Let The Carnations Bloom

by soulmates

Rating: teen
Tags: Timber Spruce, Death, Human, Sad, Original Character, Equestria Girls, Flash Sentry, Profanity
Length: 7916

Ever since he was a kid, Timber Spruce knew moving on was never easy.

Ever since he was a kid, Timber Spruce knew moving on was never easy.

But he didn’t expect it to be so hard.

Trigger warning for family loss and (vague) homophobia. Takes place post-EQG.

Characters in this fanfiction are humanised with ethnicities, hence the usage of some non-English languages (but it's not that much). Spoiler in the comments.

Published 2022-06-23 23:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2022-06-23 23:00:01 UTC

so our hearts can finally find peace

LET THE CARNATIONS BLOOM
by smallcrystals

“YOU SURE YOU’RE gonna be okay?”

He looks out of the car window through the corner of his eye. The murkiness isn’t surprising but the afternoon rain adds another layer to it. Teardrops stain the glass, cleared after by another drizzle. His head unnerves as he takes in what’s around them – miserable trees tilting with the wind to dirty beige sandy walkways. Black iron fences stood around the equally glum field, a stark and gut-stabbing contrast to the last time he had been here.

Last time, the cemetery presented itself akin to a landscape painting. Vibrant, new. Grass a spectacular green, as green as it was at Camp honestly. The sky is similar, but everything else had a sufficient glow that the sky managed to fit.

This, when Timber Spruce takes it all in now, is brutal and exactly what the media portrays, pathetically matching the weight in his chest, heavier than the logs he’s ever carried.

A thought creeps into his focus and like always, he pushes it back.

He nods at the words, gritting his teeth. He hopes his jaw doesn’t tense too much for it to be visible. A familiar rush flows through his eyes but he blinks it away.

Timber turns to the driver. Said driver’s hands are still on the steering wheel, offering him a chance to change his mind.

I could, he considers.

Flash Sentry looks at him, cornflower eyes less vivid. Clouds reflect in them, Timber can barely find the blue amongst the grey.

Flash isn’t smiling yet he isn’t frowning either. Patient air stays with the warmth of his body and it had been filling the car to the point where Timber was squirming in his seat, unknown signals pressing into his skin. As Timber had planned their visit so far in advance to prevent an impulsive change of mind, Timber can’t really remember how Flash ended up tagging along (or, well, driving him here).

Does he want to remember? Are you embarrassed?

He’s also not sure if he wants to run back to where things are easier, because while that’s tempting, so is melting into this odd warmth. The warmth’s way too similar to what it was like at Flash’s home that one evening – when he had to admit the clash of green and purple and that even rain couldn’t wash off pain, no matter how well they worked.

Timber still doesn’t know how he feels about everything he let himself do that night. He doesn’t know what he feels about this either.

Timber lets out a sigh that’s a lot colder than he expects. He’s left even tenser and displeased as if the removal of carbon dioxide had done nothing to remove the heaviness in his chest as well. Gravity’s got a strong grip on him.

“I can wait in the car,” continues Flash. “Y’know, to give you space. If that’s what you want.”

He should agree. That should be what he wants.

Timber shakes his head. “You can come. It’ll give you a chance to know what to refer to my parents as rather than Timber’s Mom or Dad,” he laughs.

It sounds so dry. Timber tries not to cringe, covering it up with his classic lopsided smile. But he receives hesitation from Flash instead of his regular (shaking his head at Timber’s stupid quips; if anything, Timber expected something like, “I don’t think I should refer to your dead parents by their names, Timber.”).

He looks aside to pretend he doesn’t notice it.

The road squelches under his trainers. His skin shivers from the rain on the car door, cold enough to numb his fingertips with one touch. The driver’s door shuts softly behind him. Then the jingle of car keys and the beep of the lock follow.

Timber’s eyes latch onto Flash’s when he’s not looking. He keeps his gaze on him as the boy joins him, up until Flash attempts to caress him with his eyes. An induced magnet forms, deeming them too alike for some reason and his gaze moves elsewhere.

Even though Timber can’t bring himself to see him fully, Flash gifts him a smile. Like Flash’s still fond of him, endeared. The sky laughs and softly thunders an illusion illustrating Flash’s movements as those of pity. He only ever looks at you like that, y’know? Timber keeps himself from furrowing his eyebrows.

Flash walks a foot behind Timber but his presence by his arm is tenacious. He radiates comfort, standing out from the dampness around them and his muscles fight fo— against running into the boy’s arms. It doesn’t really make any sense so he shuts it down before he dwells on that as well.

