"Make my son fall in love with you."
"But he's gay."
-♚-
He became rainbow, and she became rain; for when the future king of Roséton unveiled his sexuality on the night of enthronement, Flora Rose...
" for she was a goddess, and her touch breathes out life. "
[ VERY LONG CHAPTER ]
✔️
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⚘ T H R E E g a r l a n d g o d d e s s
SORREL WAS WRITING.
I could see it through the glass panes that separated us; see the way how he simply would bite his lip and stifle the urge to smile, watch him with curious eyes the way how he twirled the pencil and gnaws on the tip with furrowed brows and concentrated expressions. He did this sometimes, form a string of beautifully constructed words that were called lyrics, and although I had only seen the pages imbued with his passion twice, I knew that what he composed were everything in this world, despite how he always tore a page when he felt like it was nothing.
And those crumpled up papers, I had kept to myself. Because beneath the graphite of those pages, were emotions and feelings that I couldn't bear to comprehend.
I watched as he scrubbed the writings off with the butt of the pencil, intrigued when he blew those bits and pieces into the air and continued composing. He was in his own garden of thoughts, and I didn't dare to trample on the flowers.
Sometimes throughout the week, I came to where he worked for solitude and peace; and as time went on slowly inside the walls of the quaint shoppe strewn flowers and garlands, it became our own little sanctuary. A safe haven of all those treacherous outside its interior, the smell of flowers would waft throughout and wrap those in a bundle of petals and security.
All it needed was wifi.
I stayed where I had been put. And despite the fact that I came here to answer some of my homework, I didn't want to intrude. But as most things go, and how most things do, things come to an end — and even though it felt like forever when I eyed him, I grasped the handle and went inside.
The bells chimed.
"Welcome to — Flor?"
My eyes zoned in to Sorrel, pencil in hand, with brown wavy hair tousled into ruination. His pink lips slowly rose to a delicate smile, fragile as porcelain and beautiful as it always had been, the crinkles in his eyes evident as he gazed at me.
And his irises, oh those beautiful browns, were something I could never put to words. Like soil it had always been, a soil that bloomed flowers in his eyes and a soil that hid the castle of bones from within. It was the very same eyes that had stared at my own and said that everything would be fine, the same rich brown with a stare that could melt my own being.
