Work Text:
Pink azalea blossoms drift lazily downwards from the tree. Petals swirl slowly off the small island, descending to the ground far, far below. A few golden flowers wave in the breeze, their molten-gold heads almost too heavy for their skinny stalk bodies. Parrot’s feathers flutter in the wind, an occasional fiery orange feather whirling away, a bright contrast against the pink-speckled green of the ground below. The arcing, magnificent sky is filled with crimson red, honey yellow, pale blue, and deep purple. The fading rays of the sun cast a gentle warmth on Parrot, washing the world in shades of caring orange and warm yellow. Perhaps it’s why he only comes here at sunset; everything seems easier to bear when the world is coated in honey. Sticky-sweet, warm, weighing down his every movement. Still, he’d rather it be here than not - he isn’t sure what he’d do without it. What would he do, if he came here at night? When words seem to fly too fast past him, when the chilly air freezes his bones inside out, and all he can see looking up at the ceiling in bed is Wifies?
Parrot knows that he won’t come here in winter, when the azalea blossoms will be long gone, rotting bodies on the dying grass. He won’t come here when the last dredges of fall are gone, the last branches bare. And he certainly won’t come here when the first snow falls, when the ground is coated in waist-high piles that make his every footstep sink. When the branches are a moody brown-grey and the snow replaces leaves, he’ll be long gone. The last time he was in snow, icy specks were biting into his skin with intent to kill. So gentle, so soft at first, yet in the end it could kill all the same. Maybe with good intentions, maybe he didn’t mean it, but all the same, it had been done.
Parrot looks at the plain gravestone, a name carved on it which he can barely say. Wifies.