Work Text:
Ephemeral
(Adj.) lasting for a very short time
———
Clancy’s laughter floats over the soft grasses of Trench. Light and bubbly, it matches the golden sky and dandelions speckled over the plains. Sweet soil and fresh greens scent the air in a sickly sweet cloud, carried for miles on the breeze.
It twists, curling around their faces and hands in a soft caress. Feather light, Clancy's fingers ghost over Torch’s, gently correcting his movements.
“No, no!” he giggles. “Not like that, under-”
Torch fumbles, the flower stems slipping from his grasp, loose knots coming undone. The flowers catch the wind, floating away as he groans in exasperation.
Clancys bursts into laughter, cheeks turning pink and eyes crinkling in delight. Torch’s lingering annoyance is melted under the glow of his joy. Clancy truly was a person who carried light into every room he entered, his laughter its own kind of music that just begged you to sing along.
Torch never had much resolve when it came to him, so he quickly crumbles, smiling silently at his unfiltered happiness.
It was always beautiful to him.
He is beautiful.
Tanned skin glowing in the late afternoon sun, fluffy chocolate hair curling in the wind. His own flower crown sat nestled among it. Far superior to whatever torch could make, the dandelion base was broken up by the occasional clover flower.
They’d sat for hours, scouring the patches for the anomaly of the four-leafed ones until their knees were stained green. They'd settled for picking the flowers and weaving them into crowns. Clancy was clearly better, even after all of Torch’s practice.
Clancy. His clover, his anomaly, his exception, his good-luck charm. He’d never really told him where the nickname came from, but it was always this moment that sealed it for Torch.
This is what Clancy is to him.
He always ensures they come out here and do this at least once, just so Torch can experience the magic of it all again.
Seeing his delight, covered in flowers in fields of clover and sun.
“What?” he asks, laughter trickling off. “Whatcha staring at?”
Torch leaned back onto his palms, feeling the cool dirt and strand of grass between his fingers. Clancy still kneels before him, hands resting softly on his legs, fingers stained yellow, brown, and green.
“You. You're too pretty for this world, clover.” Torch tells him every chance he gets, even if Clancy never believes it.
He flushes. “Oh, stop it. Says you. You're built like some sort of god or something.”
Torch smiles softly. “I mean it. You're too pretty. In every way. We don’t deserve you.”
I don’t.
He scoffs, stumbling to his feet. “Whatever you sap. Here, I'll just make you one, since you are clearly incompetent.”
Torch says nothing, opting to watch him as he wanders around. Clancy carefully picks his flowers, inspecting each one carefully before picking the stem as close to the ground as he can. It takes him a while to collect enough simply because he wants only the best.
“Come here, show me one last time,” Torch asks, even though he could make a million blindfolded.
He’ll never tell him he learned perfectly the first time Clancy had ever shown him. Never.
“Fine, but actually try to pay attention,” he sighs, plopping down on Torch’s right. “So you take your base stem, and hold it parallel to the ground.”
“Right, I got that.”
“Then, you take your second flower and place it in front of the base. Now wrap the stem under… and to the right of the flower head… and back in front to its going the same way as the base.”
“I think I just do it backwards,” Torch laughs, watching the way his finger deftly folds the flower stems, wrapping the knots as tight as they can go without tearing.
“You can’t do it ‘backwards’ unless you're left-handed.”
“Maybe I’m left-handed only when making flower crowns.”
“You are such an idiot sometimes…”
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” Torch smiles, no longer bothering to watch Clancy make his crown. Instead, he stares at the side of his face, the way his eyes glow amber in the sun, the shadows his lashes and nose cut across his face.
Clancy huffs. “Sure. Okay. When you're finished, you gotta be careful. You need to wrap that base flower like this… and use an extra to tuck here-” he looks up. “Are you even watching?”
“Mhm,” he hums.
“You are so lucky I care enough to make you a crown,” Clancy mutters. He’s on the finishing touches now, weaving in the clover buds to add white accents. “In fact, maybe I should just take this for myself, because you obviously don’t care-“
He yelps, caught off guard by Torch lunging and pushing him to his back. He crawls over him, caging him in so they are face to face.
“I,” Torch whispers, “am watching what’s important.”
Clancy is left speechless and red-faced. His own crown is knocked loose, sitting like a halo below him.
Torch leans in and gingerly places a kiss on his forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips. It’s all sweetness and reverence, the kind held for celestial phenomena. Like moonlight dappling lakes or the shadow of a sun hiding during midday.
Clancy melts into it, eyes sliding shut. His hand slips up into Torch’s curls, and to his jaw, fingertips as light as summer rain.
Torch seizes the moment, snatching the crown from Clancy's chest and popping to his feet.
“I, what…” Clancy stutters, eyes snapping open. He takes in Torch’s smug grin and the crown being carefully arranged in his hair. “Oh, you bastard.”
Torch cackles, utterly delighted. Clancy reaches next himself, grabbing a fistful of grass before attempting to chuck it at Torch.
Unsurprisingly, it blows right back into his face, only causing Torch to laugh harder. After a moment of shock, he too can’t help but join in.
By the time they manage to compose themselves, the sun is beginning to set in tangerine and raspberry.
“C’mon, clover. We should get back to camp.” Torch offers his hand, pulling Clancy to his feet.
“Wait, I need my crown,” he says. He spins in circles for a moment before locating and returning the crown to his head.
Already, the dandelions are closing, petals tinted with brown instead of gold. Torch says nothing, just offers his hand so they can return to camp together.
⊹ ࣪ ˖.☘︎ ݁˖ ࣪ ⋆
Later that night, Clancy sleeps, head tucked beneath Torch’s chin. His soft snores fill their tent, mingling with the hum of crickets and cicadas, the rustling of trees. His body is curled toward Torch, tucked safely to his side, arms wrapped around Clancy's back and hip.
There, Torch traces soft circles as he stares through the dark. On their desk, he can faintly make out the wilted, drying crowns.
How beautiful, he thinks, the short-lived things can be.
Just because the flowers wilt, they don’t lose their glory. They simply… recycle it for the next bud.
He thinks of his Clancy, his cycle.
For ages, he thought it was a cycle that ended with him becoming a bishop, beginning with his escape.
Now, he disagrees.
This is where the cycle leads. These small, happy moments. They are sitting in that field, weaving crowns and searching for four-leaf clovers in the dying day. Curling around each other when nightfalls, basking in each other's warmth and company.
This is what it’s all for.
And it’s worth it, even if Torch knows it can not last forever. Because it can not last forever. In time, Clancy will leave him again.
And every time, Torch will find him and bring him here. Until Clancy, too, can see this is what it’s for.
He smiles softly, beaming into Clancy's hair, pressing soft kisses to his head before letting himself drift off to sleep.