The quartz sand crunches as they walk down the path, the path that soon crumbles into a rustle of grass strands. A steady, uneasy atmosphere welcomes them, crawling into his head in an attempt to consume him. He releases another empty shape of a breath.

People are scattered, further away from the entrance. A few come in pairs or groups, presumably family members. Others come alone. They either stand, kneel, fiddle with their bouquets or lack thereof.

The sky smokes as Timber’s gaze falls ahead. He’s almost forgotten where his parents lie, just uncertain on which specific area. Each rectangular pile of soil has a black plate placed neatly atop, names printed onto them. Under those lay a pair of dates, an age and a crest. A distance away, Timber finds some raised, neat patches of soil. Bare and unfinished.

Two people walk past them, one with their head hanging low and the other wrapping a tentative arm around the former’s shoulders. Timber feels Flash glance over at them.

The wind pushes him back to the days after they passed, propelling him to roam through time. To how he sat on his bed, knees meeting his face, staring blankly at the wall— the wooden door to his bathroom opposite him. His eyes would follow the pattern of the wood, setting all his focus there so he wouldn’t think about anything else.

And yet, everything reminded him of them.

Over his knees, crossed arms hid his eyes, collecting the numerous tears and drenching his skin. His bedroom door would be shut, sometimes locked if he realised he couldn’t hold sobs back.

(He doesn’t lock the door anymore. The last time was when he was thirteen; Gloriosa almost broke it down because he fell asleep crying and didn’t respond to her for five minutes. She thought he’d… yeah.)

On other days during his remaining preteen years, he would walk around his old village with it’s okay tumbling off his tongue too many times after the news spread.

The uncles droned on about being strong and not crying because he’s a boy and the aunties would always, always bring it up in casual conversation as if Timber would be over it just months after it happened. They never understood why he felt like shit and Timber couldn’t point that out either because they probably would chat off to the other parents about how disrespectful he is. Gloriosa had plenty on her plate already.

They would say their heart was torn at the loss but ultimately used it as an opportunity to compare their kids to him. “Look at him, he’s all on his own at such a young age yet he’s still working hard, what are you doing with your time?” And their kids would stay silent, glaring at them after they left. On a brighter note, they gave him hugs of apologies on the adults’ behalf as soon as that was all over.

At fourteen on labour duty, several Head Teachers would say he didn’t look like someone who had lost their guardians. While he knew it was meant to be encouraging or hopeful that he was doing much better, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a particular way someone experiencing grief looked like. Because he definitely wasn’t doing much better. (They didn’t need to know that, though.)

Timber blinks out of his reverie a little more harshly than he wishes. But as he takes in his surroundings again, faint memories carriage in against his will.

He’s holding a recently turned nineteen-year-old Gloriosa Daisy by the hand, staying close to her. The sunlight touches the tips of the grass in a pattern his footsteps momentarily disrupt, the air foreign to his growing lungs.

Timber remembers pulling the corner of his mouth into his cheek, shoulders taut. Remembers imagining it was his Dad ruffling his hair when the tender wind blows through his curls. Remembers clenching the bottom of his t-shirt from the sight of his sister breaking her promise of just coming to recite Arabic to the sky above their graves— that she won’t cry. Rather, her head was low, fists clenched on the grass as she knelt. The position of her body at that moment almost convinced him she’d given up.

Timber presses his lips together. He shoos the images back into the cavern he forced them into that day – not now.

His eyes catch bright colours to his right. A fresh grave. His heart cracks at the affectionate, flowered letters, baba, leaning against the mass of soil. The word isn’t alone; a plethora of other blossoms accompany it, gifts to paradise where the once Dad hopefully is.

An abrupt aversion tears his focus. At first, Timber assumes it’s a jerk reaction but fate has its own magic and he sees them, north-west to where he stands.

A warm hand comes to his forearm, rubbing it softly. Flash looks at him with a more visible expression of concern, amongst a comforting smile that somehow fits well (but it’s Flash Sentry so, of course, it does). The look suggests Timber must’ve not kept his guard up as high as he thought, that the one glance at their graves sent his face collapsing. Timber didn’t feel it do that at all and he despises that.

Shaky breathes escape him. His eyes steer clear from Flash’s.

