Between the Perennial Blooms || Paul Lahote

Seventeen | Rose

"A star-shower of blossom, of dew-like pearls, fruitfulness, beauty, life, rapture and fragrance."
—Victor Hugo | Les Miserables

• • •

The morning following Jacob and Bailey's impromptu sleepover proceeded in Paul meeting them at the front door. The pair had awakened in a mass of tangled limbs and wrinkled bed clothes, and after making a sluggish move to get ready for the day, a tired Jacob carried a sleepy Bailey down the stairs and to the kitchen where Billy sat flipping pancakes at the gas stovetop.

"Hey Dad," Jacob greeted in a husky morning grumble. He pulled out one of the mismatched chairs circled around the rickety kitchen table and lowered Bailey onto it with a yawn before slumping down into the seat to her left. Bailey's head fell limply against his shoulder as he curled an arm around her after taking notice of her slight shiver, and as she sat there with her knees tucked against her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them, she blinked lazily in Billy's direction. It wasn't early -certainly not early enough for the teen pair to be as exhausted as they were- yet the night before had been wasted with soft conversation and delirious giggles, and as such Bailey and Jacob were experiencing the after effects of those aforementioned actions now.

"Morning kids," Billy called over his shoulder with an amused smile tilting up the corners of his aged lips as he took in their zombie-like appearance. "Pancakes are almost done," he informed them, using his strong, weathered hands to wheel himself over to the fridge so as to grab the only bottle of syrup Jacob had ever been able to stand as a child and, consequently, even now. He placed it on the table with a jug of orange juice and three plastic cups. "Help yourselves," he ordered, then proceeded to watch them dig in.

Not long after, a knock on the door disturbed the stolid atmosphere that had been otherwise filled with only the clanking of forks against plates and cups against tabletop. Unanimously deciding that he would be the one to seek out their newfound visitor, Jacob mumbled grumpily under his breath and pushed back from the table. He dragged his feet to the door and swung it open with an irritated flourish only to pause at the sight before him. The sleepy indifference left his face immediately.

A frown pulling at his lips formed in its stead.

"Paul," Jacob grumbled, feeling significantly more grumpy that he had prior to. His eyes met those of his pack brother's and he sighed at the hard look that was held in them. "Here for Bay I'm guessing?"

Paul nodded curtly, gaze flickering to a spot just beyond Jacob's shoulder and considerably softening to a warm smolder that, had Jacob not known of his feelings for his childhood best friend, he might have otherwise thought him incapable of ever expressing. However, a small hand pressing against Jacob's back stole him from his observations before he could read any further into Paul's actions, so instead of making a fuss, Jacob simply side-stepped out of the way instead. His eyes trailed Bailey's every movement closely, the warning made blatantly obvious in their bright glint. Be careful, it told her. I still don't trust him not to hurt you.

Little did Jacob know however, that deep down, dwelling in a place Bailey would never admit existed, she didn't trust him not to hurt her either.

"Paul," Bailey breathed, once droopy eyes now wide and shining as they gazed upon the boy she had so quickly grown to adore. "W-what are you doing here?"

The boy in question remained quiet at first. His mahogany brown orbs scanned her from head-to-toe, first taking in the sight of her mussed mass of long golden curls and the freckles adorning her cheeks before lingering on the bags of fatigue that rested just slightly below her otherwise brilliant cerulean eyes. He observed her wrinkled attire with thinly-veiled amusement, opting not to comment on the bright orange t-shirt at least three sizes too big that hung off her right shoulder and draped down to her knees. It dwarfed her in such a perfect way -almost acted in successfully hiding the blue pajama pants with the purple kittens that hit loosely at her ankles. This, of course, only drew attention down to her feet though, and as Paul lowered his gaze even further, he felt a piece of his hard exterior crack at the sight that met him. He had never thought mismatched socks could look so precious, yet as her little feet wiggled her even littler toes against the hardwood floor through the odd colored fabric adorning them, Paul realized just how wrong he was. Mismatched socks could be precious.