flower crowns // l.s.

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Harry has always wanted to make people happy. When he was young, he would take the flowers from the neighbor's yard (the little six-year-old didn't know any better) and gave them out to the people that looked sad. His mother, for instance; for some reason, his mother always seemed sad. Little Harry didn't understand why—didn't understand why his father never stayed around for long.

Now, he's grown. Now Harry is a man that shares an apartment with two guys, and is still loving those flowers. But he doesn't take flowers from his neighbors yard, no—he grows them himself. In his garden at his grandmother's house. Who knew he would make a living out of doing something he loves? (Making people happy, and flowers, of course.) His flower stand (Harry calls it Flower Express) is something he cherishes deeply. He makes sure his prices aren't too pricey; Harry just wants others as happy as he is. It's sad when a fellow comes along, looking at the flowers and wanting a nice bouquet of them, but the lad only has about five dollars. That makes Harry just want to give it to him for free, and he will admit that he's done that before.

"Mornin', Mum," Harry mumbles quietly, exhaling loudly as he got down on one knee in front of the square concrete.

Today is a pretty day. The sun is out, there's a light breeze, and no one is around to bother Harry or send him sympathetic looks. The gravestone in front of him is surrounded with flowers, though they're all from him, and to make sure it stays all nice and pretty, he comes here nearly every day to visit his mother and to make sure the birds haven't decided to do their business on the gray stone.

Today, Harry brought a bouquet of snapdragons and dahlia's, something he put together himself, and he sits them in the corner with the other bouquet of peonies. The peonies are already starting to die out, but they're still so incredibly pretty.

"You know that boy I told you about?" He continues to talk, scooting over to sit beside the stone with his legs crossed. He doesn't want to just lay where she's buried six feet down. That would be just horrible. "The one that was mean at that store," he says, as if his Mum could hear him. He hopes she can. "When he ran into my flower stand last month, he was the same. Rude. But you'll never guess what happened," he shakes his head, almost laughing. "He works at the tattoo shop! Wait, oh. I forgot to tell you. I moved the flower stand again. Now it's outside of the tattoo shop. I didn't have a clue he worked there, the owner said I could set up outside and everything, and Mum, you should have seen his face when he saw me outside." Harry laughs and runs a hand through his long hair, reliving the moment.

It was quite funny. Harry had ran into that boy again, for the billionth time, and each time he was still as mean as ever. And when Harry had to move the flower stand because of more people on that certain street, Harry couldn't help but laugh when Louis approached him with a cigarette in his mouth and his brow furrowed. "Not you again," Louis had muttered, throwing the cigarette down on the ground and stomping on it. "You're here now? Am I getting punk'd or something?" He'd said. That caused Harry to shake his head and say: "No, no you're not. Sorry, I didn't know I was that irritating." He wasn't serious when he said that, but Harry had given Louis a gerbera daisy and left him alone. Louis had taken it with a grumble of incoherent words (they weren't nice words anyway, so Harry was partly happy that he didn't hear the rude words) and entered the shop. Occasionally, Louis comes out to smoke or to go out to eat, and no matter how many times Harry says to not smoke around the flowers, the blue eyed boy seems to forget and do it even more.

"I'm going to get him to like me, you know. I'm sure he's a lovely boy, Mum. He's soo pretty. One of the prettiest boy's I've ever seen. God. I want to hug him and play with his hair." Harry went on, going off into a fantasy of the pretty boy. "His eyes are probably my favorite. And he has this piercing in his lip that makes him look so intimidating but for some reason he makes it look so cute at the same time." He stops to sigh in adoration. "I believe I've got a bit of a crush, Mum. It's just hard to always smile around him sometimes because he really doesn't like me..." He says, his voice getting quieter, and as he looks down, he puts his chin in the palm of his hand, and begins picking at the grass.