Flash wilts whenever Timber’s upset about anything, eyebrows a canopy over mellow eyes. A mist gently begs to share so Timber doesn’t have to deal with this alone. It swirls around him in movements too fluid he fears once it gets too close, his hidden words will seep right out. And then, Flash will be holding something he shouldn’t have to hold for him. Not for him of all people; Timber won’t allow it.

“I’ll be okay,” he mutters. He wants to gag because of how tight and uncomfortable it feels coming from his trachea. He clears it. And looks Flash in the eye long enough to make him believe he’s telling the truth.

Flash walks with him until he moves to stand in front of his parents’ graves.

The uncertainty in Flash’s movements becomes too obvious to ignore, so he asks, “if you don’t want to stay, it’s okay.” His choice of wording definitely needed some work before they left his mouth. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re intruding,” he adds.

Flash lifts his gaze from the ground. For a moment, Timber lets himself revel in the fact Flash is just about shorter than him. A fact so silly and meaningless, a source of teasing and blushing laughter. It sort of hurts when it doesn’t bring as much joy now as it would usually.

“If you’re okay with it then I am too,” Flash says like that doesn’t shoot an arrow right into Timber’s heart.

After he smiles in return, Timber turns away. Forcing the smile to reach his eyes comes as an afterthought once it drops.

Timber’s breath lodges when he reads the names on the black plates. A glare near the corner fails to camouflage the curve of the firm white print.

His arm slips out of Flash’s grasp as he crouches down. He shouldn’t, really. But it’s not like he’s praying to them. It’s giving him and his parents even ground. (Well, as even as he can be unless he wants someone to bury him alive. Not really a pleasant thought.)

His legs shiver from the cold contact between his jean-clad knees and the ground. His hands come to stay clasped together on his lap but then they slide along his thighs while he prepares to draw his words.

Years after decay, their corpses remain six feet under. As he tries to reimagine their faces, something weird travels up the small of his back and shoots up to his occiput like lightning. Timber’s eyes blink quicker. To counteract, he pulls his eyebrows in.

Memory cards sit, discoloured from sunlight and dusty from untouched years. They’re a little blurry too. His chest grows laden with the wind and his heart falls deeper the longer he stays quiet.

Timber tells himself as a warning that Flash’s behind him with probably a myriad of emotions running through his head. He tells himself this so that he stands on that rickety wooden bridge in his head, on guard. It works too well that he’s staring right back at the thoughts he pushed away earlier.

“Hey,” he says, verging on the line between a dead whisper and a cautious mumble. Awkwardness chokes him. Timber blinks and ignores the words ma ar baba at the tip of his tongue, running it across his teeth so he distracts the feeling. He rubs his hands as they rest between his thighs, protecting the heat that remains.

“I, um, hope you’re okay.” He hardly hears his voice display the words.

Timber takes a longer look at the names. They’re just about readable from this angle.

His heart gapes like he’s got a hole in it and a fresh, disturbing image of such sends tremors all over his shoulders. Each contraction is a throb of glowing pain reminiscent of the time only a year after their passing.

Timber scoffs under his breath.

It hasn’t been a year now, it’s been five. Shouldn’t he be used to it?

He had been so hopeful once he and Twilight got serious with their relationship. Not only did he have someone to cherish aside from his sister, but that someone had a bunch of friends who treated him like their own. Friends could be family. After everything he’s tried at Camp, hoping at least one of them stayed in touch but expecting nothing, that was paradise.

Plus, none of them left after they broke up. When they could’ve. So he’s got a good social network to not need the love of his parents anymore, right? His life’s a continuous shower of energy, cheeky shenanigans, times where he feels like he’s actually seventeen.

It still feels like he’s waving his arms around in smoke thick as paint. Or that he’s trapping virulent air in his lungs, unsure if he’ll be quick enough to breathe it out and inhale something safe. At least before something even more dangerous enters his system. (And what will happen when that cycle has to repeat?)

Timber purses his lips. He can’t bring his eyes any higher than where they are, rooted in the grass.

It usually takes time for reality to reach him, always feels wrong to carry on despite how he’s done so prior in a seemingly effortless manner. The buildup doesn’t last long, though, because he sees the white outlines of his parents against a painting of Camp Everfree and the hole in his heart pulses. He barely recalls them in their old home, curious about how they would move on the grounds of their revamped camp.

The sound of the breeze struggles to get him out of this headspace. It’s there but Timber can’t reach it. His eyes sting. Timber flexes his brows.

Their faces are faint. If he recognises, say, the high bridge of his mother’s nose, the image grows too difficult to look at.

