The knock on the door had been too firm, too deliberate, for it to be the regular mail. Rory had paused mid-stir of his instant noodles, chopsticks suspended over the wilting green onion bits. Declan, sprawled on the couch with a textbook balanced precariously on his chest, grunted, a question without words. Rory shrugged, wiping his hands on a dishtowel before padding to the door, a faint tremor already in his stomach.
He peered through the peephole. A delivery person, stoic, holding something massive and obscenely colourful. Not a package, then. He unlatched the door, pulling it inward just enough to slip his hand out. The delivery person barely glanced at him, thrusting a clipboard and a pen forward. “Sign here, please. Floral delivery.”
Floral. For him? Rory frowned, his signature a clumsy scrawl. Before he could ask, a behemoth of a bouquet was pushed into his arms. It smelled like a botanical garden had exploded in a cheap perfume factory. Lilies, roses, some kind of purple-dyed baby’s breath, all crammed together in a shiny gold-wrapped pot. It was… aggressive. Too much. Way, way too much.
He staggered back, the sheer weight of it almost knocking him off balance. The door swung shut with a soft click. He just stood there, holding this floral monstrosity, feeling suddenly very small. Declan had lifted his head from the textbook, a mild curiosity on his face that quickly shifted to something else as his eyes landed on the gaudy arrangement. “Whoa. Did you win a pageant?” he mumbled, pushing himself up, the textbook sliding to the floor with a thud.
Rory didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. The scent was cloying, already making his nose prickle, and the bright, almost violent colours felt like they were screaming at him. He set it down on the small coffee table, displacing Declan’s forgotten mug and a stack of dog-eared comics. It took up half the table, a riot of petals and leaves. Tucked amidst the foliage, a crisp white envelope peeked out.
His breath hitched. He knew, instinctively, who it was from. He didn’t want to touch it. His fingers felt suddenly cold, clammy. Declan was beside him now, leaning over, peering at the card. “No ‘To My Dearest Rory’ scrawled on the front?” he asked, a lightness to his voice, but his eyes were sharp, observing the sudden tension in Rory’s shoulders.
Rory shook his head, reaching for the envelope with a slow, unwilling hand. He pulled out the thick cardstock. It was one of those fancy, triple-folded ones. His name, printed neatly, almost elegantly, on the front. No, not a pageant. Worse.
He unfolded it. The handwriting was familiar, looping and deliberate, like it had been practiced. He started to read. Julian. Of course. Apologies. So many apologies. Not for anything specific, just a sweeping, grand apology for ‘everything.’ For ‘not being the man you deserved.’ For ‘losing sight of what was truly important.’ Then the promises. He was going to change. He had changed. Therapy. Self-reflection. He understood now. He missed Rory. He wanted to try again. He mentioned ‘their future’ and ‘the plans they had made.’
The words blurred. They swam on the page, each one a tiny barb, hooking into his skin. *Losing sight of what was truly important.* That was rich. He remembered endless nights spent waiting for Julian to get home, to call, to just acknowledge his existence. He remembered trying to plan a weekend trip, only for Julian to suddenly have an ‘unmissable work thing.’ He remembered how Julian had always made everything his fault, a master of twisting narratives until Rory was left feeling guilty, small, and utterly confused.
This wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was a suffocating blanket. It was Julian, trying to reassert control, to paint himself as the repentant hero and Rory as the prize to be won back. It wasn’t love; it was an invasion, a forceful re-entry into a life Rory had painstakingly started to rebuild. The bright flowers, the sugary scent, the endless, self-pitying words—they felt like chains. He couldn't breathe.
His chest started to tighten, a cold, hard knot forming just beneath his ribs. The edges of his vision began to blur, the vibrant colours of the bouquet pulsing, encroaching. He could hear his own breathing, sharp and shallow, rattling in his ears. *Get out. Get out. Get out.* But there was nowhere to go. The apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage, the walls closing in, painted with Julian’s manipulative words. He started hyperventilating, air rushing in and out, but none of it reaching his lungs.
