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poison is the best medicine

The first time he meets her, it's with his best friend. They were eight, and she was seven, and they all had their problems. He particularly remembers her screeching, and his own insatiable stomach, and of course his best friend's boredom; apparently, they were the trio of genius, kindness, and seduction.

The first time he'd met her, she'd spoken in the language of flowers; to him, it had felt as if she spoke in poisons rather than in understanding. Her care of the nursery only went so far in hiding her cruelty, the kind he thinks even she doesn't know she possesses.

The first time he'd met her, she'd offered them both a mix of Columbine and Fungus and Striped Carnations, hidden behind Wisteria and Crocuses and Yellow Poppies. He's not sure she noticed her mistakes, young as she was, nor is he sure if it wasn't merely a child's welcome and her hope for success.

He thinks he was disgusted, faithless, apologizing for her unhappiness in their group. But that was probably his inner wariness speaking. After all, she's never resented her placement, never outright hated them, and he can't honestly blame that fact on all three of their fathers being the best of friends.

His mother had loved flowers, he remembers, so he'd tried to teach himself afterwards. That was why he'd doubted her, in the beginning, kept her out of their two-man team. Eventually, she'd grown to be just as close to them, the third member, and he couldn't resent her for such a simple mistake so long ago.

.

The next time he'd seen her, years later, at her little nursery, she'd changed.

He'd gone alone, needing flowers for his mother's grave, and she'd offered honeysuckle and geranium and gladiolus, china aster and elderflower and eglantine rose.

It wouldn't be until later that he'd see that along with devotion and compassion and a wish to be remembered, that along with a salve for the wounds of the heart, she'd given her own rosemary and rue, her own remembrance and regret.

He thinks she knows better now, has grown from that screeching girl with flowers in her hair, to a more beautiful woman, one who understands pain. She's no longer obsessed with lowering herself to incite primal desires, though she's strong enough to do so should her work ask for it.

She's no longer innocent, either; once, she was so open as to throw all her feelings out in her flowers, wear her heart in the plants she gave away. Now, she hides those feelings, giving people what they want to see rather than who she really is.

It comes as no surprise, then, when she starts delving into poisons and torture, learning and using and becoming their best Interrogator. She's merely following in the footsteps of her father, merely working a different aspect of her job.

So why does her camaraderie suddenly scare him? Why does he begin to fear her?

It's because she is no longer that little girl they'd met, no longer domesticated and civilian, despite her roots. She's come into her own, a monster hiding beneath beauty, a seductress with an inner demon.

He wonders if he should warn him, the boy – no, man – that she now wants by her side, but shakes his head sadly. It's not just her who's changed.

His best friend no longer lazes around, looking at the clouds as his brain wanders. He's a master of shadows, an assassin of the highest caliber. And, unfortunately for her, he's already taken, and by a fierce desert girl, no less.

And he, himself? He's still who he was years ago, that chubby kid with a passion for food and a love of forest animals and a best friend he used to share everything with.

While he's refused to change, everyone has gone on, to become monsters in their own right rather than let the real monster roam freely. And while he's settled down, like his father before him, even opening up a ramen and barbeque joint for the hungry, nobody else has, and he's not really sure they could, even if they wanted to.

People like them, they never take the time to watch the sky and relax. They have to keep moving and keep improving, keep fighting, keep hurting. They're tied to their work from birth, and the ones who do escape have to watch the rest of their team fall.

.

The last time he sees his best friend, the assassin is headed to the deserts for his political marriage to that fierce desert girl. She's from a different nation, its princess, no less, and his best friend holds no power in this alliance.

The sad thing is, ever since that silly crush from years ago, he still doesn't mind. Loyalty was never a strong motivator, but fear of death for his comrades was. Here, there are no dangers, but there are goodbyes.

It isn't until a decade later that the desert princess falls in combat, and his best friend returns, hardened, with her corpse left behind. He goes with him, if only to watch the burial she'll be given.

