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Vibrant, bright and fragrant as they resist the wilt inevitable to them soon, the blooms of flowers wrapped with a plucked, braided vine becomes damp with nervous sweat and unbridling anxiousness. Brad disregards the way the nerves within him are starting to freeze, and find temporary comfort in counting the flowers that equal to the letters in your name.
Springing and grounding his heels repeatedly and peering back and forth at both ends of the gravel path, his mind began to conclude the worst.
You’ve stood him up,
changed your mind at the last second,
or got into trouble that took your time.
It haunted him relentlessly— constant flashes of scenarios that did little to calm him down, despite his best efforts on pushing it far back. In his pocket he reached for his phone to read through your agreement for today, in cased he missed the very obvious reason why you’re not able to make it, but your texts said none that would approve his suspicions.
The time showed 5:36 pm. A little earlier than what was agreed, so he summed it up to his fault for arriving way too early and letting it mess up his head. Orange tinted sun’s glare reflects on his screen as it’s shut off.
Then Brad walked towards the direction where you should be approaching from, just to cut the distance between you and him.
Pleasant crunching of the gravel beneath as well as the warm, gentle breeze of the evening phased through him. As it normally would, but during his walk he’s realised that he couldn’t even grasp and seek out an anchor in nature. He brought his view to the stitching of his fingerless gloves, and his eyes wandered to the flora tied and waiting to be in your hold.
The erratic rhythm that thrummed within his heart reduced to a slower, calmer beat. Recollecting his thoughts and reforming them to tamer ones wasn’t an easy thing to do, but it helped generously when he allowed himself to revisit the memories and intentions that lead to now— the flowers he grew, from himself, for you.
Brad’s march to reach you quicker is deliberate. It’s a subtle rush but it isn’t faint enough that he drags his steps. Silently he prayed that you weren’t matching his speed, in case the first thing you assume when you see him is that he’s planning on leaving. Along with that hope, the reminder of his efforts returned, clashing against the raging anxiety that beat him from outside and within.
When Brad looks down to the bunched bouquet in his hand, each flower told its own story of how it came to be. How it was the result of constant flashing memories, thoughts of you that kept his mind cramped.
A shameful amount of time was poured into thinking about you. That’s how the bouquet existed. It was the result of longing, of yearning to be called yours, of swirling uncertainty of your decisions once the day approached. It churns his stomach, makes him feel uneasy, restless. The controller propped on his desk stayed in that spot he left a few days ago, unmoving since the focus he needed to achieve online wins withered away as you took control of how his mind flows.
He hesitantly entertained the idea of being under your spell. Strung around like a puppet by your magic. By your foot, on his knees with his arms wrapped around your legs, skimming through the ways he wouldn’t let go. It stretched out like an infinite page of a story, one he wouldn’t shy away from writing with you.
The flowers receive another thoughtful gaze. This time Brad thinks about the moments he kept framed in his rows of memories— there’s no way he would ever let it be known, but you’ve carved your own special spot there. Where he keeps all of your memories free of dust and dirt.
River flow as gentle as a hummed song, overlapping branches paint spotted shadows as you fish your hand in the water. With your sleeves pulled back and folded by him, he took the fleeing sceneries of the moment with mental pictures, with your hair tucked behind your ear and your eagerness shining through, ever so prominent.
“Ew, this one has slimy moss. Wait for me, alright?” your voice called, still occupied with your search. Brad gave you a simple response, kicking the rocks by his feet, trying to push them away like his budding emotions. It didn’t comfort him nor brought down the rage of words, this unspeakable thunder that brewed within him— it instead burned fiercely, ambers of his love twirling in the air. “I see one that I like but it’s too deep in the water..”
Over growths of his flora shielded his pink, flushed ears and the slight tilt of his bit down smile. “Forget about it. You don’t have to get it for me.” he shut down your efforts to return his gift to you, which still remained heavy in your pocket— a gilded, marbled river rock in pure pearl perfection. “We still have somewhere else to go.”
