Bearclaw Valley gardenia and king protea

Like leaning against the back of a pew, watching dust motes in the slanted light through a stained glass window, listening to the drone of a pastor. He closes his eyes and lets Evien's voice sink into his head.
He'd never really thought about romance. About love. He'd never had the chance to ponder on that and by the time he'd finally shaken off his brother from his trail, what was inside of him was festered and malignant and mutated. 
All Taylor knew was that he could start wars for that laugh. That it was hard to look away from the elegant lines of his face. Thanks, he breathes. Marching was military. Marching would result in injuries and blood and exhaustion. He couldn't care less about that. And Merrick was indeed strange. But who could blame him? Imagine being one of the only living members of an endangered species. It was hard not to go insane, living like that.
He places his nose carefully on Evien's hand. Memorising his smell and the feel of his cool fingers. The pale, hairless scar that would be left after the wound healed.