“Rory? Hey. Look at me.” Declan’s voice cut through the buzzing in his head, calm and steady. Rory was vaguely aware of Declan kneeling in front of him, hands hovering, not quite touching, but close. Rory’s hands were shaking, gripping the crumpled card so tightly the paper was tearing. He couldn't speak. He couldn't look up.
“Okay, easy, easy.” Declan’s voice was a low hum, a counterpoint to the panicked rush of blood in Rory’s ears. “You’re okay. You’re right here. With me.” A hand, warm and firm, settled on Rory’s forearm, a grounding weight. Rory flinched, but Declan didn’t pull away. He just stayed, a steady anchor. “Feel that? My hand. It’s right here. You’re not alone. Just… just breathe with me.”
Declan started taking exaggerated, slow breaths, demonstrating. Rory could feel the vibrations of his deep inhales and exhales through his skin. It was hard. So hard. Each breath felt like he was trying to suck air through a tiny straw. “Focus on my hand, Rory. The warmth. Feel it?” Declan asked, his thumb gently stroking Rory’s skin. It was just a small movement, but it sent a strange prickle through him, a jolt that was different from the fear. It was… real.
“Look at something solid,” Declan continued, his voice unwavering. “Not the flowers. Not the card. Look… look at my shirt. See the little wrinkle here?” He gestured to a small crease in his worn t-shirt. Rory’s eyes, unfocused and darting, struggled to obey. He tried. He really tried. He could vaguely make out the faded blue fabric, the slight sheen of the thread. He forced himself to trace the wrinkle with his gaze.
“That’s it,” Declan murmured. “Just focus on that. Feel my hand. Breathe with me. In for four… hold… out for six.” He counted, his voice like a gentle rhythm, slowly, steadily drawing Rory back from the brink. The sharp edges of panic started to soften, just a fraction. The tightness in his chest eased, enough for him to manage a ragged, shaky breath that actually felt like it filled his lungs. He coughed, a dry, rasping sound.
Declan waited, patient. He didn’t push. He just maintained that steady pressure, that calm presence. Rory felt a single tear trace a path down his temple, cool against his overheated skin. “I… I can’t…” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible. “I can’t… escape him.”
“You don’t need to escape him, Rory,” Declan said, his voice dropping, infused with a quiet conviction that made Rory’s head snap up. Their eyes met. Declan’s gaze was intense, unwavering, completely focused on him. It was a physical impact, like a small, unexpected shove to his chest. “He’s not here. He’s not going to be here. Not in this apartment. Not in your life. We won’t let him.”
The way Declan said ‘we’… it was a soft, firm declaration. It felt like a barrier, a shield forming around him. Rory felt a strange flush rise to his cheeks, not from panic now, but something else. A warmth, a rush of unexpected emotion. Declan gave his forearm a gentle squeeze. “You’re safe here. I promise.”
The panic receded further, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. Rory took another shaky breath, then another, feeling the air move in and out of his body. He looked at the garish bouquet, then at the crumpled card still clutched in his hand. “I hate them,” he said, his voice stronger now, laced with a surprising venom. “I hate them so much.”
Declan nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes. “They’re pretty awful, yeah. Like something from a mob boss’s funeral.” He said it lightly, the small bit of humor a welcome crack in the lingering tension. Rory let out a weak, watery laugh. “Or a discount Valentine’s Day display.”
“Worse,” Declan agreed, a small smile touching his lips. He rose to his feet, pulling Rory up gently. “So, what do we do with them?”
Rory looked at the flowers, then at the card, then back at Declan’s steady, reassuring face. A spark, small but fierce, ignited within him. He was tired of feeling small. Tired of feeling trapped. “We get rid of them,” he declared, his voice firm. “All of it. Now.”
Declan’s smile widened, a flash of genuine approval. “My thoughts exactly.” He carefully took the crumpled card from Rory’s hand, smoothing it out just enough to fold it in half. He didn’t re-read it; he just tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. Then he walked over to the coffee table and, with surprising ease, picked up the entire bouquet. It was still huge, still ridiculous, but in Declan’s hands, it looked less menacing, more like a prop in a silly play.