Something soft brushed against your fingers and the cracked ripples of the water hid your treasure from your view. “But that’s not fair—” your protest was clear, even as your hand swirled in the sandy, blurred waters. “You gotta have one too.”
Time crawled slowly. He let you dip your shriveled hands into the flowing waters again for your last search, yet the soul of the river must’ve dulled the shine of your rock so you wouldn’t bring it home.
“C’mon, let’s go already!” Brad tugged the collar of your outfit gently, nudging you on your sore legs. “We have more fun things to do.” he added on with a short, but hurried tone— one he masked with the piercing guilt when he saw that your eyes remained on the blurry home of the rock you wished for him to own. “Look, I’ll be fine without it—”
Suddenly the lightness of the moment sank to a heavier one as Brad spotted the tilted expression you had on remained. Like disappointment washed you clear, and despite his efforts to tug you onto the next thing, you were still hung on the river and its treasure. “Sure you’ll be.” the tone of your acceptance wasn’t one he was hoping for and it halted his excitement for anything else.
Your stride forward that left him behind instilled a staggering shock within him that ushered him to chase the spot beside you. For the first time— besides all the times he’s your baring shieled and glinting crowbar, the vacancy beside you feels uninviting. “We’ll come back for it later,” he added on awkwardly, sensing the frigid atmosphere, he felt like the simmering silence was stabbing daggers into you. And Brad wasn’t exactly sure how to pry them out without making you bleed all over.
“Are you mad at me?”
It mingled with the thick tensioned air, floating uselessly. His question didn’t strike as concern to you, but it was a step taken to plan out his next actions. Brad followed the way you slowed down, yet avoided looking deeply into you. Throughout all that he has learned about you, it still couldn’t lay out a solution to mend your feelings if he ever ruined it. “No.”
Futile and seeing that perhaps pushing to repair what he accidentally broke would bring no victory, he resorted to chasing your side once you’ve given your decision. The silence remained unbridled. It wrapped itself around Brad, yet as he stole risky glances to you, you were shielded by this terrible, swirling guilt that twisted in his guts.
Only the occasional crunch of leaves and snap of dried twigs spoke in the quiet, and each broken twig sounded absolutely delibrate— like you were portraying a clear message to Brad that he understood well. He wouldn’t want to end up like the leaves and twigs beneath your feet.
He caught up and closed the gap with hurried steps again. Brad pretended to fix his cap. In the meantime he also successfully captured your attention with it, earning himself a simple turn as you walked into the high sun without real destination. You forgave the brush of his finger against your knuckle, then feel gentle, dull tendrils of curling vines latch onto the bend of your fingers that locked itself tightly with a knot on your wrist.
You weren’t sure how to act, or what to think first. For a moment the bubbling urge to yank away, let the braided vines snap was utterly strong, but rationality fought for control. There wasn’t anything logically that you were really mad at, only your exhaustion masking your actions and false brain triggers that push you to act such way.
Neither you say a word, content on basking in the soothed silence that he’s managed. The vines sat snug on your arm, a wordless apology that stuck to you as well as the constant need to be with you. It didn’t limit your movements, and each sudden tug forward nearly brings Brad to the ground that you walk on.
The walk home after that wasn’t a reflection of that moment. You laughed until your lungs cried for air, and Brad’s smile held tight as he resisted a growing grin. He was proud to have won over your feelings, and to be the one to mend things, even if he’s not an expert in untangling your feelings or seeking forgiveness. Too much pride sat on his shoulders that it shadows over him to even say sorry— but he tries. In his own way, that is.
A gentle pink bloom emerges by his ruff of hair and Brad is quick to flick it to the ground. “This is so stupid.” It flutters in the air before landing, which he resists the instinct to let his face stain pink with a flush, a flourish of emotions visible on his face. The faintest of smiles is bit back.
