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He first meets her in a garden of peonies. Azure blue braids unlocked, hair a frenzy of petals with a red ribbon sprawled out on the grass.
“Why— hello there, dear stranger,” she cheers, arms buried under a cascade of lavender and periwinkle purple coloring her eyes as she marginally lifts her head to face his.
How lively she was, cheeks faint pink from the delight of youth.
Maroon sweatshirt wrapping over his black shirt, he walks closer to the field of flowers. He shifts awkwardly to cross his arms and examines the girl in front of him.
She doesn’t look a day over twenty. Perhaps around the same age as the body that he’s possessing.
Wilardo visibly recoils at the discernment of unexpected company, especially considering how often he had frequented this particular paddock for the past decade. This field was meant to be his getaway spot.
With an impetuous groan, he pinches his lips in frustration. He would hate to share it with someone of such abnormality. Without so much as parting his lips, he instead takes to stepping over her sprawled out legs, slightly enjoying the furrow that crinkles her young and smooth face.
“How rude!” the woman splutters, her torso rising and inching closer to his. In a similar shade to her locks, her puffy gown floats and opens up gracefully as she stands. Wilardo mindlessly plucks a stack of petunia without so much as regard for her presence.
“How long are you staying?” he questions, gaze not meeting hers. In the hope she gets the carefully communicated message, he plucks the pink petunia even more brute by the stem, watching as the leaf nearly tears in half.
She sports momentary disconcertment, eyebrow creasing before her cheeks bubble in mirth. At what prospect— he is yet to question.
“Are you a florist?” she drawls out, words bubbly with enthusiasm and skillfully maneuvering past the question. He pauses, his own lips bit with hesitation.
“No,” he answers indifferently before tossing the haphazardly gardened flora into a basket, “I hate flowers, actually.” The stranger quirks a curious eyebrow. She cannot tell if it is satire or realism; he cannot blame her.
“Even so, should you not be careful with such delicacy? Be gentle with these flowers and I assure you they will accompany you to old age.”
“Hm,” he hums, an accompaniment in old age is not a pleasure he was delegated with, “I, at least, leave them to their own devices— you, however,” he hits her forehead with a hostile finger, unsure why his normally composed attitude gets so heated within the conversation, “have just battled a war with them.” He nudges her to look at the mess she’s made of the grass, outstretched buttercups flattened like a pancake. The girl with blue hair sweats devilishly, cheeks lightly pink.
“I was showering them with love!”
“I don’t care for excuses, just make sure you never come back.”
“Can I at least have a name, please? Tell me and I promise I’ll not visit for a solid week.” She dodged the order.
“A week is never enough—” And with the gall of a god, she hushes him, childish finger pressed to his lips.
“The name’s Claire! I’m sure destiny will help us cross further.” Ah, so she was a fan of the forbidden lover troupe. She did seem to be the type of person to foolishly believe such myths.
“Leave,” he states, pushing her back until her hands fall plumply by the grass. “I’ll give you the count of three.”
“Wait—” She dawdles her feet.
“One.” Her face scrunches in fear.
“Two.” She hurries up.
“Three.” She takes a few steps towards the mountain slope.
“We’ll meet again, oh dear stranger!” Before she leaves, she swiftly twirls around and leans into his ear. A soft and slender finger curls behind his hair, leaving a daffodil decorated behind his black locks.
“Lighten up a bit, you should smile more.” The blue-haired maiden dashes, face not full of worry but childish hilarity. His face, however, is hidden with a sheepish sleeve, hoping to cover any traces of the red that stained his cheeks.
What an energetic youth.
Claire visits him again the week after.
“See,” she annunciates the words, “I always keep my promises!”
“It’s been six days,” he mutters with little surprise, words on edge as he clings harder to his basket, candytufts tucked under the lid. “You are unbearable.”
With little notice, she tugs the basket away from him, untucking the lid before fisting an unknown object inside. He gazes down before narrowing his eyes in distraught.
“You—” He immediately snatches it away from her, mouth slightly agape once he unfastens the lid.
“It’s a gift!” she exclaims proudly, not noticing his devastated expression. Upon opening, he registers that his once carefully collocated candytufts were currently a clutter between blue iris’.
“I’ve spent hours picking these,” he vociferates, “You just mixed up the entire collection!” Her mouth slightly drops in realization, and she nervously fidgets in her spot.
“Oops—” A stack of blue iris is stuffed in her mouth.
“Payback.” he declares. Claire ends up blowing it all out, petals sprinkling over his face and a mischievous grin spreading all over.
Then, she visits the week after that - and again and again and again, until it becomes a weekly routine for them.
“I only ever see you here,” Claire admits as they are exchanging white carnations, “Never in the village. And I know everyone there.” He purposefully keeps silent before diverting his gaze.
“You act like an old man.” she grumbles as she rests her chin against her palm.
“That’s because I am—” Wilardo stops in his tracks and tightens his treacherous lips. Some secrets were meant to be kept locked for eternity.
“No way! You don’t look much older than me.” God have mercy on him. He let his guard down.
“Don’t ever mention my age again,” he orders, severity lacing his tone.
