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PART TWO
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MR PLANT
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Chapter Eleven
It feels a little off to be this close to someone, – Mr. Plant thought – But it's nice, I guess.
Mr. Plant has always considered himself, well – Somewhat aroace. He never fully identified with the label – As it is a spectrum – But, he obviously couldn't just tell Argos that.
After all – Argos was the only reason that Mr. Plant didn't completely identify as aromantic. Argos made Mr. Plant feel butterflies, he had to admit. Initially, though – A.k.a, literally a week ago – Mr. Plant was confused about his emotions. He didn't quite understand what it was he was feeling, but it certainly wasn't bad. He thought it might've been anxiousness, but Mr. Plant knows what apprehension feels like, if anyone does. Anxiety feels like your guts are being ripped out of your body and spilled loudly onto the floor, one by one until the light leaves your eyes – But Argos didn't make him feel that way. Argos made him feel... Something unfamiliar.
It wasn't like getting gutted alive. It was more like being eaten alive by butterflies. It's like being so embarrassed that you could just crawl into a hole and die, kind of thing. Mr. Plant thought, but at the same time, that little cave had Argos in it. Argos is everywhere, and the butterflies are on him, too. He's giving me a soft smile that makes me feel warm inside. All fuzzy and blissful, if that's what makes sense.
Mr. Plant didn't really want to be taken out of my thoughts, but he knew he should when he felt Argos tug on his arm. He looked down at him – As if he should be watching over him, like Argos was a little flower and Mr. Plant was watering him. Argos pointed his hand – Which was halfway covered by his sky blue sleeves, like a comfortable child tucked in for bed – to a small truck that appeared to be selling ice cream. Mr. Plant wasn't too fond of amusement parks – Too loud, too crowded, and too much of the common motion sickness. But, Argos wanted to go – So Mr. Plant agreed.
The sky was filled with a certain lavender colour – The hues faded from a citrus orange to a taro violet, as if going through some sort of metamorphosis. Seagulls cut through the welkin like scissors on paper – their wings sharp as blades – and small white freckles plastered the canvas as directions for the flock.
Mr. Plant wasn't the type to adore nature – He often found himself too caught up in his own mind to even bother looking up at the oil painting above. But Argos, on the other hand, paid $200 last week to go on an excursion to a valley – They were complete opposites, but Mr. Plant couldn't care any less. In fact, he found it strangely endearing.
I want to hold his hand, he thought, But I'm afraid if I ask, he'll feel disgusted.
Mr. Plant couldn't imagine Argos disgusted – Argos only ever seemed to display positive emotions. He found that was worrying, though, rather than comforting. Mr. Plant didn't want Argos to feel like he had to put on a facade. He didn't want Argos to feel stiff around him. Mr. Plant wanted Argos to feel comfortable around him – And while it seemed like Argos was in fact comfortable around him, Mr. Plant couldn't agree. He had this gut feeling that there was more to Argos. Like the way he rolled up his sleeves in the summer, or the way his gaze softened when Mr. Plant left his place to go home.
I don't want him to feel like I'm trying to fix him, because I cant – His head buzzed, But I want to help him. I don't want him to feel like I'm only here for his affection.
I want to see him when he's upset. When he's stressed. When he's fine. I don't care. I just want to see him.
