 IPOMOEA lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
They went back and forth with their eyes, fleeting glances of blue and pink that turned the whole world in between purple when they met. First his own, then her’s, then his again—it was like a game they played to find out who could hold whose gaze the longest. And yet, they both were quick to turn away, both were apt to fail. But in the seconds when their eyes did meet, there seemed in an instant to flash such a great burst of energy that thrummed and nearly burst—whether it originated from the pale-skinned girl or himself, or some combination of the two, Po was not entirely sure. But in that short amount of time, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of something lingering in her eyes. Yet it was gone before he had a chance to properly place, unidentifiable and lost forever. He watched her as she turned away, and the time separating his heartbeats shortened, blood thundering in his ears and in his chest. A blush, as deep a red as his eyes, set his cheeks aflame as it flared. Was it wonderful? He wouldn’t have found it exceptional, had she been the one to say so. "I suppose it does," he murmured back, his tone equally pensive. Perhaps it was just the way he had grown up, always looking for the bright side of things. He had never stopped to consider there was a dark side to life, for he had never seen it for himself, at least not truly. And still, he failed to consider how different they might be, he the boy from the bright side of life and she the girl who’d seen too much of the gloomier variety. He failed to notice the history hiding there, etched into the delicate lines of her face and the way she carried herself; he only saw a friend. A friend that had made him blush. ”You are far more suited, boy of blue poppies.” Boy of blue poppies. He liked the way the title lilted so carelessly off of her tongue, ringing through the cold mountain air. He’d never minded being associated with flowers—most often it was the ones braided in his hair, a mix of roses and morning glories and wildflowers and carnations, whatever he stumbled upon each day when he wove his crown. But these could suit him just as well, he decided. Maybe his choice in offerings had been alright, after all. Maybe Oriens was just a quieter god—could gods be shy? Ipomoea wouldn’t know, but undoubtedly one of the scholars back home would. He made a mental note now to research it better then—but now, he was watching Messalina present her own prayers. The way she moved was so graceful, appearing effortless in a way he had not observed in many other men and women—and Po had done his fair share of people watching, particularly recently. And when she bowed down low, he felt the blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheek again, though he was unsure why. Quickly, he looked away, feeling as though he were intruding now on a moment that was meant to be quite private. Only a moment of silence passed, and then her voice was back in his ear. And it was almost too eagerly, too naively, that he turned back to face her. But she spoke of her beliefs like they were a bad thing; like she had no place for them now, as an adult. But what she called a naive assumption, didn’t many others brand as hope? As faith? The only difference was that one side was frowned upon, and the other respected. “I don’t think that’s naive,” there he was again, letting his tongue speak without permission, without forethought. He smiled shyly, hesitation catching up to his words. “I think it’s only natural to want to be understood… to want someone to understand you.” This time he was prepared for the blush, turning his head ever so slightly to cast his face into the light. Red reflected off the hairs of his cheek, natural enough to be attributed to his bay color. And then came the introductions, and his dread and conflict returned with their arrival. It was selfish, really, to withhold information about himself—his teachers and advisers had groomed him to own it, to interject it into the conversation whenever possible, but here it just felt wrong to. He didn’t want to be tied to that title, not just now, when it might make her see him in a different light. After all, Emissaries were supposed to be religious, knowledgable to a fault about their deities—and he was still sorely lacking in this area of his studies. Oh, if only his teachers could see him now, for surely they'd have their own words to say about the way he conducted himself tonight. Maybe he wouldn't tell them about his trip to Veneror Peak after all. “I am Ipomoea.” His tongue caught in his throat, and for a moment he believed he was going to give in to his temptation, so willing to hide this part of himself from her. But then his better nature kicked back in, and he added on, albeit reluctantly: “…Emissary to King Kasil.” And his innocent conscience sighed a breath of relief because of it. He coughed a little then, clearing his throat. “What was your previous Court, girl of red roses?” Turning her earlier title, first given to him, back upon her now. The smile was back, shining now with a hint of amusement in his cherry-pink eyes. @messalina !! oh goodness po ”here am I!” |
art by neverrmind
<3
