you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
They tell him that she’s coming.
For the first time, he isn’t sure if he believes them. But when she presses her head against his spine, and her touch is so familiar it hurts, he has no choice to. She is here, at last, after all these months of waiting and unanswered letters.
He lets his breath out in a sigh, tilting his head towards her’s without yet opening his eyes.
“The flowers have always made for good company while I wait.”
He does not whisper like she does. He’s learned to make himself heard, in all the months they’ve been apart. To not let his own words scare him into not speaking. Ipomoea learned how to be brave in all of the months that he was gone - a part of him, that selfish part of him that has filled him with unease ever since meeting his brother, wishes that she had been there to learn to be brave with him.
She should have been, that voice whispers silently. But she never came. Or answered his letters to tell him why.
Ipomoea learned how to be angry, too, when he crossed the world and found a war. When a king in another land had told him he would never belong there, and the desert had spit him out for the second time. When the world around him had shattered, and all that was left was broken magic filling the spaces between the palm trees, and Ipomoea had hunted for anything and everything to make himself feel whole again.
Somedays he thinks he might still be hunting, but for what he doesn’t know. There’s too many things he wants, and he knows he can’t have them all.
He wants to lean back against her, he wants to turn and drape his head over her back and tell her he’s glad she’s come back, that it’s better late than never. But when he opens his eyes at last he can’t bring himself to look at her, not directly. Instead he watches the flowers, and remembers the way she had promised to meet him in Denocte, but she hadn’t. He had waited, and he had had a rose waiting for her each day, and each day he had given the rose to a stranger instead, until one day he ran out of roses. And even then he had still thought she might come, up until the day that he had finally come home only to find that she was not here, either.
He had needed her. And he had missed her. And all of that had begun to feel more like a past tense with each day that separated them.
Her curls brush against his shoulder, her skin is warm against his. She smells like roses, and it suits her - he still remembers how she had looked in the garden that day, when he gave her a flower that was yellow instead of red. That was before either of them had left, before the thought had ever crossed their minds. That was in spring, when he was still to young to know all the ways that flowers could die.
And now there are a hundred questions on his tongue, begging to be asked. Ipomoea settles only for one.
“Where did you go?”
He already knows where she didn’t.
@messalina
For the first time, he isn’t sure if he believes them. But when she presses her head against his spine, and her touch is so familiar it hurts, he has no choice to. She is here, at last, after all these months of waiting and unanswered letters.
He lets his breath out in a sigh, tilting his head towards her’s without yet opening his eyes.
“The flowers have always made for good company while I wait.”
He does not whisper like she does. He’s learned to make himself heard, in all the months they’ve been apart. To not let his own words scare him into not speaking. Ipomoea learned how to be brave in all of the months that he was gone - a part of him, that selfish part of him that has filled him with unease ever since meeting his brother, wishes that she had been there to learn to be brave with him.
She should have been, that voice whispers silently. But she never came. Or answered his letters to tell him why.
Ipomoea learned how to be angry, too, when he crossed the world and found a war. When a king in another land had told him he would never belong there, and the desert had spit him out for the second time. When the world around him had shattered, and all that was left was broken magic filling the spaces between the palm trees, and Ipomoea had hunted for anything and everything to make himself feel whole again.
Somedays he thinks he might still be hunting, but for what he doesn’t know. There’s too many things he wants, and he knows he can’t have them all.
He wants to lean back against her, he wants to turn and drape his head over her back and tell her he’s glad she’s come back, that it’s better late than never. But when he opens his eyes at last he can’t bring himself to look at her, not directly. Instead he watches the flowers, and remembers the way she had promised to meet him in Denocte, but she hadn’t. He had waited, and he had had a rose waiting for her each day, and each day he had given the rose to a stranger instead, until one day he ran out of roses. And even then he had still thought she might come, up until the day that he had finally come home only to find that she was not here, either.
He had needed her. And he had missed her. And all of that had begun to feel more like a past tense with each day that separated them.
Her curls brush against his shoulder, her skin is warm against his. She smells like roses, and it suits her - he still remembers how she had looked in the garden that day, when he gave her a flower that was yellow instead of red. That was before either of them had left, before the thought had ever crossed their minds. That was in spring, when he was still to young to know all the ways that flowers could die.
And now there are a hundred questions on his tongue, begging to be asked. Ipomoea settles only for one.
“Where did you go?”
He already knows where she didn’t.
@messalina
