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a dead flower doesn’t mean the flower didn’t bloom.
simon always said flowers were proof that nothing had to last forever to be worth it.
the first time wilhelm heard him say that exact sentence, he didn’t quite understand what simon meant by that. flowers were supposed to die, weren’t they? their petals open and bloom; they thrive. wilhelm thought of funeral bouquets, of wildflowers pressed between thin pages of an old book. of the way his mother loved lilies and always put them in crystal vases that ended up dying before the week even had a chance to finish.
but simon had a way of turning endings into something tender.
“see wille,” he whispered, tugging absentmindedly at the fluffy ears of his favourite childhood teddy, “a dead flower doesn’t mean it never bloomed. for a while, it was alive. beautiful. that’s enough.”
at the time, wilhelm kissed him for that. he absolutely adored simons poetic interpretations of the most random things in the world. because simon always made the world sound softer than it really was.
there are years you survive, and years you simply just.. don’t.
no one likes to say it out loud, because most of the time it’s too hard to even say what you truly feel. but wilhelm noticed quietly. he noticed the small changes in simon. he memorized the curve of simons smile, and then noticing when it didn’t come so easily anymore.
the world had teeth, and somehow simon was always the one getting biten.
there were days wille wrapped arms around him like a quiet shield from the rest of the cruel cruel world. there were nights wille stayed awake, listening to his lovers shallow breathing and wondered if he should check if simon was still there. early mornings where simon came down for breakfast pretending nothing was wrong (because technically nothing was wrong, right?) and wilhelm let him, because love sometimes meant swallowing your fear to let the other person keep at least a little bit of dignity.
most people claim, that young love is fragile.
wille remembered the way simons hair smelled like after swimming in the lake, those soft pink lips against the nape of his neck, the sleepy mumble of “jag älskar dig” barely audible over the hum of their incredibly loud heater.
he remembered simons hands(how could he forget something so beautiful?) they were always warm, full of pure love. even when he was freezing himself from the inside out.
he remembered laughter. He remembered arguments that felt like the end of the fucking world. he remembered making up, as if love was a stubborn, love-scented candle that they both refused to let the wind blow out.
and he remembered the phone call, the too-late footsteps, and the sterile smell of the hospital air.
he remembered hands going cold.
people often asked wille afterwards how he could still love someone who had left him like that? didn’t it feel like betrayal from the ones you love most?
but wille… never really thought of it as being left. flowers bloom. flowers wilt. it’s not exactly betrayal. it’s nature.
simon bloomed, brightly. for as long as he could.
and wilhelm was the one who got to hold him during his blooming season
sometimes at night, wille still reached for him. for the love of his life. sometimes he woke up with a name on his tongue and the echo of a beautiful voice in his ears.
now the silence was a song too. a quieter and sadder one. but still made by his simon.
a dead flower does not mean it never bloomed.
and simon bloomed. god, did he bloom.
wille closed his eyes.
“jag älskar dig,” he whispered into the darkness of the night.
and somewhere, maybe… Simon smiled.