The rose looked back at his noble stag, clambering internally for the most miniscule flicker of hope, that Lord Renly would recognize him. There was still none, but there was still the sweet tingle left behind by Renly's lips, softer than Loras remembered, untainted and unchapped by cold snaps.
Renly could not possibly know the weight of his touch, how Loras had stayed up for weeks, needing it so desperately that he had to shove his hands down the front of his pants when he was alone in the dark. It never gave him relief, but how could he ask for more than this now? He could not, even against the fervor and anguish that flared in his belly.
"I am the Knight of Flowers," he said, his voice just above a whisper. His hand left Renly's hair, drawing a path along the length of the man's neck as if it needed the touch to survive. "And I am yours, my Lord Renly Baratheon. I'll wait for you, and I'll pray that you know my name some day." But he wouldn't tell it to Renly. Not here. Not now.