Work Text:
Then.
Caleb had been full of energy for as long as you could remember. Buzzing from room to room in the house like a pest back when you two were still the same height. Random objects re-organizing themselves mid-air as he started to master his evol. His loud chatter darting through the house instead, now that his legs got too tired after training.
Gran had long since given up — something about fireflies not shining as bright when they were in a jar — and no matter how many times you’d groaned, sighed, slammed your door, or yelled back, that restless energy of his didn’t seem like it would settle any time soon.
For the past few months, though, you’d started paying a little more attention. Maybe it was a new maturity that came with turning 16. Maybe you’d gotten used to the hum of his energy that permeated through the house.
Or, maybe it was the realization that in less than two years you’d finally get the peace you’d yearned for — and you weren’t sure you wanted that anymore.
But it made you notice for the first time that his energetic exterior was all smoke and mirrors. An illusion that seemed to fool everyone around him into thinking he was an open book, that everything about him shined at face value.
In reality, you'd discovered, all that movement was a distraction. A dazzling performance that kept him on a stage, suspended from any meaningful connection. No one noticed the lines of tension on his forehead, or the way he talked but never actually talked about himself.
And you, an aspiring Hunter, had fallen for the act.
You didn’t know whether you wanted to punch him or hug him for it and so you’d stepped into some kind of silent limbo. One where you’d started to study the lines of his smile for authenticity during meal times. One where you’d started pausing before you walked into the same room as him to catch a glimpse of his true expression before he molded it into something else.
Basically, you’d turned into one of the countless girls who followed him around school with sighs spilling from their mouths and love pouring from their eyes. Which did nothing but tip the scale toward 'punch.'
So when you spotted Caleb sitting alone at the park by your house, hidden by the lake behind some flowering shrubs, you were ready to give him a piece of your mind. To confront him about what he was hiding — and doing it without revealing the hurt that wrapped around your chest like barbed wire.
But as you got closer, you saw Caleb plucking some flowers and bringing them to his lap, his back rising and falling in even breaths. His biceps flexing and relaxing with whatever motions his hands were making.
He shifted his position, legs out while his knees propped up his elbows, and you caught sight of a cluster of flowers twisted into a braid.
Curiosity suddenly conquered your need for petty revenge and your steps got faster when Caleb called out, “Come sit, pip-squeak. The flowers don’t bite.” He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “And I just ate.”
Rolling your eyes you plant yourself next to him, a small patch devoid of flowers. Unable to curb your curiosity any longer, you nod to his lap, “What're you doing?”
He raises his brows, a pleased glint flickering in his eyes as he looked down to make a couple of twisting motions with his fingers, placed the small wreath of flowers on his wrist, and held it out to you.
Your eyes widened and you couldn’t help but reach out and trace the soft swirl of colorful blooms circling his wrist. “A flower crown? Where’d you learn to make this?”
“I keep tellin’ you I know everything, you just never believe me.” He teased, shifting to the side with a laugh when you finally landed your long-awaited punch on his shoulder. “Alright, alright, I guess I can teach you this one thing. Wanna learn?”
It didn’t escape your notice he hadn’t fully answered your question. Maybe he didn’t know where he learned it, or maybe it was a skill some people were born with, like curling your tongue.
But there was something about the melted gold in his eyes, the unfamiliar smoothness of his forehead, the open hand he held out expectantly that suddenly made confronting him about your grievances feel wrong and childish. Immature.
You placed your hand in his with a warning, “If this is anything like you teaching me to shoot hoops, I’m going to hide all your left shoes again.”
“How many times do I have to say I wasn’t aiming for your face before you believe me?” He groaned playfully, widening his legs and pulling your hand until you shifted between them. His sun-warmed chest pressed into your back.
“Hm, at least a hundred more,” you mused as the hair on your right got tucked behind your ear and replaced with the sight of Caleb’s cheek. “Each one accompanied by chicken wings.”
“Always so ruthless,” he mumbled fondly, setting the completed flower crown down and pressing closer to you to pluck a couple of new blooms. “That’s good though. Wildflowers need ruthless hands to twist them into shape. Ready?”
The next hour was spent with distant birdsong and Caleb’s murmured thoughts and instructions swirling around your ears, the mixture of cool flower stems and his warm fingers tangling with yours — first clumsily and eventually dexterously — and the comforting rhythm of Caleb’s heart thudding against your back until your inhales timed perfectly with his exhales and-
“Done,” he announced, the crown of blooms displayed on his palm in front of you.
It was beautifully intricate, hues of pink and white and blue strung together in an elegant circlet.
Your smile beamed from the crown to his proud gaze. “I did it!”
He laughed softly. “A flower crown fit for a princess.”
Your eyes held his. A strange, exciting tingle of… something in your chest accompanied the usual flutter of comfort as the birdsong faded and you drank in the openness of the gold and violet. Bright and shining just for you.
For the first time you knew exactly what Gran meant when she'd explained the firefly in a jar.
Because suddenly you realized how well you knew the pattern of that gold, the swirls of violet. That Caleb had at some point started to purposefully dim himself, put himself in a jar. That the performance you’d been watching him put on wasn’t for you, it was never for you. It was for everyone else.
You continued to study the features of his face. Sharp angles mixing with soft contours to form a visage as familiar to you as your own and yet more beautiful now. More vulnerable and... precious.
Sucking in a breath, you took a page from his book and caged the butterflies in your abdomen with your own jar before taking the crown from his hand, placing it onto his head, and twisting around to cup his surprised face in your hands.
“No, this is my first flower crown,” you asserted, moving his face from side to side playfully. “And I say it’s made for a prince.”