Chapter Text
This world isn’t fair to those who are different
Summer 1920
In the golden expanse of the fields, Alexzander, the sunflower farmer, stood as a striking embodiment of defiance against the traditional norms of his conservative small town. His long, curly ginger hair over his shoulders in soft waves, framing a face adorned with a constellation of freckles that danced across his skin. His emerald-green eyes sparkled with an innocence, yet possessed an unsettling beauty that many deemed too delicate for a boy. In this rigid society, whispers of admiration for his charming appearance remained stifled; the townsfolk were all too aware of the wrath that his father could unleash an unpredictable storm ready to wreak havoc at any sign of deviation from his notions of masculinity.
Dressed in faded, patched overalls, which bore the marks of work and the passage of time, he donned a carefully stitched sunflower at the center—a subtle yet defiant emblem of his identity. He captured the gaze of anyone passing by; most adults surveyed him with a mix of bemusement and admiration, while Alexzander’s father viewed his son as nothing more than a grotesque betrayal of the ideals he clung to. To him, Alexzander symbolized an abomination—a “sissy” who sullied the “American” spirit his father revered.
“Right there, pick me up,” Alexzander whispered, his voice playful yet earnest as he leaned into Dakota, who responded with a radiant smile. “I love you,” Dakota said, his warm brown eyes reflecting an innocent affection, blissfully unaware of the oppressive shadows that hovered over their lives, cast by societal restraints and the looming threat of misunderstanding.
“I wish we could love openly,” Alexzander sighed, the words heavy with longing—a wish as desperate as the sun reaching for the horizon as it sank beneath the edge of day.
“Me too, sunflower,” Dakota replied, his tone laced with an innocence that belied the gravity of their situation.
“‘Tha gaol agam ort,’” Alexzander whispered, the Gaelic phrase rolling off his tongue like a tender caress that seemed to transcend their troubled circumstances.
“Sunflower, you know I don’t know what that means,” Dakota said, his brow furrowing in genuine curiosity.
“Exactly why I use it,” Alexzander chuckled softly, the sound both a balm and a burden as they stood together, two souls intertwined yet adrift in a world that was determined to keep them apart.
“This is too risky,” Alexzander said, his voice barely above a whisper as he cast anxious glances around them. “I know the flowers are tall, but my father will be home any minute.”
“Forget your father,” Dakota dismissed, rolling his eyes with a familiarity born of their secret exchanges.
“ u won’t be saying that when he finds out and kills me for being a fag,” Alexzander spat, the slur falling from his lips like venom. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air. “Where is he even?” Dakota said
“Probably off harassing my sister's boyfriend,” Alexzander shrugged, his tone casual yet underlined with frustration. “He’s been so obsessed with her lately that he doesn’t event realize a boy is kissing his son in the backyard.”
Alexzander inhaled deeply, stealing a glance at the vibrant sunflowers towering around them, a cover that shielded them from prying eyes but also felt like a cage. The tension between them crackled, thick with both the exhilaration of their shared secret and the dread of impending consequences.
Just as they settled among the tall blooms, the distant sound of tires crunching on gravel reached Alexzander’s ears. He glanced at Dakota, who already understood and began to retreat stealthily.
Alexzander stood, heart racing, and spotted his father in the distance. “What are you doing?” his father barked, venom dripping from his words.
“Nothing, sir,” Alexzander replied, a wave of dread crashing over him.
“That's exactly the problem. If you want to keep these stupid, womanly flowers, then you'd better take care of them,” his father retorted, and all Alexzander could think about was how much he loathed the man standing before him. He envisioned the long-awaited day when he would learn of his father's demise, an unexpected relief flooding his heart. “Yes, sir,” he muttered, swallowing down the bitterness.
Later that day, he found himself at the shop his father owned in town, arranging the sunflowers before selling them. “Sunflower,” Miss Winston called out, her soft voice cutting through the air like a gentle breeze. “How are you doing? You're such a handsome young man. You know, I have a beautiful niece who lives in the North. I could arrange for you two to meet.”
“Hi, Miss Winston, I’m fine, but I’m not looking for love right now, thank you,” he replied, aware of the stark contrast between her innocent offer and the truth that lay deeply embedded in his heart—the love of his life was the very boy she was far from envisioning.
“Alright, sunflower, can you help me pick some of these real sunflowers out?” She giggled, her lightheartedness echoing in the close quarters.
“Sure, Miss.” He forced a smile, hoping for her to finish quickly. He knew she meant no harm, yet the conversation stirred a quiet discontent within him, a reminder of what he could not have.
As the afternoon light began to fade, the hours felt painfully slow, prompting him to gather his things and make his way home. Although he had a room in the main house, shared with his sister and father, his heart belonged to the small, almost hidden cottage behind it, nestled among the trees. It was a cozy retreat that offered him solitude and comfort, away from the problems of the main house.