We walked down the concrete circular path, no real reason or destination in mind. It was in between the hours of afternoon and evening and the sun reflected this with its slightly dimmer then usual appearance. He reached into the pocket of his beige cargo shorts and pulled out three red jolly rancher candies.

“Want one?” He asked, extending his hand towards me.
  I looked down to see they were all cherry flavored.
“No thanks, I hate fake cherry flavoring,” I said looking at him as we walked, the silver ring he wore around his neck created a bulge in his shirt at the collarbone.
“Suit yourself, there the only ones I like,” he said, unwrapping one of the candies and throwing it into his mouth. He deposited the other two back and we kept walking.

  We finally found ourselves out in front of the guesthouse of the boarding school we live on. The off yellow walls were paint chipped and the vines that covered various parts of the building looked to be strangling it. There was a set of 8 green steps, covered in dead leaves, that lead up to the platform where the entrance was. There was a porch swing that one could sit on if they wanted to feel the crisp air on their face, or to hear the wind chimes go crazy with each gust that went by. On either side of the staircase, there was a bed of soil where someone had planted rose bushes.

We stopped in front of one of the bushes and I leaned in to smell one of the creamy yellow blossoms. The scent wafted over me like an aphrodisiac and I sighed slightly, wishing I could bottle it and take it with me wherever I wanted to go.

“You’ve got to smell these,” I said, looking up at him and gesturing my index finger as if to bring him closer.
He shuffled forward and placed his head next to mine. I scooted a little to my left to give him full access to the blossom I had smelled. He sniffed it for a moment and then just looked at me confusedly.

“It smells like a rose,” he said. I could smell the cherry springing from his open mouth. Even though I didn’t like cherries, somehow he managed to make them all the more appealing.

“Yes, what were you expecting?” I said, my eyebrows rising at his response.
“I don’t know,” he said, laughing.
  He pulled his scarlet pocketknife from out of his pocket and opened it with a flick of his wrist. He then grabbed hold of the leafy stem of our rose, but his hand receded quickly as he brought his thumb to his mouth. He dropped the open knife, and the blade landed on the toe of my shoe, bouncing off and into the dirt below us. The rose itself hung pathetically from one strand of stem, flailing side to side over the earth below us.
“God dang it,” he said loudly, the sound masked slightly by his finger.

He said it often enough that I could tell what he was saying just by watching his lips. I had often wondered why he chose to say dang instead of damn. He wasn’t religious, nor did he have a problem saying any other swear word. In fact, over the years, he had become too vulgar for my taste, but he still said dang. I had thought about asking him about it, but didn’t want it to seem like a paid too much attention to his speech habits. I decided to leave it a mystery, one of his complexities that made it so interesting to be in love with him.
“What happened?” I asked, the alarm in my voice audible.
He removed his thumb from his mouth and I could see a jagged cut on the right side of it, covered in a layer of blood and saliva. The flesh on either side of the wound had parted and a trail of thick, watered down blood ran down the side of his thumb and dropped below us.
“Thorn,” he said simply.
I reached down and picked up his knife, handing it back to him, our knuckles grazing in the process. He grabbed the knife with his left hand and haphazardly slashed at the broken stem of the rose. It fell effortlessly to the ground. He put his knife back in his pocket, and then picked up the rose with his right hand. A pinpricks worth of blood appeared on the petal that his thumb had touched, tainting it slightly.

“Here, be careful” he said, handing me the rose.
“Thanks,” I said, putting the rose up to my nose again.

I then began to walk up the stairway of the guesthouse, the boards creaking with each step I took. He followed me and I sat down gently on the swing, the chains that kept it up on the ceiling jingled slightly as I sat. He sat down next to me and the swing started to move, back and forth, back and forth. He placed his legs up on the swing and tried to lie back, but there wasn’t enough room.

“Can I?” He asked, looking at his legs and then at my lap.
“Sure, whatever makes you comfortable,” I said.

He lifted his legs up and draped them across my orange pants his black shoed feet just short enough to avoid hanging off the edge. I smelled the rose again and then placed it in-between his ankles, making sure not to stab him in the process.