As was her element, she is taken by the wind, only to be buried by the desert sands.

.

The last time she sees the girl he once knew, she is to be engaged to an heir of the second most powerful clan in their village. She tells him he's pretty, but he knows she no longer cares for powerful heirs; her first crush on the sole survivor to the clan with blood red eyes did not end well, nor was it ever acknowledged.

As for her love for his best friend, the assassin, her other teammate, he doubts the genius understood just how much she cared. And, years later, he doubts the genius can ever see anyone other than his desert princess in that way ever again.

After all, he'd left his own heir behind in the desert village, too hurt by his appearance and spunk to stay. He's sure that his friend occasionally visits as a stranger, just to see him growing up, but he's not sure.

.

It isn't until several months later that he learns of his flower shop girl breaking her engagement with the heir. Her claims of how it wouldn't work out are unfounded, but he thinks he understands.

With their lives, they can afford to marry for love, would rather marry someone they care about, if only because they don't have any guarantee they'll be there the next day.

To celebrate their single status, he takes her out for a drink, only to find the star-crossed lovers, the demon hero and his wife, out partying there. She waves, but they ignore them, too drunk to care.

She settles down near the back, and they laugh at the way things have turned out while they wait for their drinks. After all these years, even her skills at matchmaking and her predictions for the classmates she knew don't stick to reality.

But, one drink becomes two becomes three, and as they talk about anything and everything, all the years they've missed and how old they've gotten – he stopped counting after thirty – and how inexplicably tired she's getting with the darker aspects of her work, she slowly grows more and more depressed, more and more drunk, more and more open, heart hanging off her sleeve.

She was laughing, once, but now that she's getting quieter, more sober, less sure of herself and questioning whether what she does is right, he doesn't know what to do.

She's never doubted herself before, but, that night, he thinks it would be better to let her drink her sorrows away. Rather than keep conversation up with a girl he doesn't want to know anymore, the one that died in the flower shop all those years ago, he chooses to let her drown.

It was never a single moment that changed her, but life that molded her, experience that jaded her, and love that blinded her to the reality. And, now, he only knows her hardened, flirty, carefree demeanor. To seek anything further is to accept that she isn't who she wants to be, is only a little girl in a killer's world.

She wears masks now, and he respects her too much to allow himself to see through the cracks.

.

They end up staying the night at the bar.

.

The next day, she laughs at the crick in her neck and the dent in his skin, despite the pain in her head and the tear tracks on her face. He leaves yen on their table and gets up to leave, even as she keeps talking about her work and her treat for breakfast.

She only quiets as they walk out of the entrance, and he can see why. Her fiancée was not a true heir to that clan, but this woman, the once shy heiress, was directly in line for the seat of the Head. Yet, here she was, passing by them with her head down, prepared to drink her troubles away so early in the morning.

He thinks he gets it when his flower shop girl turned torturer points out the red-eyed man, the one she had once liked as a kid, in the park. Theirs was a political alliance stemming from their respective clans rather than from real feeling.

She treats him in silence to barbeque, he offers her a pat on the back, and they part ways.

.

On the night of the clan marriage between the red-eyed man and the heiress, he sees false happiness. The heiress is crying, and the man is quiet, unblinking, uncaring. He's not sure if the alliance will last, especially if this is for a bloodline to form, but he can't not care.

The marriage seemed more like a funeral, like going through the motions, like an assassination. He's not sure what to think, what to say.

Luckily, he doesn't have to. The dog boy and bug guy on her team speak up for her afterwards, yet she still shakes her head, even as she walks away crying.

He was never much for tradition, but he knows his mother would never approve, and he doesn't think he should, either.

.

That night, his flower shop girl goes home with him, and she lets herself go. She's not one for these things, at least not now, but he thinks he understands.

He's always understood matters of the heart the best.

.

When she leaves the next day, it is with a parting bouquet of Alstroemeria, Amaryllis, and Gardenia.

Friendship. Worth beyond beauty. Secret love and joy.

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I love you.

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