They were flowers. Just flowers. Nothing special. Nothing fancy. Definitely nothing worth the spectacle.

Feliciano grasped the bouquet, all doe-eyed and sparkly, nose buried in the arrangement. He inhaled. A yellow lily rested against his forehead; a skinny leaf clipped his nose; an ivory dahlia drifted over his lips.

"Alright," Lovino said, "I know you're happy, but don't eat the damn things."

"I'm not!" Feliciano trilled—

—a leaf violated his parted lips. He jolted, sputtering, whacking the air and narrowly the bouquet. One dahlia's stem bowed, then rose back to shape. A smattering of petals drifted to the floor. Feliciano pouted—doe-eyed without the sparkle—like his attacker wasn't leafy and green and could feel guilty.

He almost wrecked the bouquet, but didn't, and Lovino could hardly contain his snicker. "Or maybe don't let them eat you."

Feliciano turned. He smiled small. His eyes smiled small, soft, like wool draped over a clothesline. "I'm just so happy you bought more flowers." He rubbed yellow petals between his fingers.

"You act like I don't buy flowers all the time."

"Not consistently," Feliciano said. He pressed a kiss—small, soft—to Lovino's cheek. "I'm going to find them a vase!"

He skipped to the kitchen. Last time Feliciano tried to set up a flower vase, he placed them in cool water. Cool. How many times had Lovino told him it was supposed to be room temperature?

"Don't fuck it up this time!" Lovino shouted. The faucet squeaked from the other room. "Actually, wait, you're going to fuck it up. Let me do it!"

The bouquet sat in a glass vase on their dining room table. Feliciano assured Lovino he'd "get it right next time!" and learn to care for flowers without a toddler's level of adult supervision. In a week, the bouquet would wilt, and in a month, Lovino would replace it.

"They really liven up the room," Feliciano said during dinner. He spooned risotto al pomodoro into his mouth, staring fondly at the centerpiece.

Next week, Lovino decided, he would buy another.