“Come on,” Declan said, nodding towards the door. “Dumpster run.”
The walk to the dumpster was a journey. The apartment building’s main dumpster was around the back, requiring them to go down two flights of stairs and through a dimly lit hallway. Declan carried the floral monstrosity with one hand, making it look effortless, while Rory clutched the folded card, its edges digging slightly into his palm. The cloying scent of the lilies followed them like a shadow.
They didn’t talk much on the way down, the silence comfortable, punctuated only by the thud of their shoes on the concrete stairs. Rory felt a strange mix of residual jitters and burgeoning relief. Each step away from the apartment, away from the immediate presence of the flowers and the card, felt like shedding a layer of dread. He glanced at Declan, who seemed entirely unbothered by the dramatic bouquet. He just walked, steady and certain, like he was on a perfectly normal errand.
The hallway to the back entrance was always a bit spooky, smelling faintly of stale garbage and something metallic. Rory usually hurried through it, but with Declan beside him, a solid, reassuring presence, the gloom felt less oppressive. Declan pushed open the heavy fire door with his shoulder, letting Rory step through first into the cool evening air. The dumpster was a hulking, green metal beast, surrounded by a faint halo of yellow light from a security lamp.
Declan walked straight to it, pulling open the heavy lid with a grunt. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed in the quiet evening. He looked at Rory, a silent question in his eyes. Rory took a deep breath, unfolded Julian’s card one last time, glanced at the meaningless apologies and empty promises, and then, with a sharp, decisive flick of his wrist, tossed it into the cavernous maw of the dumpster. It fluttered down, a small white rectangle lost among the trash.
Then, Declan, with a flourish that was almost theatrical, upended the entire bouquet. The lilies, the roses, the baby’s breath, they tumbled out, a cascade of bright, unnatural colours against the dark, grimy interior of the dumpster. The pot clattered after them. Rory watched, a strange lightness spreading through his chest, a bubble of laughter trying to escape.
Declan let the lid slam shut with a resounding clang that seemed to echo their victory. He turned to Rory, a mischievous grin on his face. “Well,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “That’s that.”
Rory felt a laugh bubble up, genuine and unrestrained this time. “That’s that,” he agreed, feeling a wide, relieved smile spread across his own face. The cloying scent was still faintly in the air, but it was already dissipating, replaced by the crisp, cool evening. He felt lighter, as if a physical weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked at Declan, whose eyes were sparkling, reflecting the faint security light. There was a shared triumph in that look, a quiet understanding that passed between them without words.
Declan took a step closer, his shoulder brushing Rory’s. The contact sent a familiar warmth through Rory, a comforting heat that settled deep in his core. It wasn’t the intense, frantic rush of his panic, but a slow, steady burn. “Ready to go back?” Declan asked, his voice soft, almost intimate. Rory nodded, a comfortable silence falling between them once more.
As they walked back, the air felt clearer, the world a little less overwhelming. The absurdity of it all—the gaudy flowers, the manipulative card, the dumpster ritual—had morphed into something undeniably, intimately theirs. A victory, small but significant, shared in the quiet intimacy of the night. It felt good. Better than good. It felt like taking up space, not just for himself, but for them, together, against anything that tried to shrink him again.
The sound of Declan’s breathing beside him was a steady rhythm, a gentle reassurance. Rory knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he wasn’t alone. Not anymore. He didn't have to face the lurking shadows of his past by himself. And for the first time in a very long time, that felt like more than just relief; it felt like a quiet, humming joy, a promise of something warm and bright.
He might have had a toaster to tether him before, but now… now he had Declan. And that felt like a much sturdier, much softer anchor.
They walked in comfortable silence, the last vestiges of Rory's panic completely gone, replaced by a quiet contentment. He glanced at Declan, who was looking straight ahead, but the slight curve of his lips, the relaxed set of his shoulders, hinted at a shared, unspoken satisfaction. The space between them, once charged with panic, was now humming with something else, something lighter and infinitely more pleasant. It felt like a small, perfect moment of peace, hard-won and deeply cherished.