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Peter Nureyev isn’t quite sure why he’s standing outside a flower shop in Hyperion City, a city he swore he’d never see again on a planet he promised himself that he’d never return to. Is it revenge? His vindictive streak would certainly suggest so, but even a man with a sordid history such as himself wouldn’t stoop so low as send flowers to an ex-something (Fling? Partner? Almost-but-not-quite lover?) on his birthday for the purpose of petty revenge.
Maybe he wants Juno to know that he’s still out there.
Maybe he just wants to send a former co-worker a gift on his birthday.
It doesn’t really matter why at this point, as he’s already headed into the store, and won’t be doing his pride the disservice of turning around and walking back out. The smell of pollen and the mixing perfumes of the different flowers is overwhelming to say the least, and there are so many different options. Bouquets for almost every occasion imaginable. Romantic bouquets bustling with roses stand next to chrysanthemums for funerals.
“Can I help you?” asks a young florist from behind the counter.
“Um… sure. I’m looking for a bouquet.” Obviously. Can he sound anymore stupid? “For a… friend.”
“Any occasion?” they say, helpful as ever despite Peter’s hopeless attempts at communicating what he wants. Of course, that endeavour is rather dampened by the fact that Peter doesn’t know what he wants.
“Um… a birthday.”
“Okay, we can do that.” They smile and get up to start leading Peter around the store. They tell him all about the best flowers for birthdays, roses, orchids, lilies, the list going on and on as the two of them peruse the bouquets and flowers lining the store.
Suddenly Peter stops dead in his tracks.
Dahlias.
You’re my good luck charm, Dahlia.
He reads the tag presented in front of the flowers, and it almost makes him laugh out loud.
Dahlias represent someone who is devout in their values and morals.
If that wasn’t Juno in a flower.
However, sending someone a red dahlia is often seen as a symbol of betrayal.
A little on the nose, but Peter has a right to be a bit juvenile in his execution.
“Sir? Are you alright?” The florist asks from the other side of the room, where all the roses are.
“Yes, thank you. I think I know what I want now.”
The florist gives Peter an odd look when he asks for a bouquet made up only of red roses and dahlias, but they oblige him anyway, sending him out of the store with a fresh bouquet and well-wishes for its delivery.
He heads back out to his car, a plain car for a plain job. He was in this part of the solar system on another heist, and the dates just happened to coincide perfectly (or maybe horribly, but Peter is trying his best to be a “glass-half full” type during this mission).
He has shed his previous alias, in favour of that of Rue Virgo, a postal worker from Hyperion City who happens to specialize in blundering romantic gestures. It’s not his most inspired or well thought-out identity, but it does the trick.
The drive to Rita’s apartment feels like it takes an age, the streets all bleeding into each other. He puts on the radio for a distraction, but the song choice is a little too-well aimed. A melancholy tune with the singer wailing about their latest heartbreak. It’s a mood that’s accurate, but not necessarily one that he needs to be in, so he tries to change the channel. He’s only met with static, so he settles for turning the damn thing off completely and driving in silence.
Rita’s apartment is on a pretty nice street. Well, it looks no different than most of the streets that Peter has seen today, but it’s better than some of the dwellings he’s come across in his travels.
He takes a deep breath and dons the jacket he brought, bearing the logo for Tsar Delivery service. It’s now or never. There’s a mirror in the foyer, he does one more quick check before heading upstairs. His costume is immaculate, he looks just like any old delivery man. Maybe a cute one, but forgettable nonetheless.
Peter thanks every god he can possibly think of that he doesn’t meet anyone in the elevator, especially not… well. He’s glad that he didn’t meet anyone.
He has one last chance to abandon this ‘mission’. Despite the lack of life-threatening events, this feels like the most high-stakes job Peter has done in a while. But the outcome looks favourable, (or, as close to favourable as one can get), and Peter isn’t one to abandon a job based on a pesky thing like fear.
He rings the doorbell and the melodic chime cuts through his thoughts like a blade. He hears someone rush to the door and it flies open, almost hitting him in the face.
“Mista Mercury, hi, hello! Glad you could make it but you have to go now, I’ll talk to you later!” Rita answers the door, looking more stressed than is probably healthy and talking a mile a minute.
“Mister Who?” Peter wasn’t expecting to show up to a party, he honestly hadn’t even thought that Juno had enough friends to justify such an event.
Then again, he apparently hadn’t known Juno as well as he thought.
“Oh. It’s just a delivery man.”
“Indeed it is. Tsar shipping, at your service. Sign here please.” Peter pushes a clipboard and pen forward, which Rita signs quickly. “And there you are.” he hands her the bouquet hurriedly, equal parts glad to be rid of it and sad to see his excuse to be here go.
“But I didn’t order any flowers.” Rita looks at the bouquet, a puzzled expression beginning to cross her face. Peter has learned over the years that a quick exit is the key to situations like this, lest someone begin to ask too many questions.
“Goodbye.” he rushes off, down the stairs this time and back to his car. He doesn’t even try the radio. That was… not as disastrous as it could have been, but it probably wasn’t ideal. But then again, what even was ideal? A heartfelt confession of love and mistakes outside the apartment of his detective’s secretary? Tears? Cursing? A sorry, at the very least? There was no ideal, Peter decided. This was simply a rash choice he’d made and he was now just following the chain reaction, seeing his project to its very end.
It begins to snow, light, artificial flakes falling from the sky, bathing everything in a hazy white. How goddamn romantic.
Peter drives out of Hyperion for what he hopes will really be the last time, thinking about every possible subject that doesn’t involve… him. It’s better this way, an eye for an eye, an understated exit for an understated exit.
His mind flickers briefly to the note he left for Juno, despite every attempt from Peter to stop it from doing so. Will the detective recognize his handwriting, or has Peter already been forgotten? The very thought makes his heart ache, a feeling he thought only existed for characters in shitty stream specials.
Perhaps he has grown too good at disappearing.
It doesn’t matter now. There’s no use dwelling on the past. It’s not like he could go back, or leave another note. All Peter Nureyev can do is keep driving. Out of Hyperion, off of Mars, and far, far, away from Juno Steel.
Happy birthday.