“Oh— I didn’t know that I entered bad territory. I’ll keep that in mind.” Nervously, she accidentally tears a carnation petal.
Eventually, Wilardo eases up to Claire. Slowly, but surely. Even if it takes years.
He doesn’t understand if he opens up to her about the grievances that haunt him because she reminds him of someone he knew long ago.
He doesn’t remember if her scent is familiar or intruding.
He doesn’t acknowledge that her company is the most constant he’s had in a long time.
“You’ve cut your hair,” he compliments, inspecting the now medium length strands.
Like a lyre, he runs his fingers through sapphire locks, only slightly paler than years ago.
“And you haven’t aged a day.” she plaudits. He knows it’s a compliment, but he can’t help but narrow his eyes in disapproval when he notices one of the strands have turned white. In comparison, his black strands have not faded for decades.
“Don’t worry,” she assures, “It’s in my father’s genes. He started getting his when he was about fifteen. I’m only the slightest bit luckier.”
Claire leans forward, covering the small bit of distance between them before moving to close the gap between their lips.
“I’m lucky in more ways than one,” She grins, giddiness overtaking the both of them, “Is this okay?” In Wilardo’s long lifetime, he has never felt this vulnerable. He doesn’t know what overtakes him to proceed.
“It always will.” He leans forward and reciprocates the warmth in his chest that had been blooming for over three years.
Warmth sinks to his lip, the gesture awkward but not unappreciated. Eventually, he falls back, scarlet red eyes burning into her periwinkle purple ones. They stay still for a few minutes, warmth calming but not leaving his cheeks.
He can’t keep it from her any longer.
“I’m immortal,” It comes as an admission, but not a mistake. “I was cursed centuries ago.”
He never explained never eating or sleeping to her, and carefully digests the way her shoulder relax and eyes soften at the admission.
“Will you still accept me for who I am?”
“I’ve known, Wilardo, I’ve known for the longest time,” A small hand reaches up to pull at his cheek like a nighttime pillow, fingertips softly brushing his lips, “I still love you nonetheless.”
In the same field of flowers, the moon hanging disdainfully above them as if it is the sentient and unforgiving judge, Claire collapses, blood trickling from the cavernous scar latched upon her stomach. A hand wrapped in a copious cloth can only do so much to stop the continuous bleeding.
“Claire—” he cries out, eyes filled with memories almost long forgotten, soon to be replaced by a sloshing pain in the gut.
Wilardo is not exempt from death. Even if he were to jump off a cliff or cut at his throat, the most he could ever suffer was abherent pain. While he himself can never die, he has undergone the grief of many deaths during his lifetime.
There’s a reason he chooses not to get close to any mortal anymore. But of course, like the fool Claire was, she had to slink into his life just like that. He had never expected their parting to be this soon. He had wanted to stay happy and in her arms for much longer.
But what is happiness, if eternity lasts too long?
“ Wilardo ,” She chuckles softly, words barely above a whisper and filled with sentient pain, a red carnation tucked behind her ear. “I’m sure we’ll meet again in another life.” Her pulse rests and her eyes glint shut.
A careful stash of yellow carnations tucked between his first and second digit, Wilardo carefully delegates the white flowers into an array within the bouquet.
The paper logo tied around the bouquet reads 1694 and the calendar haphazardly tucked to the corner reads October 26. Combined, it’s the year and day he founded this flower shop,
And coincidentally - today is the anniversary of his beloved lover who moved on to the next life.
The eon-old man lets out a heavy sigh and tries to ease his tense shoulders.
His thoughts are interrupted once he hears the unmistakable ring of a bell, notifying him someone has entered the flower shop.
“Welcome, what would you—” He stops in his tracks, breath sucked right out of him.
He blinks once, then twice.
Hair tucked beneath a yellow pin, periwinkle purple eyes bore into his.
A woman with familiar blue hair stumbles in, fluffy gown trailing behind her figure. Wilardo bites his tongue, his heart racing the ever slightest bit faster.
Even centuries later, he is not freed from her imminent presence. He registers the aberrant fact that she reincarnates so early and that through all that— she foremostly finds her way to him.
“Hello! I’m here to pick up a bouquet for a loved one,”
That, and the fact that she had already found a lover before he had a chance to reconcile. His chest sinks.
How cruel the world must be to plummet such a destiny onto him. When he had met Claire all those centuries ago, he had assumed she appreciated the forbidden lover troupe. Yet, his words have been twisted to reality.
With a gentle but subtle laugh, he leans into the counter and questions her about what flower she would like.
“Today is his birthday. A bouquet of daffodil, if possible. He particularly loves them” His fingers dig deeper into his thigh to keep him from laughing further. Nostalgia overwhelms him.
Daffodil symbolise new beginnings.
“We’ll meet again, oh dear stranger!” Before she leaves, she swiftly twirls around and leans into his ear. A soft and slender finger curls behind his hair, leaving a daffodil decorated behind his black locks.
Wilardo unknowingly smiles to himself, heart beating hard but falling back to his usual pattern of entertaining her. The interaction feels oh so familiar. The way his shoulders unknowingly relax reminds him of the first time he met her in that garden of peonies.
“Of course, always.” He could never say no to her. The strangers smile is as brilliant as ever.