#bloomed

wille follows him into the greenhouse, winding past tables of ceramic pots and meter-tall fronds, ducking under some vines that boast a sign about an upcoming workshop. simon hovers over a few plants before moving on. every now and then he glances at wille, seeming to size him up and factor this into his considerations. (wille wishes he knew what simon was seeing.) finally he scoops up a medium-sized pot with pale purple flowers, holding it out to wille with both hands.

"spreading bellflower. it's similar to the small bluebell, which is--"

"our national floral emblem,"  wille finishes for him, because of course that's the kind of nonsense his mother has made him learn, though it feels a lot less vapid in this moment.

simon looks impressed. "exactly. everybody wants the small bluebell. we don't sell a lot of the bellflower."

"it's perfect," wille tells him, and as he lifts the flowers to his nose, he sees simon's eyes crinkle with a smile.

his date is lovely, much more unpretentious than he's used to, nervous but striving to be genuine. she's definitely a bit thrown by the flowers, and she sounds apologetic when she explains she doesn't have any outdoor space, not even a balcony or patio, and her windowsills are too slim to host the plant. wille feels a bit wounded, wants to insist that she could just find a small table and set it near the window, but she's already suggested that he take it home with him and care for it "for me, until i can visit," she says, and he doesn't mind the idea, actually - has grown a little attached to the flowers.

he goes to sleep thinking of brown eyes and purple blossoms. he wakes up with them on his chest. the blossoms, that is, not the eyes. the spreading bellflowers bloom across his chest like elaborate watercolor tattoos, and he feels his heart leap behind the flowers as he traces them reverently. so he met his soulmate yesterday, and the bellflowers were meaningful to their day. but is it the boy from the greenhouse, or his date?

he knows who he wants it to be, but maybe fate, like his mother, has its own ideas about his path.

he doesn't want to contact simon or his date until he knows a bit more, so he has to wait a full day. he drags himself through his classes at uni, biting his nails down, the bellflowers burning under his clothes. (he'd been tempted to wear a v-neck shirt, show them off, but he also wants to cradle it to himself for a little while.) he stays up late, skin itching as the clock ticks towards midnight, at which point the bellflowers fade. instead, vines twine up both of his arms, curling like bracelets, embracing his wrists and forearms and the cut of his muscle. he knows those vines - couldn't name them, but he recognizes them from the greenhouse. there'd been a sign next to them, for an upcoming workshop, which he's guessing simon led yesterday.