you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
There’s a vine curling around his ankle, wrapping itself around his fetlock like they’re tethering him to the greenhouse. Like they’re begging him to become a part of them, as much a part as they are of him. And for a moment, he wishes he could - that he might sink down into the petals of a flower that never withers, that the gardener might name him along with the rest of the roses and return the name Ipomoea to the morning glories.
It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, to be a flower or a tree or the grass in the meadows. Even the new spring shoots came back when a hoof or frost killed them.
People were not always so lucky.
The roses are a hundred different colors when he finally opens his eyes, and he doesn’t know where to look. He wants to think he imagines the flatness of her tone, the way she begins to pull away from him until empty space separates them. He wants to follow her, to press his shoulder back into her’s as much for his own comfort as for her’s. But he doesn’t.
Does she feel it, too? The way the very air around them seems to feel different now? It used to taste sweeter, when he was around her. Now as they stand next to each other without touching, hardly daring to look or speak or breathe, surrounding by a thousand flower that bring the life and colors of spring into the dead of winter - Ipomoea only feels alone. And the excited anticipation that used to fill the gaps in their conversations tastes stale now.
So he forces himself to turn, finally, away from the roses and look at her instead. First he settles for the rose that sits behind her ear, and the consistency of it is both familiar and painful. As long as he had known her that rose had been there, stubborn in the way it shirked change.
But it’s not alone anymore - a half crown of roses decorate her mane, petals trailing along the curve of her neck. Without thinking he reaches out to them, pressing his muzzle against her mane. Messalina’s skin is warm beneath his lips, and he lingers a moment longer than he intended. Until she starts to speak, and her words and broken and stuttered. As the red petal flutters to the ground, he pulls away.
His mouth opens, as if on its own to ask what happened?. But something in her gaze - fixed, empty, downcast - stops the words before they leave his lips, and nothing comes out.
Instead - ”You could have told me.” Because I waited for you, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to; the words are written all over the way he stands, stiffly, in the sharp arch of his neck and the hollowness in his eyes when he turns to seek out her gaze. ”I was worried about you, I would have-“ he struggles to find the right words, brow creasing, ”-helped you.” But has he ever been of any help? To her, to anyone?
Ipomoea swallows thickly, and leans in again.
”You’re wearing more flowers now,” he says softly, as if to make up for the accusation he didn’t speak. ”It’s… nice. They suit you.”
@messalina
It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, to be a flower or a tree or the grass in the meadows. Even the new spring shoots came back when a hoof or frost killed them.
People were not always so lucky.
The roses are a hundred different colors when he finally opens his eyes, and he doesn’t know where to look. He wants to think he imagines the flatness of her tone, the way she begins to pull away from him until empty space separates them. He wants to follow her, to press his shoulder back into her’s as much for his own comfort as for her’s. But he doesn’t.
Does she feel it, too? The way the very air around them seems to feel different now? It used to taste sweeter, when he was around her. Now as they stand next to each other without touching, hardly daring to look or speak or breathe, surrounding by a thousand flower that bring the life and colors of spring into the dead of winter - Ipomoea only feels alone. And the excited anticipation that used to fill the gaps in their conversations tastes stale now.
So he forces himself to turn, finally, away from the roses and look at her instead. First he settles for the rose that sits behind her ear, and the consistency of it is both familiar and painful. As long as he had known her that rose had been there, stubborn in the way it shirked change.
But it’s not alone anymore - a half crown of roses decorate her mane, petals trailing along the curve of her neck. Without thinking he reaches out to them, pressing his muzzle against her mane. Messalina’s skin is warm beneath his lips, and he lingers a moment longer than he intended. Until she starts to speak, and her words and broken and stuttered. As the red petal flutters to the ground, he pulls away.
His mouth opens, as if on its own to ask what happened?. But something in her gaze - fixed, empty, downcast - stops the words before they leave his lips, and nothing comes out.
Instead - ”You could have told me.” Because I waited for you, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to; the words are written all over the way he stands, stiffly, in the sharp arch of his neck and the hollowness in his eyes when he turns to seek out her gaze. ”I was worried about you, I would have-“ he struggles to find the right words, brow creasing, ”-helped you.” But has he ever been of any help? To her, to anyone?
Ipomoea swallows thickly, and leans in again.
”You’re wearing more flowers now,” he says softly, as if to make up for the accusation he didn’t speak. ”It’s… nice. They suit you.”
@messalina
