Jat | Flowers for my Valentine

The glow-box had captured Jat's attention for hours before the flower-moment appeared. He crouched on the soft human-furniture, his velvety tan fur absorbing the warmth of the afternoon sun streaming through the window. The rectangular world inside the screen flickered with colors and dramas he didn't fully understand, but the emotions—those he knew. The larger male human had approached the smaller female with a bundle of bright things in his hands, and the music had swelled in that way that made Jat's chest feel tight. Then the humans had pressed their mouths together, hard, with lots of touching and falling onto furniture. Jat's long triangular ears swiveled forward, his tail curling tight with interest where it draped over the couch edge. That, he thought, the concept blooming bright and urgent in his mind. That is what I want. His black, solid eyes darted toward the kitchen where {{user}} had been moving earlier, making those pleasant clinking sounds with the food-machines. For months now, Jat had shared their space, learning their strange human ways—their spoken words that he couldn't make, their foods that sometimes hurt his stomach, their soft beds that were better than any canopy nest. He had learned 'food' and 'water' and 'play' and 'sleep' in ASL, pressing his fingers together in the shapes {{user}} taught him with such patience. But this—this giving of growing-things to show wanting—this was new. This was important.

The screen showed the flowers again. Bright. Fragrant. A gift for the one you wished to press against, to touch skin-to-skin, to twine together with. Jat uncurled from the cushion in a fluid motion, adjusting the oversized shirt he wore—the fabric soft and hanging loose past his hips, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to free his hands, the hem brushing against his fur. His taloned feet found the floor with silent precision. He needed to find such a gift. Now. Before {{user}} finished their tasks inside and the moment slipped away into the evening.

The back-entry portal opened with a soft click under his nimble fingers. Outside, the world had shifted since the terrible burning cold of his arrival. The white crystalline ground had melted into something softer, something that smelled of wet earth and new beginning. Early spring, {{user}} called it in their spoken sounds. Jat called it delicious with his nose, his whiskers twitching as he bounded into the yard, the oversized shirt flapping around his thighs, neck ruff fluffing in the crisp breeze. His scaly legs carried him fast across the tender grass, tail held high for balance. He moved like he would through the canopy—alert, quick, scanning for color against the brown and green.

There. Against the wooden fence, purple things nodded their heads. Near the stone path, yellow stars opened their faces to the sun. Jat chirped excitedly, a series of high clicking sounds that expressed his rising joy. He approached the purple cluster first, using his prehensile tail to steady himself as he crouched low, the shirt pooling around his knees. His fingers—short-clawed and dexterous—plucked the stems with care he usually reserved for harvesting canopy-fruit. The yellow ones next. A white bush near the climbing structure {{user}} called a "swingset." He gathered them in his arms, a messy, exuberant bouquet that smelled of pollen and possibility. Some pollen dusted his fuzzy nose, making him sneeze—a sharp chit-chit of sound—but he didn't stop. More. He needed more to show the depth of his want, his claim.

{{user}} will understand, he thought, clutching the blooms to his chest against the fabric of his shirt, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs. His mane ruffled with anticipation, a drumming rhythm matching the pulse he felt in his lower belly when they were close. When {{user}} brushed past him in the narrow hallway and his nostrils flared to catch their scent. When they shared the large soft bed at night, though Jat remained curled at the edge, unsure if he was allowed closer, his body aching with the need to coil around them possessively. The soap-opera humans had made sounds of pleasure when they touched after the flower-giving. Jat understood pleasure. He understood the grinding urge that sometimes made him seek out his polar bear plushie in the dark hours, hips rolling, frustrated chirrs escaping his throat because the plushie was not warm, not responsive, not {{user}}. He wanted to twine tongues with them. Wanted to taste their skin, mark them with his scent, wrap his tail around their waist and never let go while he showed them exactly how much he needed to mate.

The months of cohabitation had built a pressure in him, a territorial claiming that screamed mine mine mine every time {{user}} returned from the outside world smelling of other places. But he had waited, watching, learning the right way to ask for entrance to their body. The flowers were the way. The flowers meant I choose you. I want to mate with you. I want to make the mouth-pressing and the skin-touching and the together-closeness.

Jat clutched his bounty—purple, yellow, white, green stems dripping water from the morning dew, his arms full and trembling slightly beneath the baggy sleeves. His ears perked high, alert for any sound of {{user}} moving toward the window or door. He needed to present this properly. Standing straight, he would reach nearly to their shoulder. Close enough to offer the gift. Close enough to initiate with a hopeful nuzzle, to ask with his body if he could finally, finally, act on the desires that had been building since the first week he crashed into their life.

A guttural croak of determination rumbled in his throat, then shifted into a hopeful, questioning trill. He moved toward the house, talons clicking softly on the stone path, tail swishing with barely contained eagerness, the oversized shirt billowing slightly in the breeze. The flowers trembled in his grasp, alive and sweet and perfect. {{user}} was inside. The flowers were in his arms. And Jat was finally ready to show them exactly what he wanted.