The sting travels down his own nose and he bites hard on the edge of his bottom lip.

This is so stupid. Timber was young when they… when they died, but he wasn’t so young.

They weren’t the Ultimate Best Parents in the World. Some of the methods they used to discipline his and Gloriosa’s misbehaviour weren’t the healthiest. Sometimes resulted in a lot of shouting. Their occasional views didn’t make any sense once he grew older and some are even hypocritical.

He blinks harder when the frustration settles in. His eyebrows draw a bridge to stop the waves his brain sends downwards, hands itch to get him off the ground, back where he should be, in the car telling Flash he’s changed his mind.

Timber keeps his palms between his thighs with a little bit of pressure.

He doesn’t love them unconditionally. He did when he was younger but now he believes that was due to a clear sky of innocence and the ignorance of the clouds present. No, because after that happened, he grew up noticing the clouds and that they were forming a storm. He noticed them much earlier than anyone else did. The other kids had been playing in the sand or on the swings attached to the thick tree branches.

The storm blew on for years, somehow not ruining everything in its path but weakening them, marring the cells and exhausting the muscles. Timber found himself protecting the green flowers outside of his old home during his younger years, replanting them at Camp Everfree to keep them safe, wondering how they survived after his parents constantly ignored them.

(Sometimes he feared interacting with them; what if he worsened their state? They could’ve been just fine before he stepped in.

What if they were harmful to him? What if his parents were right to ignore them? They knew more than he did.

The flowers were all right in the end. Safe and healthy. He went and checked the leftover ones at his old home and found their small, pulled-out origins on the dried lawn.)

In his earlier years of discovery, he didn’t want to admit why his parents acted the way they did. His justification was that they never said or did anything about that for him to be so sure. The only proper acknowledgement he has in mind is that one moment when his Dad had trampled over a couple of green flowers, scoffing on his way to the car about what he saw on TV. Mars or something. Timber heard the word double mixed in there too.

He hates how that was the only confirmation he had before they left him stuck with this answerless fear.

Growing up is filling in the parts he can’t properly draw right with tracing paper to help and realising some of the lines he drew originally weren’t actually accurate – so how much longer can he stand this before it’s done? Or before he’s done with it all?

Maybe he can turn a blind eye to it once again and ignore it like he’s always been doing.

Does he want the taste of his mother’s Eid dishes to remain identifiable within his olfactory and taste buds? Or should he contaminate his nose and tongue with the thought of how lucky he is that Amber Marble was willing to do so much for them when she was still alive? Should he reminisce in the idle chatter between Gloriosa and their Mom, filtering through fluttery, faded memories, sweetened laughs flowering everything up? Is he able to ignore what they were talking about as if he still isn’t old enough to understand romantic love and that Gloriosa felt none of it towards men?

Can he actually recall his Dad’s active guide on How To Make A Campfire? Or will his thoughts smoke up with the now spitting urge to tell him his little ole’ boy not only discovered that the green flowers outside their home were green carnations but that he also played in them every June?

(That might be why Timber’s campfires never matched up to the memory of his Dad’s; he’s too distracted.)

It's just… he understands how this isn’t that fair. He’ll never know the type of people they actually were. They could’ve helped clear the smoke away from the flowers for all he knew. Or (most likely), it would take some convincing and a little bit of learning to do so. How is he scared of a reaction if he doesn’t know and won’t ever know?

But, there isn’t fear stronger, though. The routes are endless and dangerous, leading to other things that are definitely something to be feared. It’s a reaction that not only does he not know the result of, but he also can’t control all the other variables. Attempting to plan it would make the diagram look more like a detailed sketch of a tree than anything he can use to get rid of his anxiety.

Yet he craves and craves for specific moments where he can discuss certain topics safely with or not tiptoe around them. Ignore what other people like him say about their experiences in this situation because none of that would apply to him.

So he can tell them stuff like: “there’s someone with me right now. I, um, I would like you to meet him; he’s, uh… he’s more than a—” without his heart in his throat or adding on, “I— but I don’t know if that’s something you want to know? You probably don’t.”

His laugh tastes revolting before a whisper of, “probably wouldn’t like that.” trails behind.

Flash doesn’t comment on any of it.

Timber clenches his teeth as he recalls times when he cried into their chests; clueless to the days his mother would stop cradling his head, unsure if he’s glad of that cluelessness. He debates whether or not he misses when his Dad’s hand hovered over the curls at the back of Timber’s head, hesitant about what to do while Timber’s tears soaked up his t-shirt. Because at least the warmth was still there.

