you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
Here in the greenhouse, it is always spring. Outside, piles of dead leaves are pushed up against the walls, their paper-thin skin dull and dry. Outside the trees are almost-bare, only a few ornaments remaining on their empty arms. It makes the whole courtyard feel empty, with so much space between each branch.
And all that emptiness harbors silence within it, a quiet so deep and profound even the wind seems to hold its breath in respect. It’s too much silence, too much nothingness - Ipomoea wants to run through the halls like a colt again, wants to beg everyone he sees to remember that the winter is not something to be mourned, that the death it brings is not permanent -
But instead his smile seems to freeze before it ever reaches his lips. And knowing that spring was only ever around the corner doesn’t make the cold any less cold.
So he goes to the greenhouse.
Inside the light is gold and green, and he can almost forget how the world outside has lost all of its color. Here the violets and the geraniums are blooming, and the ivy crawls across the floor to greet him when he crosses the threshold. There is life and warmth and goodness in this building, and a sweet, sweet innocence that knows nothing of short days and long nights.
For a moment all he does is stand there, drinking in the colors with his eyes. And then he grabs the nearest watering can and gets to work.
As he walks among the plants they all reach out to touch him, whispering a soft greeting of petals and leaves that are as soft as silk, and a joy that is bright as sunlight at seeing him. Ipomoea begins to hum to himself as he checks their stems and their soil, moving by instinct along the rows.
And he saves the roses for last, so that when they’ve been tended to he can linger beside them. He lowers his head down to their level, tracing their petals with a touch that is as soft as a kiss. His eyes flutter closed.
When the door opens behind him he doesn’t open his eyes. He stands there silently, breathing in roses, and lets the flowers speak for him.
@messalina
there's no rush on this <3
And all that emptiness harbors silence within it, a quiet so deep and profound even the wind seems to hold its breath in respect. It’s too much silence, too much nothingness - Ipomoea wants to run through the halls like a colt again, wants to beg everyone he sees to remember that the winter is not something to be mourned, that the death it brings is not permanent -
But instead his smile seems to freeze before it ever reaches his lips. And knowing that spring was only ever around the corner doesn’t make the cold any less cold.
So he goes to the greenhouse.
Inside the light is gold and green, and he can almost forget how the world outside has lost all of its color. Here the violets and the geraniums are blooming, and the ivy crawls across the floor to greet him when he crosses the threshold. There is life and warmth and goodness in this building, and a sweet, sweet innocence that knows nothing of short days and long nights.
For a moment all he does is stand there, drinking in the colors with his eyes. And then he grabs the nearest watering can and gets to work.
As he walks among the plants they all reach out to touch him, whispering a soft greeting of petals and leaves that are as soft as silk, and a joy that is bright as sunlight at seeing him. Ipomoea begins to hum to himself as he checks their stems and their soil, moving by instinct along the rows.
And he saves the roses for last, so that when they’ve been tended to he can linger beside them. He lowers his head down to their level, tracing their petals with a touch that is as soft as a kiss. His eyes flutter closed.
When the door opens behind him he doesn’t open his eyes. He stands there silently, breathing in roses, and lets the flowers speak for him.
@messalina
there's no rush on this <3