Another minute goes by as the flower on the ground stares back at him— all sappy, drenched in love. It was a difficult subject for him to come to terms with, the fact that now he’s head over heels for someone he didn’t want any relation with a few months ago, now his hands are full of flowers. A bouquet of them, for someone he sees a future with. His love for you didn’t find home in his heart immediately. It took so much time for him to overcome the denial and accept that you weren’t going anywhere, and that he’d rather find himself in your embrace than any other place there is.
The acceptance started to carve its place in him after a moment of vulnerability. Some parts of Brad still beat himself up when it flashes images of how he let his guard down, and let someone in and heal him. The day he went against the pleas of his exhausted body, and was paid with a body wrecking fever that lasted weeks.
Your fingers typed and deleted, a cycle that spun itself each time the worry evaded. Brad hasn’t answered his phone in three days. Convincing yourself that he was busy wasn’t a strong reason, because there were days he’d still send a reply— even just two words in sentence when he was caught in a risky battle in a game that could ruin his perfect K/D ratio. Brad would type one letter per spaced out seconds and assure you he was there, just occupied with a loser who targeted each movement he made in-game.
“BU5Y. W1LL T3XT B4CK.” sent, with his teeth gritted as his fingers smashed the keyboard seeking payback as the game blared with warnings of loss.
It felt different this time. Brad wouldn’t go this long without a text, and if he did, you would be informed beforehand. Concern piloted you to look for your own answers, because the worry ate you bit by bit and losing sleep meant you couldn’t frolick in the garden in your dreams, hand in hand with Brad.
He clicks out from recalling your memories to glance at the road ahead. Still no sight of you, none of that melodic greeting you always offer him. Brad grabs his phone and the time only marks five minutes since he started dipping into recollection. 5:41 pm, still with the same tinted sun that hasn’t sunken into the unreachable horizon.
Rising, and consuming what he tried his best to keep intact, the anxiousness resides in the pit of his stomach like heavy stones. Where are you?
That was the exact thing he said in his mind when storm harsh fever hit and lit his body. Every turn felt off, every breath was too hot. Where were you? Wouldn’t you start looking for him by now?
“Oh, right. That makes so much sense. I’ll get going.” Mayor Thaniyel held onto the edge of his doorway after your concern led you to Brad’s father. He was a man of wisdom and affection, it was clear from how he shared the worry with you when you arrived with the news of no contact from his end. “Thanks again, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”
Uncertainty lingered at every step of your way. During your stop at the store to gather things for him, you tried reaching out again, even as your hands were full.
“Are you okay??”
“I’m coming over in a bit.”
“Unlock the door if you can. See you.”
Sent, just below the days worth of texts seeking him and his responses. The last text he sent to you told you nothing that you could predict.
Lacing vines that crawl all over the front of his home didn’t tell you anything reassuring. It sprawled out like a welcome mat, and it lead to thick roots just by the door left ajar. From where you stood with full hands, the interior remained dark. Not even the glow of his PC shoned. Treading the leafy path, you invite yourself in with hopes nothing horrible had happened to him.
It was truly a sight to behold. A cavern of flora greeted you solemnly, with curling ferns that were the size of your head and vines that braided itself all over the home. He homed himself inside the humid garden, though he wasn’t spotted immediately— which raised more questions and concerns.
If it wasn’t for the door drinking in the sunlight outside, the home would have been a void pit and you would have found yourself among the shrubs. As you stumble around to look for a source of light, or at least a switch to turn on, stray vines whipped and secured themselves on your venturing hand, then yank you down.
Forced awkwardly, the panic within you started to spike and you’re pulling and struggling to be let go before a voice grounds you in place.
“I feel like I’m gonna die.” Brad’s voice was hoarse and dragged, like each word pained him to say. He was lathered in sweat and sickness, his messy hair concealing the obvious fever flush on his cheeks. Your eyes settled on the view below, where he laid wrapped in a cacoon of growths and sharp stems. “Don’t go anywhere yet.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” The reassurance tumbled out quick. Brad took your words to heart and remained motionless as you began to rummage the bag you brought along. “You look like you’re gonna die.”