“That tickles,” he said, laughing and squirming a little under the leaves small touch.
“God, are you still that ticklish?” I said running my fingers along the underside of his leg. He kicked and laughed involuntarily. The swings started to rock faster than before under his movement.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, his upper lip curled upwards as it always did when he laughed. His eyes looked so joyful and pure, like a crystalline sky.
I rested my arm on his legs, the heat radiating through them into my naturally cool body.  My eyes traced the veins leading up his tanned legs. He leaned upwards for a moment, spitting the jolly rancher out. It flew over the railing and landed in one of the rose bushes.
“Charming,” I said sarcastically.
“It tasted like blood,” he said and he reached into his pocket for another one.

“Are you sure you don’t want one?” He said pulling out the two he had remaining.
“Actually, I’ll try one. Thanks,” I said and he handed me one of the wrapped candies.

  I unwrapped it and placed it in my mouth. He watched my face, carefully waiting for a reaction. The taste filled my mouth as I shifted the log shaped candy from side to side. I still didn’t love the flavor, but for some reason it was invigorating to me, because it smelled like him. I turned my gaze back to the rose located between his strong, hair-ridden ankles.
“Isn’t this the most beautiful rose you’ve ever seen?” I asked him.
“It’s ok, I’ve never been a fan of roses though,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Really, what’s your favorite flower then?” I asked him.
He looked at me blankly for a second and then said, “Do I seem like the kind of guy to you that would have a favorite flower?”

He chuckled softly.
“Well you better come up with one, because we’re not leaving until you do have one,” I said playfully.
He rolled his eyes at me before asking, “fine, what’s your favorite flower?”

“I like orchids. I think there so complex and elegant, but also fragile, easily breakable. My favorite orchids are purple and white. Those colors just complement each other so well. They are also generally expensive, and live for a long time, unless they are not taken care of,” I said, pausing for a moment.
“Now that I think about it, I’m a lot like an orchid,” I said, laughing.

“Well you certainly are complex,” he said jokingly.
“What flower would you say I was?” He asked me.
“Hmm, give me a second,” I said, trying to think of what I could compare him to.
He wasn’t optimistic or happy enough to be a sunflower. He didn’t have the slight bitterness I had come to associate with lavender. He wasn’t simple or thick skinned enough to be a tulip. As I thought, I ran my index finger across one of the rose petals feeling his strong anklebone underneath as I did so. I picked the flower up and held it up to his face so he could examine it more closely.

“You know you’re kind of like a rose,” I said simply.

“Really, how?” He said, giving me a puzzled look.
“Well, you kind of put up walls with people, making it hard for them to approach you, kind of like how a rose has thorns. A rose has many layers of petals that almost completely cover its center point, where the sweet smell comes from. You have many layers of manly and arrogant bullshit all covering your inward sweetness,” I said, pulling the rose back to my nose for another sniff.
“What inner sweetness?” He said mockingly.
“Uhm, did I ask you to pick this rose for me?” I said smiling, knowing I had him there.
“I didn’t pick it for you, I picked it for me,” He said, obviously lying to try and irritate me.
“Yea? What happened to “I’ve never been a big fan of roses?” I said in a lowered mimic of his voice. 
“Shut up,” he said, laughing at his own backfired plan.

I looked into his eyes for another moment and it was like getting caught in a daydream, a beautiful scene of love, and want, and passion. I wanted to stay in that safe zone forever and ever, to never have to go back to the nightmare of unrequited love and darkness that struck me just when I’d least expect it, but all daydreams must come to an end at one point or another.

I put my feet out to stop the swings constant motion. It came to a halt and I pat his legs to tell him I need them to move so I could get up. He didn’t move and so I lifted them up with my right hand, got up, and set them back down on the swing with a thud.
“I’m going to go back to the dorm, but did you decide on a favorite flower?” I said expectantly.
“If I must pick one, I’d say that rose is looking better and better,” he said, smiling.

“I almost forgot,” I said, and I leaned down to pick up the flower still resting between his ankles. As I picked it up, I let my fingers dance against his tactile skin.  He started laughing and jerked his foot away.
“You did that on purpose,” he said through his laughs.

“Prove it,” I said, grinning at him.
I turned my back to him and started walking slowly down the green staircase. The jolly rancher had turned into a small sliver, but the flavor was still strong, and as I swallowed the last bit, I turned my head to look back at him, his body still stretched out on the swing. I pulled my rose up to my nose one last time and thought to myself even though he may seem like a rose; he’d planted the seeds of a thousand forget-me-nots inside my mind, leaving a cloud of blue blossoms that would either bloom, or that I would have to nip in the bud, before our daydream turned into a nightmare once again.