What Flowers are For

by Pen and Paper

Rating: everyone
Tags: Romance, Roseluck, Applejack, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 1263

Applejack struggles to find a way to apologize to a mare she likes.

Applejack might have messed up when she told Roseluck that flowers were for sissies. How can she apologize to the mare she cares about most?

Written for the Quills and Sofas Speedwriting pride month contest!

Published 2022-06-28 20:30:00 UTC
Last updated 2022-06-28 20:30:00 UTC

What Flowers are For

There've been a few times honesty landed me in trouble, but this one stung more than all the rest. Roseluck walked in front of me with short, haughty steps, and I couldn’t tell if it was because she was pissed off or determined. I think it was both, probably. I’d seen that sort of saunter before, the kind of tight-legged trot that looks like you’ve got a herding dog nipping at your ankles. The kind of trot you trot when you think you have something to prove.

Me and my big mouth.

It was supposed to be a lighthearted jab at a mare who’d caught my eye for the past month, something…flirty, I guess. But honesty and flirtations go together like viper venom and honey. It simply doesn't mix. That, and also the three mugs of cider I’d had before making the comment. I remember the way those pretty eyes, greener than a meadow, wilted when I’d told her that growing flowers was work for ponies who didn’t want to get their hooves dirty.

After all, nothing says “I like you” like a drunk mare telling you that your life’s work was for pansies. Why she was even still talking to me, I had no clue. Sure, we’d skittered around the idea of dating for a month now, but neither of us had been bold enough to admit we were waiting for the other to make the first move.

I was glad Rose was ahead of me. My cheeks were burning about the same color as her mane. It was pretty and red like a gala apple, leading directly to that golden delicious coat that reminded me of watching the sun rise in the earliest hours of the morning—when it felt like the earth itself was napping under your hooves.

She led me towards the edge of town where train tracks were slowly losing their battle against weeds and rust. This side of Ponyville was quiet and old and full of broken cobblestone paths that nopony used anymore. Nopony besides us, apparently. It didn’t give me much to distract myself from her anger.

I wanted to apologize. Say something, anything, but every time I tried to form something, it started a ten-wagon pileup in my throat. Everything I came up with felt about as blunt as a sledgehammer.

Sorry I said flowers were for inner city hoo-has. Sorry I said apples were strictly better than flowers because you can eat them. Sorry I said planting flowers gives you weak little filly hooves. Sorry I—

Dammit, thinking back on all those things I said wasn’t doing me any good.

Rose’s voice was quiet, but it startled me because I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like. “Through here,” she said, pushing past a white gate that shrieked like a banshee. It led to a small garden full of shriveled plants that hadn’t bloomed yet. The thorns, however, were still clearly visible along the gnarled branches. The house behind it didn’t look all that inviting, either. It was covered in rough stucco that had seen years of harsh weather. It was cracked in so many places that entire webs of damage were forming over the walls.

“Yes ma’am,” I said. There was a brief snort of air that I heard from Rose, but I couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or if a fly had gone up her nose.

There was a second between her opening the door of the house and actually being able to see what was inside where it hit me.

The smell.

It was like the entire season of spring was being kept in that one building. It was sweet, but nothing like Sugarcube Corner. I didn’t have to cover my nose when I walked in. The fragrance of her family’s shop was somehow subtle and strong at the same time.

My jaw hung open wordlessly when I saw how many flowers there actually were. They lined the walls in tight bouquets, arranged in every pattern you could think of. Every surface was packed with vases or tin cans or bowls—anything that could hold water and stems.

And the colors. It was as if somepony had grown their own stained-glass windows. Rose had every shade and hue under the sun. She walked behind a desk that had a batch of some purple, cup-shaped flowers laying on their side. Lifting a pair of cutters, she snipped at the ends, neutering stray leaves.

“These are callia lilies,” she said, not taking her eyes away from the stems. Her snipping was precise and practiced. The sound made my ears flick back with each schk.

“They’re very…pretty,” I said, and I swore I could hear Rainbow Dash over my shoulder telling me how lame I sounded. I waited for Rose to respond, but she kept at her work.

We sat in silence while she cut.

Schk, schk, schk.

I watched as she drew more flowers from behind the desk, these ones different from the last bunch. I didn’t ask their names, and she didn’t offer to tell me.

It went on like this for five minutes or so, me sitting on my haunches like a dang fool, her pulling out new flowers and snipping away.

I’d seen bouquets before, of course. Rarity couldn’t get enough of the darn things. I always used to think that there wasn’t much to them—anypony could rob a garden of a few plants and throw them in a pot.

But watching Rose work was something else, I’ll tell you. Seeing the way she delicately held the stems together, rotating them as she picked out each flower to slide it into place was like watching an artist paint. The process was almost as beautiful as the end result.

It made me look at the hundreds she’d already done around the shop. I imagined her sitting in that same spot, carefully choosing what went where over and over again, those sharp eyes scrutinizing every detail.

“Last night, you asked me what flowers do besides look pretty,” she said.

Oh, how I wanted to just die right then. “Look, Rose, I’m—”

Her eyes, sharp as the shears in her hoof, cut me off with a look. “Let me finish, Applejack.” She waited for me to nod. “Flowers are about sending a message,” she continued. Rose twirled the bouquet in her hooves. “Do you know what this one says?”

I shook my head.

“It says ‘I’m sorry’.” Rose pointed to the individual stalks. “Yellow and white roses, purple lilies, white tulips, blue hyacinths—all of them are used in a typical apology bouquet.”

“How much?” I blurted out. Rose’s eyebrows arched towards her forehead.

“What?”

“How many bits for a bouquet?”

“25 bits. Why?” she asked skeptically.

I didn’t answer, instead digging into my saddlebag and tossing a pouch onto the table. It jingled lightly before landing with a heavy thud. I held out my hoof, motioning for the bunch she’d just made. Rose handed them to me.

I handed them right back.

“Sorry,” I said.

Rose looked at the flowers in her hoof for a quiet moment. Then she began to giggle. “I mean, I was hoping you would get my message, but that was pretty good,” she said. “Maybe take it easy on the cider next time we hit up the Rusty Wheelbarrow. Sound good, cowgirl?”

She leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek, and that flood of sweet smells came racing back through me.

“Yeah,” I mumbled with a sheepish grin. “I think it does.”