⤃ persephone's garden

@Choi Yeonjun 　　⤿ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: persephone in the garden - aidoneus

　　"If you're looking for a plant, you've come to the right place," Eric replies. It's dry, but not unkind. This stranger doesn't set his teeth on edge or make his skin prickle. He can stay, and Eric will help him to the best of his ability.

His gaze rests on the human, weighing him. The request for a special plant is not an uncommon one, but Eric is never hasty about handing over one of his babies. In the wrong hands, they could do great harm, or come to great harm. In the wrong hands, they can also be traced back to Eric, and it's a risk he can't take if anything should raise alarms.

But this stranger, as calm as he seems to be trying to make himself appear, bears a familiar edge. Eric looks at him, and sees survival. It isn't the wild-eyed look of someone who has only just clawed their way free, fought tooth and nail to escape, but it's the look of someone who can never /quite/ shake the nightmares and memories, no matter how long they may have been freed from their tormentors.

Eric hums to himself. "I think I can help you," he muses. He reaches into a box beside his register and pulls out a pair of latex gloves, which he slips on, the rubber snapping. Then he kneels down, reaching for a pot kept under the counter, close at hand. The plant growing inside is a growth from seeds he's saved from the lineage of that first plant he ever nurtured to maturity, seeds he harvests each time one of the descendants produces them. It is his own reminder of freedom, much like the shop they stand in is.

The florist sets the small pot on the counter. It's little, unassuming. But Eric knows from experience how quickly the flower will grow and sprawl, how far it will spread even when trimmed back, how much it wishes to grow. The wings of freedom are hard to clip, once they catch wind.

"This," Eric says, "is Datura innoxia — moonflower." He runs gloved fingers over the leaves of the sprout, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "She blooms at night, and is fast growing. She thrives outdoors and doesn't require much in care, but I'd advise keeping her trimmed. You'll want to wear gloves and not touch her with your skin, just in case, unless you wash immediately after. She's not to be eaten, /ever/, especially her flowers."

@Eric Sohnᵒᵐᵉᵍᵃ » ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: ethan - 12:45

There’s something inherently comforting about being Choi Yeonjun again, like slipping on an old pair of shoes. They’re worn in the right spots; laces tied, but loose; easy to step into and back out of: a perfect fit. Yeonjun is at home again in this skin, even though it feels like it’s been months since he last wore it.

He’s been Yeonjun for so long—one name, a brand, on his way to being a household name if his company has any say in the matter—that anything else feels like a breath of fresh air.

As the door closes behind himself, sealing off the shop from the bustles of the world outside, Yeonjun becomes aware of the soft noises coming from behind the counter. Or at the counter, maybe, because there’s a sizeable plant there, one that looks like it’s seen better days, and the muted snick of metal on metal is coming from behind it. ...until it’s not.

In the last few weeks, Yeonjun had only ever seen one individual in the shop. Sure, he’d seen the odd customers when passing by, an uneasy form shifting from foot to foot, nervous hands passing over neck napes and other hands, wringing behind backs. He’s passed the shop enough to see the customers and recognize the anxiety of illegal knowledge and the fear of being caught, but he’s only ever seen one beyond them. One form, often androgynous within the depths of the shop, but sometimes not as he caught them while watering by the windows.

Their dedication is admirable, and can only mean one of two things: they’re either the best employee the store has, or they’re the owner. In all honesty, Yeonjun would put money on both.

He takes the moment to study the other, sharp gaze drifting over their form, before they slide away. There’s awareness there, but not recognition. Yeonjun is safe. ...for now.

“I’m looking for a plant.” Unlike when the camera is on, and thousands of eyes are on him, Yeonjun feels no urge to police himself. He doesn’t need to hide. Honesty is his policy here. “A potted plant, specifically.” The urge to drag his hand over his neck resurfaces, a reminder that this topic, above all others, pushes Yeonjun from his comfort zone. Still, he resists, fingers curling into fists in his pockets. “I’m not looking for a one-time use. It’s more of a...reminder. I hold the power now, and I’ll never be in that position again.”

@Choi Yeonjun 　　⤿ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: lowkey grl - dounia, moroccan doll

　　. . . eric isn't ignorant to what happens around him.

When someone passes by his shop so many times, as though with a purpose, the shop owner takes notice of it. He's accustomed to those who linger on the sidewalk, hesitant to enter, with shaking hands as they glance over their shoulders, wondering if it's worth the risk. Used to those who are even brave enough to step inside, but several times lose their nerve before they can buy the things that might take away their troubles.

And he's accustomed to those who finally work up the courage to ask for what they really came for, to put an nd to the hastily applied concealer or the long sleeves, raspy voices and black eyes that they can try to hide but that they, and Eric, still know are there.

Anyway, he's observant.

The chimes over the door tinkle against each other as someone pushes it open, the sound of footsteps making their way into his shop. Eric is stooped behind the counter, hoisting a particular pain in the onto the rough surface. It's not the cleanest corner, certainly; there's a layer of potting soil coating half the surface and his register has seen better days, one too many flowerpots dropped on it when Eric was juggling too many things at once, but there's something comfortable about his controlled chaos.

He's snipping dead leaves away from the plant on the counter, muttering to the plant as the customer moves through his shop. The omega doesn't look up, between the snip-snip-snip of his shears as he cleans up the fussy plant. A little too much water and she threw a it.

Not uncommon plants. Some of them are divas in their own rights.

The voice is what makes Eric set down his shears. A decidedly human scent has hit his nostrils, which suits Eric just fine. He doesn't mind humans—they aren't so difficult as alphas or omegas can be. To be sure, it might be an unpopular opinion within the pack, but Eric has never paid much mind to what the pack thinks. He's closer to a lone wolf, anyway.

He doesn't think the pack leader would like what he does.

Still, Eric steps out from behind the plant—so the human can see him properly, rather than trying to peep through dense foliage—and smiles at the man on the other side of the counter. A little familiar, though the omega can't place where he might know him from. "Welcome to Persephone's Garden," the florist says, voice chipper. "What can I help you find today?"