CW: Explicit language, mentions of: human trafficking/slavery, brainwashing, panic attacks/mental health issues, s*icide, self harm, physical abuse, suggested sexual abuse.
“Strip for me, please.”
His voice is soft and calm as he sits at the low table, writing notes in a beautiful cream notebook. He pauses every now and then to glance up at the Rosebud, bespectacled gaze keen and thoughtful, before jotting down a few more points.
Rin bites his lower lip, brows falling low over hesitant eyes. Normally, he’d be quite brazen about being naked before others, but there’s something about this scholarly man that makes him uneasy.
“Why? We’re not gonna fuck are we? Bucky said you weren’t a client--”
“I merely wish to get to know you.” A thin lipped smile creeps across his pasty face and his eyes flinch wide as emphasis. Other than his unhealthy complexion, he appears rather plain and mild-mannered. Even moreso in his neat three-piece Northern suit. “Sweet thing. Don’t be nervous. Father Blossom is a friend to all Roses and Rosebuds. Now please, strip for me.”
“I don’t see how stripping is gonna--”
The fountain pen is set down and Father Blossom clasps his hands together, giving the Rosebud an expectant look. It would be difficult to miss the dangerous glint in those keen umber eyes.
Throat rolling with nervous swallows and unspoken curses, Rin reluctantly slips the chiffon robes from his shoulders and lets it pool at his feet. His body still holds traces of athleticism in the arms and legs, though the rest of his flesh sticks to his bones. Old scars and marks decorate his flesh, and they give this Rosebud a tender, bruised look. Father Blossom can see multiple hands, roughly roving over this body to wound and mark as it writhes and keens helplessly beneath. He licks his lips and picks up his pen to continue writing.
Rin fidgets as he stands, hands cupped before his groin. “Um. So what’s your deal?” His voice is like thunder in this tense silence. “Is this getting you off or something?”
“...you may think of me as a Healer,” the man says, a smile digging into his slightly gaunt cheeks. “The Madame often has me interview Rosebuds to judge their suitability.”
“Suitability?” Rin shivers as a cold draft licks his skin. Bumps rise across his bare flesh.
“For this kind of work, of course.”
Dark bags hang under Rin's eyes as he endures the man’s intense scrutiny. He had spent yet another restless night trying to escape his night terrors, resorting to pricking his fingers with a needle to keep exhaustion at bay.
It’s always a relief to see Solaris' golden light peek over the horizon, washing away the empty pitch of night.
“You may get dressed,” Blossom says, setting down his pen. He watches as the boy puffs a relieved sigh and quickly pulls on his robes. “Would you like some wine?”
“Sure, why not?” Rin perks up at the mention of alcohol and he sits across from the strange man in a lotus position. He grabs the proffered cup with a lopsided grin and tosses it back in one. A satisfied gasp. And then Blossom’s refilling his drink to the brim. "That’s good stuff. What is it?”
“The Essence of Yage. A rare brew from the West. It has curative properties and a mild calming effect.” The man sets down the wine jug and takes a sip of his own drink. Lenses flash in the firelight as he glances at the boy over the rim of his cup. “You have not been sleeping.”
“You don’t get much sleep in this line of work, pet,” Rin snorts, this time taking small sips of the precious wine.
A crooked tooth pokes out from between Blossom’s lips as he quietly laughs. It’s oddly charming. “Sweet thing. I can see you becoming the most requested in no time at all.”
“Obviously,” Rin says, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “Have you seen the others? They don’t stand a chance once I debut.”
“I’ve been told that you spent four months in the Training Room.”
Herbal liquor spills over the raven’s hand. He tugs his lips back in a grimace and lowers his eyes. “What of it?” he grits, sticky fingers turning white around the cup.
“To spend that long in the Room would have a serious impact on your mental stability.” Father Blossom picks up his pen and jots down a sentence or two. His handwriting is sharp and precise in its cursive script. “Rosebuds commonly experience insomnia, night terrors, nausea, and panic. Sometimes one can be subjected to hallucinations. Do you suffer from any of these symptoms?”
Rin digs his teeth into the rim of his cup, gnawing on the ceramic absently. He narrows his eyes at the man before responding with a wary, “Maybe.”
“Which ones specifically?”
“...I don’t sleep. And sometimes I get a little panicked. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He drains his cup and wriggles it under the man’s nose. Blossom smiles and patiently refills his drink.