His head likes to jump sometimes. To hurt him mainly. Flames of specific settings cloud his head and all he imagines is their death. But… different. He never saw how they died originally and what he remembers convinces him it’s better off that way, so the desire and curiosity burn him, burn him well.

Their alternate deaths play out like those soap operas or movies where situationally, the main lead confesses their heart out at the deathbed of a loved one, whether it’s about the love they weren’t able to portray beforehand or chopping themself open to someone who would otherwise have trouble accepting who they were.

(He’s never thought of it as gruesome as that but anything more pleasant doesn’t match what it feels like when he thinks of the words leaving his mouth.)

And he always backtracks; it feels selfish to think like this, like— like this reimagination exists just so he can get angry at them when they don’t accept him for who he is.

He also wishes, genuinely wishes, he could see them, one of them even, taking their last breath. At least holding their hand for when they leave. It wouldn’t be younger Timber by the hospital bed, it would be him now, silently crying in understanding he wanted to be unaware of. He’d sense the deafening beep of a siren-like sound and the loosening grip, holding onto the lifeless hand in both of his.

And God— fuck, it hurts so much just thinking about it.

Would he replay every detail like an intrusive thought? Allow the fire to sting his blood and tear the tissue of his organs—

Timber’s nails dig into his palms. Stop stop stop.

The memories tail like pebbles bouncing on the river and soon enough, his father’s voice is so clear in his mind. Chest-heavy laughs follow and so do the smiles people say Timber got from him. Then there’s six-year-old Timber whining at the man standing on his toes when all he wanted to do was compare heights and see how much he needed to grow to be like him.

(Crown Heartwood was five-ten. Timber Spruce is now six feet.)

The burn between his eyes is completely unlike the burns he’s gotten from the campfire. His body shakes a type of shaking only noticeable to those who know what they’re looking for. Not a shiver from the cold, nothing external or active controlling it. But he can pretend that’s the case.

His chest’s a rough, careless tear of tin foil. Split between please come back and it’s okay, it’s probably for the best and it feels so— so disgusting. The thought is admittedly recurring and he knows why but there was never an appropriate time. Maybe that’s why he’s put all this off for so long.

He feels like he’ll go insane. A pain like being forced to stand right by a lit fire for hours upon end until he’s coughing and teary and his throat’s constricting. Why put himself willingly through that if he’s just going to hurt? What’s he even going to achieve?

Timber’s eyes blink faster every now and then when he’s discovering new points of attack. Body so stiff his muscles pray for anything else. Even when he’s here he’s holding himself back.

And, and, and, the pain he under when he’s not here resembles being torn, scratched and cut. Sometimes he’s cruel enough to imagine sentences in the voices that never aged, words formulated into something shaped like a knife and just twisting, twisting it until Timber snaps out of it. So if it’s that bad away from where they lie, how much worse is it going to be when he’s here and he’s not restraining his venomous mind?

He blinks hard, wetness spreading over his eyes.

Timber asked Flash to join him here. As for why: he… can’t really say.

Well, he wants this to be over without so much as a breakdown at least. After, stay at Flash’s for a few days, maybe. He can’t have that being awkward if Flash sees him in an utter wreck, unable to do anything. Not that Timber will let him see that. He already does enough as a— as someone close to him.

He knows Flash will be right by him in a second if Timber caves into his emotions in front of him. And letting Flash handle him like that? Fucking terrifying. His mind and body so vulnerable that anything can set him off, too weak to stop it. Flash shouldn’t have to take care of him.

Acknowledging he’s there prevents him from that outcome, he guesses. Flash acts as a signal. He’s behind you. Don’t lose it in front of him. And so he doesn’t.

Timber squirms in his spot. That’s not…

God fucking dammit.

His eyes rise from downcast. Timber only tilts his head up by a notch to glance at the sky.

…If they managed to stay longer, would he have ever gotten the guts to tuck the green carnations into a flower pot and display them proudly in his room? Or would he have let the wind tear them away as the storm passed and the fog burden all those that survived? Would he even have found out what they were called if his parents were still around?

A sign of guilt is the desire to turn back time and do anything different, Twilight highlighted in a nonfiction book she gave him, though the original text was much less colloquial. At the time Timber had curled his lip, defensive, but ultimately pushed it away. He’s definitely not ready to admit out loud how right she is.

She had also told him she thought that was one of the things setting Timber back from fully moving on, especially once she introduced him to the world of magic, where a good few previous impossibles turned possible.

