Perhaps it is only her touch that keeps him from diving then into the waves and seeing how deep all those broken dreams sank when their stars fell. Perhaps it is the frost glittering like frozen tears on his eyelashes (tears he does not remember how to shed). Maybe it is the way the snow lining his back feels only like another weight compared to the winter he holds now in the hollow chambers of his heart. Or maybe it has only to do with the way Florentine looks at him, like he is still the boy who chased eagles and lavender petals with her all those years ago.
It reminds him that he has not lost everyone like he had thought. And it reminds him that he is not ready to lose himself.
So instead he leans into her touch and he tries to remember that not all the stars in the sky have fallen, and not all the dreams they carried have died. And he tells that pit of magic lying coiled in his belly, later we will go hunting for the fallen ones again. Later I will find the depth of you. And when he steps back to look at his friend he is not looking for any new lines on her face or stories carved into her skin, or thinking of all the people he has lost or almost-lost —
— he is only looking at his friend.
He follows her now, as she leads him past mirror after mirror. And he looks at all those different versions of him, of her, of them, and he wonders what it would hove cost to have lived them. He wonders what it would be like to have been formed by softness instead of violence, to run through another world below this one and only ever be looking up, and up, and never down or back. He wonders how many worlds there are with both of them in it.
It would be easy to love her in another life, he thinks. Once he might have, when they were both still young and his heart was only over looking for something soft to hang onto to forget how hard the world could be.
But when he sees the world where his daughters were grown (so fast — too fast! — but perfect in every way) he knows the only lifetime that should matter is this one. And oh, how his heart still aches because of it.
”Flora,” he whispers, and closes his eyes when he lays his cheek against her shoulder. ”I want to —“
Ipomoea knows his time is coming. He can tell the truth of it in every heartbeat, can feel the way his heart has become an hourglass counting down the days of him. But not yet. His smile is sad now, because he knows she is right.
He swallows. And when he takes a step back, he pushes her dagger gently back to her. ”But I can't. I can't leave yet.”
It reminds him that he has not lost everyone like he had thought. And it reminds him that he is not ready to lose himself.
So instead he leans into her touch and he tries to remember that not all the stars in the sky have fallen, and not all the dreams they carried have died. And he tells that pit of magic lying coiled in his belly, later we will go hunting for the fallen ones again. Later I will find the depth of you. And when he steps back to look at his friend he is not looking for any new lines on her face or stories carved into her skin, or thinking of all the people he has lost or almost-lost —
— he is only looking at his friend.
He follows her now, as she leads him past mirror after mirror. And he looks at all those different versions of him, of her, of them, and he wonders what it would hove cost to have lived them. He wonders what it would be like to have been formed by softness instead of violence, to run through another world below this one and only ever be looking up, and up, and never down or back. He wonders how many worlds there are with both of them in it.
It would be easy to love her in another life, he thinks. Once he might have, when they were both still young and his heart was only over looking for something soft to hang onto to forget how hard the world could be.
But when he sees the world where his daughters were grown (so fast — too fast! — but perfect in every way) he knows the only lifetime that should matter is this one. And oh, how his heart still aches because of it.
”Flora,” he whispers, and closes his eyes when he lays his cheek against her shoulder. ”I want to —“
Ipomoea knows his time is coming. He can tell the truth of it in every heartbeat, can feel the way his heart has become an hourglass counting down the days of him. But not yet. His smile is sad now, because he knows she is right.
He swallows. And when he takes a step back, he pushes her dagger gently back to her. ”But I can't. I can't leave yet.”
@
rising // blooming