“You dream about what you experienced in the Room.”
The boy doesn’t drink. Instead, he squeezes his cup between his hands. Hellebores are stark and deep within his masked face, the colour long drained from his cheeks. “Every night,” he mutters, staring into the nether. “I get dismantled. Every part of myself is disassembled and destroyed until there's nothing left. The emptiness it leaves behind is...it makes death seem like life in comparison.”
His pale lips tremble and he quickly takes a big gulp of his wine. Liquor spills down his chin and drips from his jaw. "But then…” The creases smooth out in his forehead as his expression softens. “But then She comes to me. She fills in the empty spaces and makes me feel whole again. She saves me.” He raises his eyes to Blossom’s, the latter’s gaze penetrating and hungry. “Even so, I’d much rather forgo sleep than to experience that emptiness again.”
Blossom flips over to a fresh page, the nib of his fountain pen sweeping across the page in a controlled frenzy. “Why do you think it took four months for your training? As I understand it, most Rosebuds only require a week or two on average.”
“The Madame said it was because I had too many problems. It was too messy and noisy up here,” he taps his temple, “so She had difficulty showing me Her love. She had to fix me first, before I could become fully devoted to Her.”
“And now? How is the mess and the noise?”
“Better,” Rin shrugs, lips twisted into a wry smile. “When I only need to devote myself to Her, things are a lot easier to deal with.”
“Tell me - what do you fear the most?” Father Blossom pauses in his writing to slip off his spectacles.
“...I’m afraid of not receiving Her acknowledgement.” The boy squirms a little, pressing his forefinger into the rim of his cup. “I’m scared of leaving. I don’t ever want to be apart from Her. To feel that emptiness again. I…” He shudders and drains his cup.
“And what about before the palace? Before you met the Madame? What were your fears then?”
This gives the raven some pause. He blinks at Blossom with gaping eyes, plump lips pursed in confusion. “I don’t know.”
"Do you have a lover? Betrothed? An unrequited love?"
The Rat pauses when a flicker of gold tickles his periphery. Cold sweat dampens his back. "...no. I don't have anyone. Only the Madame."
Blossom gives him a narrow look. “No, of course not.” He slips his glasses back on and continues writing. “It appears you are quite suited for this work.”
He closes the notebook before the ink fully dries and tucks the pen into his breast pocket. “I will recommend you to debut. But if anything changes, anything at all, you call for me. Do not forget - Father Blossom is your friend.”
Rin blinks before huffing incredulously. “Sure. Friend.” And then he promptly takes advantage of his new friend by downing the rest of the Essence of Yage.
***
That afternoon, a restless group of Roses gather in the front garden as Father Blossom strides towards the main gate. Beside him is a willowy grey faced Rose, her arms linked around the man’s as she obediently follows.
Rin finds Bucky in the crowd and slips in beside, giving her a poke in the arm. “What’s going on? Who’s that?” He glances at his friend’s grim face and, after sweeping his gaze around, he realises that everyone’s expressions are just as dour.
“Father Blossom has chosen a Rose to take home,” Bucky says, hands curling into tight fists. Stormy eyes barely contain the tempest within. “Senna’s only been here for half a year. She's hardly older than you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” a sharp voice calls out to their left. Delilah steps into view, arms crossed and holding a sour look on her face. “She tried to run away last night after ransacking the palace. There's no going back from that.”
“I think I’d rather be retrained than go with Father Blossom,” another Rose mutters, and there’s a chorus of agreement and nodding heads.
“That should have been you,” Delilah says, glaring at Bucky with burning slits. “Senna may be stupid but it’s expected from a new Rose like her. You, on the other hand. You’ve been here the longest out of anyone and you still haven’t learned your lesson.”
The other Roses fall silent, awkwardly glancing between the two warring women. Delilah is a fierce presence and many are reluctant to stir her ire. Bucky is the senior most Rose and well respected amongst her peers. This is a conflict that none wished to be a part of.
“Again, you question the Madame’s judgement,” Bucky says, coolly. “If you take issue with how she handles punishment, then you can raise your concerns with her. There is little I can do for you.”
“You think you’re invincible, don’t you? That you can get away with anything?”
“Perhaps.”