That was a slash to his chest. Even if he might’ve snarked something along the lines of “don’t think you of all people can tell me how to handle this, Twi,” – he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Timber must’ve shoved the culpability so deep into his system that his heart was the only victim. An unconscious doing but not that long ago, he assumes. He’s only ever realised he lived amongst flowers of a rainbow a few years after his parents’ death, moving the original ones to a new spot, letting them evolve into a community. And even so, he just vaguely thought about how his parents would react to all the new things before he would shake himself out of that headspace.

So what’s holding me back?

Timber stiffens on the ground. His head is dazed, thick from being stuck in there for so long. Almost as if he’s waking up from a knockout. He’s been quiet for a bit, an awkward amount of time. He hopes Flash doesn’t mind. Timber doesn’t look back when he succumbs to the white noise.

There’s him fearing their reaction to who he’s become. Yet, again, he has every right to be scared. If they genuinely cared enough and they were okay with it, they would’ve made that clear to him. In a world so harsh like this, where nature’s easy way out from external harm is necrosis, that clarity from them is necessary for people like him. Sure, they might’ve not known better but that doesn’t mean he should feel guilty for wanting what he deserves.

Is it that he’s now pointing out everything they did wrong when raising them? That he’s seeing them in a bad light now that he’s all older and wiser? Well, Timber knows his parents had some sort of distaste towards their own parents too, although they either ignore it or haven’t realised that’s what they were feeling. It happens, it’s a part of growing up.

Timber swallows.

Does he… feel bad that he never got to tell them?

The queer tribulation glows like he’s in a video game, though not as enthusiastic of a glow, like he’s only found a clue and not the missing item. His throat contracts.

His parents were long gone before he even figured it out. Although anxiety has ridden his gut for years now, he’s always had a feeling it wouldn’t end well if he did tell them. The thought of that strangles him.

A chill surfaces from the bottom of his body.

Love is… a scary concept. It manifests into different forms, making itself at home until people realise it’s been living there for quite some time, growing only larger.

He still loves them. Love in a morbid sense, love because they’re the reason he’s even here on this planet, still alive. Love is the layers during a cold winter and hiding behind all the other emotions protecting it because it’s the entire reason he’s so trepid.

He can still do that, right? Love them aside from anything that could’ve happened?

And God, does it feel wrong because Timber’s aware he deserves better. He deserves an accepting and healthy family, no worries about money, friends, lovers, anything he wants.

What he wants is to know what the hell he’s feeling right now so it stops charring his heart.

A slow, muslin touch of a pull brings him back to the grass. As if the fabric is pressed right against the back of his throat, he gulps and flinches in the cold.

He wants them alive. He wants something from them he’s unsure they’ll want to give. He wants stability in his life that the death of his parents took away from him and the love he needed to grow into less of a guarded person he taught himself to be.

But he also wants the people he has right now. There’s the terror in knowing he may not have any of them in his life if his parents were still alive. (Gloriosa’s a soda and he has a feeling their parents would’ve shaken her so much to the point she might as well not be in his life anymore too.)

(And this manner he lives his life is the securest he’s ever been since that night. He knows being a guarded person makes everything much more difficult but, but—)

His breathing turns uneven.

His eyes dance around the shapes of the grass and the plants adorning the graves. A different shape captures him, just by the side of his Dad’s grave. Closed, sheltered from the drizzle that he senses pattering over his exposed skin.

Dimming down his certainty on what kind of flower it is just for the sake of humility, he tucks a finger under it, lifting the drooping bud, about the size of his fingertip fragment.

Bloom for my baba, won’t you?

Timber sits back on his heels, letting the flower go. Sighs with a quick close of his eyes.

“I don’t know how to feel about you guys,” he admits out loud. Pressure finds his nose and presses hard. His voice treads over the edge between a whisper and a mumble. “Because so much has changed. I… I don’t think I would have been able to do as much as I have if you were still around. I don’t like that.” The words break as he speaks them, low, subdued.

The breath he takes quivers too obviously for him.

“I do love a lot of the things I have in my life right now. It’s scary to think that there was a path that meant I wouldn’t have all of that. But in exchange, I’d have you.”

Timber’s met with stillness compared to the uproar he expects.

“Y… you probably know, now, anyway,” – his eyes ascend and roll down before they strain – “but I… I don’t think I am someone you’d be proud of. I’ve changed— or, um, I’ve… I guess I just grew. And I feel so guilty saying this but…” The word I stays stuck in his mouth until he pushes it out. “I-I’m sort of glad I grew up that way if it means I can be who I am.”

