology was just stolen-and-repurposed Greek mythology. (“That’s because you’re right and it is,” Kohao said.) Her interest in plants and herbology extended to those used in classical antiquity, however, and there she was very knowledgeable: The two of them ended up getting into an extended discussion about Silphium; its medicinal—and potentially ‘magickal’—uses; its symbolic power and legacy; its extinction and what a fucking waste it was to give that last stalk to Nero, holy shit, if anyone didn’t need it, right?

“...You know, I was really concerned that you were going to be one of those guys who says they’re into Rome but all they can talk about is Julius Caesar or the gladiators because it's a bloodshed-as-masculinity-complex thing for them,” Willow said as they finished their meal and waited for the waiter to return with the check; “Glad to be wrong.”
“Ah, yeah, well. I already had my love affair with Caesar when I was younger.”
“Oh? What cured it?”
“Finding out about his combover, mostly,” Kohao said. “Really killed the guy’s sex appeal.”
Willow snorted into her drink.

They rode to the greenway terrace afterwards, braiding their way through the cold city streets together until the buildings gave way to a view of the East River. They wound along the waterfront, passing one another more often than may have been necessary, but the low traffic allowed it and it became something of a dance; Kohao was still smiling over it when they pulled around into the parking for Pier Three. He appreciated the low, steady rumble of Willow’s motorcycle as they parked side-by-side, and nodded to the handsome bike as they both dismounted.

“So...backtracking. You and Harleys?” he prompted. She tossed a half-laugh over her shoulder along with her hair.
“My mom’s wisdom: She was a biker in the 80’s. Passed all her elitism on to me.” Willow patted her Harley like a faithful horse. “And her bike, too.”
Kohao must have made some expression he was unaware of, because Willow laughed again, waving her hands:
“Oh, she’s not dead! I just saw her on Sunday!” she exclaimed.
“Oh. You’re on good terms with her, then?” Kohao asked. 
Willow gave him a quizzical sort of look. “...Yeah, good enough. She’s my mom.”
Kohao grimaced, but nodded. “Fair. Where on the waterfront are you wanting to walk to?” He took a step away from the bikes; Willow matched him on it and caught his eye, raising her eyebrows.
“Ooh, that sounded like baggage. South.”

They started walking south; despite the early hour, the winter shadows were already beginning to lengthen. Kohao laughed; a short, but genuine—if vaguely apologetic—sound. 
“That’s the angst hiding underneath the other angst,” he said. “Let's not go there on a first date, how about?”
“Oh, fine, we can save it for the second one, then. When are you free?”

Kohao really wished she’d stop leaving him tongue-tied.

———

📅 early December, 2023

A few weeks on found the pair of them there at the waterfront again, the dropping temperatures nothing unsolved by a scarf and spells of hand-holding. The two of them had been texting and calling regularly since their first date, chatting about everything from voodoo to Vēiovis, and had been on quite nearly bi-weekly additional dates; planning more so easily that by now they’d gotten ahead of themselves: Going to the waterfront to fatten the ducks and grab dinner this week, knowing that they intended to go ice-skating the following weekend, and already looking forward to that. 

Christmas decorations were beginning to go up around the city, and they kept the world aglow even as the sun went down: Festivity and romance seemed to fill the streets, billowing like breath-fog in the air.
Down by the water, even with abundant fairy-lights and wreath-adorned street lamps and the view of Manhattan, what drew Kohao’s eyes most easily was Willow: In the late afternoon sunlight, the purple sections of her hair danced every shade between lavender and rich wine-grape; her bright smile seemed more dazzling than the sun-scatter off the river. She laughed while she watched pigeons and ducks alike squabble over the breadcrumbs she threw, and Kohao felt himself grinning just due to the vibrancy of her presence. She turned, then; caught his eye, and her face lit up even more. As far as he was concerned, she easily outshone the beginning sunset.

“You should smile more,” she said, “Like, actually smile. Not that ridiculous smirk you do on stage at concerts.”
Kohao laughed; he couldn’t help himself—then tilted his head and raised his eyebrows at her. 
“Come see us play next week. Then I’ll have a reason to smile for real onstage.”
She gave him a cheeky sort of once-over, lips upturned the whole way through.
“...Deal,” she said when she met his eyes again, shrugging one shoulder. “Do I get a backstage pass?”
“Of course you do. VIP package.”
“Fancy. What’s included?”
“Drinks on me, I introduce you to my band, you get to hear all the embarrassing stories about me before you decide on making us official, since I’ll ask you then…” Kohao smiled rather self-consciously. “...Which gives me a bit more time to indulge my neuroses over it.”

She brightened again; her eyes crinkling at the corners and the lights reflected in them appearing to dance. 
“Huh. Want to have a practice run to calm your nerves?” she offered, pocketing her bag of crumbs and stepping up closer to him, trailed by her suddenly-neglected flock of birds.
“Sure, sounds great. Here, hm…” Kohao tapped his chin, then turned to the nearest mallard and swept his arm out, emphatically indicating Willow to it; “Anarchy,” he said to the duck as earnestly as he could without cracking up; “this is Willow, the girl I—”
“No, you idiot, ask me to be your girlfriend!” Willow laughed, hitting him in the arm; he straightened up and turned back to face her, grinning.
“...Oh. Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked, resting his hands at her waist. She looped her arms behind his head. Their noses brushed.
“...I’d love that.”