Delilah scoffs loudly, glancing around at the others with an outraged expression. “Do you hear this? Don’t you see how she’s abusing her seniority?” She turns an ugly sneer at the blonde, cheeks turning blotchy from upset. “Enjoy it while you can, Bucky. This isn’t going to last. One day, you’re going to go too far, and even the Madame won’t be able to keep you safe.”
“Until that day, will you stop acting like a jilted lover and leave me be?”
“Fucking bitch.”
“That I am,” Bucky clips, apathetically.
Delilah lurches forward, fists raised as if she were about to throw one into Bucky's face--
Only for Duri to step in between the women like a hulking brick wall. Her fist harmlessly bounces off his firm chest and she flaps her sore hand with a hiss. "Duri!" Delilah growls through grit teeth. "Why are you protecting her?"
Duri frowns at the irascible Rose, his black eyes clear and stern as he stares down at her in silence.
"You are exhausting," she snaps, jabbing her finger in his face.
He blinks slowly, expression not changing an inch.
Realising that this giant golem of a man won't be giving in, Delilah huffs, spins on her heels, and shoves her way through the crowd.
After giving Rin and Bucky a short nod, Duri follows after her.
The raven hums a laugh and turns his attention from the miniature spat. He gazes after the figures of Father Blossom and the Rose, disappearing through the giant green gates. “So...he hired her. What’s the big deal? A Healer can get lonely too.”
“Healer?” Bucky gives Rin a confused look, before realisation catches her tongue. “No, that’s not the problem. You see, when Father Blossom takes a Rose, they don’t come back.”
“...what? So he buys Roses?”
“Perhaps.” The senior Rose sighs and grabs Rin’s hand, tugging him back inside. “It’s nothing to worry about. As long as you follow the rules, you don’t have to concern yourself about Father Blossom. Understand?”
Rin blinks at the woman as he follows her in a daze. “Should I stay away from the guy?”
“That might be for the best, yes.”
“He told me he was my friend,” the Rat says, smirking. “I feel bad for neglecting a friend.”
Bucky rolls her eyes and jerks on his hand. “Come on, stop dragging your feet. I need to give you the elixirs for your debut.”
“Elixirs?”
“You know, to prevent diseases and pregnancies--”
“But I can’t get pregnant,” Rin says, wrinkling his nose.
“You can get clients pregnant, Rin, and that would be a complete and utter shitshow. Believe you me, I’ve seen it happen before. Twice. And both of the Roses were taken away by Father Blossom.”
“...so how many do I have to take?”
***
The Rosebud stands alone on the vast stage, cast in a gentle white light. Before him is a sea of shadows rolling fitfully like wind tossed waves. There’s a hum of voices and laughter, the clinking of glasses and bottles, chopsticks and cutlery scraping dishes, chair legs skidding across the floor, footsteps rushing about this way and that.
The Rosebud trembles, trying not to squint into the spotlight. He’s a breathtaking vision, unearthly and spectral. His charcoal hair and eyes are deeper than the midnight sky against his complexion, pale like snow jadeite. Diaphanous robes elegantly drape over his form, tantalisingly sheer. His body shimmers beneath the alabaster fabric like an illusion, teasing tender flesh and silken skin. White gold flowers adorn his sable tresses that tumble over his shoulders and down his back in luscious curls. Sight alone is enough to draw the attention of every single patron - and soon, the cacophony dies to a tense, anticipating silence.
At an invisible cue, a clear weeping note snakes its way into the hall. Chasing after it like an anxious dragonfly are delicate plucked notes. Two instruments weave around each other, intimately entwined one moment, then scattered apart the next. The melody is wistful and mournful. A lost love. A missing memory. The graze of another’s touch and a lingering warmth. The separation of death. The scars left in life. One is sometimes alone. One is sometimes with another, but barely.
The Rosebud glides across the stage, bare feet padding and twisting with every fluid, dreamy motion. Delicate gossamer ripple and flutter through the air, following every movement like a tapered brush stroke. He’s a little awkward, a little clumsy. He misses a step here, sways too hard there, his breathing is uneven, his pulse moreso, and the sweat of exertion glitters upon his flexing, flushed skin like a million diamontes.
And yet, the audience is completely entranced.
When the final notes ring in the air, when the final flutter of sleeves settle, a coin is tossed onto the stage. It skips across the surface and lands at his bare feet. A pure silver token embossed with the symbol of a luscious bloom. The Rose sweeps his hand down and picks it up between finger and thumb, the metal still warm from his first client’s hand.