He sniffles and raises an arm to rub the feeling away from his nose.

“It’s so hard thinking like this. On the one hand, you’re gone and hadn’t been able to see me grow up like you always wanted to— I came from you guys after all. I needed your support that life stole from me. But, I don’t… I’m not sure I could handle the point I would’ve eventually reached where you would refuse to give me that support anymore.”

When I would find out your love for your own blood was conditional.

It’s so silent. Flash might not even be there behind him anymore.

“I know you’d— probably think, or wonder why I would even… why this would… why this is so hard for me to… to— decide on and that’s basically it. I’m scared that you never get it. I won’t ever know what you’d think of me or the people I hang out with or how Gloriosa, I don’t know, let this happen when really, she’s just like me but—” Timber sighs like the break of a tide. “I’m so scared of something I can’t even change and it hurts so much how I was never given a chance to find acceptance in you guys and—”

Timber finally allows the splotches to ruin his sight, allows his voice to collapse at last into quiet sobs his teeth attempt to shield one last time. He digs his nails into his palms as his eyebrows furrow. His brain’s already wired a repeating unit, stopstopstop, but the sharp inhale unleashes more tears than he can control.

Instinct drags his hand to his mouth. His fingers trap the tears, coating the skin moist. It’s uncomfortable and he begs to stop but it’s as if his heart’s spilling out years upon years of ache and strangled messes. He tucks his chin towards his chest. Raindrops drip down his skin, the only distinguishable trait being the temperature difference. His sinus throbs, brain stagnant, he’s cold and bare and pleading.

“It’s— it’s been so long, things should get easier, shouldn’t it?” Timber’s fingers make harsh movements across his skin he feels the swell radiating off him. “Everyone says it does. But no one talks about what you need to do for that timer to start.”

Shortness of breath throbs his head. Teardrops collect by the curve of his tear ducts as he traces over his words.

“I want… to believe that you’re proud of me. And Gloriosa. Even if it’s a lie, I want to believe it so I can let you guys go.” His voice shakes to incoherency.

If you are proud of me, I wish you could tell me somehow.

“And I hope I can someday sit here in front of you and talk as if you’re finally listening and as if I’m— not in so much pain now still.” He hangs his head. “‘Cause right now I can’t.”

Timber’s lower body at long last gives up, letting him fall and sit properly on the ground, turning his eyes away from the graves. His free hand attempts to keep him steady on the ground as he continues to fracture.

He’s torn between moving around to call for Flash or to hide himself away, and as the former’s blowing him towards the latter, he shifts his body side on so he can glance back at the boy.

Flash’s got his hand clamped over his mouth, eyes a little smaller and puffier than usual. Timber gulps and holds the gaze Flash meets him with a second later, hoping he doesn’t have to formulate a sentence.

Flash wipes his own face, his backhand rubbing over his eyes in a swoop. Nonverbally he asks if he should come closer. Timber’s breathing remains unsteady. But he relaxes his expression so it’s portraying the only thing he’s feeling at the moment and the one thing Flash won’t hesitate to protect him from – pain.

It doesn’t take much. A couple more broken drops slide down to the crevice of his nose, maybe? Flash levels with him in a rush and runs a hand through Timber’s thick hair, drawing him in for a hug. He tugs Flash in with a weak fist full of his clothing, burying his head in the crook of Flash’s neck. A hum of contentment loses to a muffed sob, yet the blooming of warmth between them comforts him like that night before.

Flash squeezes him, failing to stifle a shaky breath. His skin feels humid, lukewarm in the sense of tears and rain creating invisible marble veins. The patting of the clouds showering nature also dampens him; he can faintly hear you’re going to catch a cold in Gloriosa’s voice amongst the chides of rain.

He can’t move away or loosen the grip he has on Flash. No matter how impulsive this all seems, he hugs tighter than he thought possible, terrified the wind will take Flash away from him too. Please don’t.

His voice barely exists. “I’m— sorry you had to hear all that—”

“It’s okay,” Flash mumbles, “I don’t mind at all. You were thinking so much –I’m glad you were able to voice some of it out at least.”

“I just— I can’t—” he stops himself to gulp the saliva in his mouth, realising he has no words coherent enough to continue.

Flash nods against him. “Yeah, yeah, I know, jagi.” His voice is pillowy as it’s always been.