Given any other time besides being in a terrible fever, Brad would have rolled his eyes and gave you a snarky reply. If you had taken a second longer, he belives he would’ve died in a flowery casket of his making.
You made sure he was fed, and his fever was appropriately attended to. Though he repeatedly voiced out that he didn’t want a damp towel over his head— as in his own words, “I don’t need it,” and “I’m not a kid.”, the effects showed through the wilting of his growths. The botanical carpeted floor shrunk and the vine laced wall decayed, as well as the humid atmosphere became cooler.
As the serenity dwells on, Brad entertained the intimacy that lingered around as well. Fighting the tiredness that weigh him down, he peeked an eye and caught a view of your back facing him, just by the edge of his feet. He called for your name, which you immediately turn to and pass him a gentle smile. “Hey there. You feeling any better?”
And your body inched to be closer, then your hand did. It stopped by the curve of his face, cupping his cheek so tenderly that you couldn’t deny feeling how he leaned in and melted into your warmth. “You’re like, still the same temperature.”
Through low lidded eyes he captured the essence of you. How you are so delicate in your actions, so genuine without hidden intentions. The way your heartache towards him etched so evidently in your complexion, brows furrowed but your soft smile still remained. “Brad, I think we gotta get you to see a doctor.”
He nodded, still stuck in a love drunk haze, swirled with the sickness’ fog. “Brad?” You slid your palm higher on his face, and call for him again. “Brad? Are you listening?”
“Brad?”
“Brad!”
You breach into his daydreams, excited hands on both of his shoulders. Hooking him out of the delusion had his vision locked on you, tilted smile intact. He was still on the gravel path and you’ve met him halfway. “Sorry I was late. Were you going home?” The question intrudes, and he lacked the will to admit the truth, seeing that it was just an attempt to escape the suffocation of the cold anxiety searching home in him.
“Nah.” Brad answers simply, earning a questioning look from you. The nervousness piles up again, and the mental script he practiced idly while at home earlier disintegrated. “Uhh.. I— Well, I made— got these for you.” The bouquet is nearly shoved to your direction, miniscule petals around it fluttering and flailing in the air.
He completely avoids looking at you. Brad’s eyes aim towards your outfit, then your shoes, all besides your face entranced by the effort he put into the flowers. It’s beautiful and thoughtfully arranged, a plethora of colours gathering your attention to every detail. Yet, other things started to hook your concentration too.
Like the way sprouts have started bloom where his vines and growths were more prominent, the way he flicks them away, the way he shies into the blossom near his face. You began to relish into his reaction more and more, by thanking him, firstly.
“Thanks, Brad.” Your bouquet lightly crinkles from the paper holding it together— and Brad steers his attention to you, ready to reply. “I love you too.”
Utter shock freezes him before he responds, cutting off himself. “What?”
“I said I love you too.”
The air seemed to still and suffocate him. Words could barely climb out, and Brad locks into unreachable realisation, but you tell him the obvious first. “No one gives flowers like these for no reason. I love you.”
Thrumming erratically inside his chest was his racing heart, and the speed of everything fails to grant you a response. He thinks of the only way he could tell you the same thing, and he executes it without thinking twice. He’d rather you understand him right then and there than doubt the stuck gears in his head cuffing him from moving.
Enveloped in a tight embrace, then the slot of your lips together. Brad seals every doubt you ever had in him with a kiss that will promise you no regrets. Though quick, you both pull away after stealing each other’s breaths. With both of his hands on your shoulder, he speaks of what he couldn’t before.
“Th-thanks for stealing the words right out of my mouth— I was gonna do that myself but—” He steals a second to catch his breath, then tries again.
“I want you. To be with me forever—”
You adjust the bouquet in your hold as your smile never faints, and cup his cheek. The same warmth that graced him a while ago.
“I know that, Brad. I’ve known all along.”