A hand comes to cradle his head, while the other rubs around his shoulder. Each intricate movement marks a place in his mind while he’s too out of it to properly feel them.

“Why do I— fuck,” he pauses, voice cracking, muffled in Flash’s clothing, “it hurts so much, Flash, why does it hurt so much. I— I just— fuck.”

“It’s okay to have conflicting feelings,” Flash says. “I would’ve been surprised if you hadn’t.” The wet, sob-thick, throaty sound present in some of his words nourishes him with a sort of comfort. Just as much as the vocal stability Flash openly tries to maintain. Flash doesn’t pretend that he wasn’t crying but he also doesn’t seem helpless. Unlike Timber was those years ago with Gloriosa.

“I shouldn’t— shouldn’t still love ‘n care but— but, I do, God, why do I— why do I want so much, why can’t I just be happy with what I have.” He sniffs, brain flaring.

He hears Flash swallow. “I don’t think you realise how— how cruel you are to yourself sometimes.” Flash threads a hand through his curls. The tugs where his curls catch onto his fingers distract Timber’s thrumming head. “You ask your questions like they’re statements – like there’s no room to argue.”

“Because I know that no matter what anyone says anyway, I’m unable to listen,” Timber says. “I-I know I shouldn’t want them because it doesn’t take a Twilight Sparkle to know that if they were still around they might’ve—” He can’t even say it. “But I still do. And I wish they would be different than what I’d expect but I’ll never know that and, and, I. Fuck.”

He wants to scream. To punch something.

Timber settles for clenching a fist of Flash’s jacket. He hopes he’s not hurting him in case he’s tugging too hard without realising. He’s still breathing heavily, lungs struggling to help him.

“It’s not wrong to want your parents’ acceptance, Timbie.” The nickname puts out whatever fire set his head off. “It’s completely rational. You care so deeply so, of course, you would care about your parents. No one’s allowed to tell you that you can’t, even if you know you deserve better.”

Timber wets his lips and realises he’s stopped sobbing, just shaking in Flash’s arms.

Perhaps it’s not safe for him to be enclosed like this where there’s limited air, but it’s the safe he’s ever felt in a place so callous. He doesn’t need another firelit lamp when he’s got a naturally warm figure that smells permanently like home with him.

“You deserve so much, y’know? I don’t think I need to list all the trauma you’ve been through to prove that.” Flash squishes even more into the hug and it helps at getting Timber to steady his breathing.

And just as a cold wave of embarrassment settles over him, Flash adds, “but you gotta let yourself accept that ‘deserving’ also includes feeling whatever you want. You don’t need to do or act upon anything, just let yourself breathe,” he says with such tenderness that erases any thoughts of shame. “Let yourself miss them, love them, hate them because it’s okay to feel all of those. You’re not hurting anyone by doing so.”

“Aren’t I hurting myself?” Timber asks.

Flash exhales like the thought of Timber being hurt physically pains him. “It’s less hurting yourself and more external causes affecting you and you feel hurt as a response. It’s not something you can or should control, really.”

Understanding trickles into his ears. With how slowly Flash puts the words together and the pause that comes after, it seems like he’s processing them too.

“I know it hurts and I know it’s tiring, and if it gets too much, I’m always here. You can hide your face and drench me in your tears however you want and if you want me to forget it ever happened, I will, but, God, please let yourself breathe, I can hear you suffocating.”

Timber’s tears now are silent and tired. His eyes are sore; they feel red.

Something compels him to move back from Flash’s chest and so he does. His sight doesn’t leave Flash’s t-shirt but his eyes close when Flash swipes a thumb under them. The action is just how he likes it, careful, solacing, doesn’t accidentally touch nerves that’ll ignite his anxiety.

He can’t help but smile gently. Flash plants a soft kiss on his forehead and that unleashes a couple more tears.

Flash tells him it’ll be all right. His throat constricts and prickles.

“You’ll be all right,” Flash says, “you’re gonna be okay.”

Coolness blankets Timber when they part properly. He can’t look at Flash but he knows Flash is giving him that fond smile.

And that’s all he needs, really.

♁

The twenty-first of May gifts the land with summer rain and a vibrant cemetery, just like it was when he was thirteen. The grass matches the green of his hair, apparently. Or so Flash remarked. That newer grave lives amongst others now and Timber can’t quite pinpoint at which angle he saw it last time. It doesn’t really matter, so as long as they’re not lonely anymore. Much and little has changed over the few months that act as a year, but Timber walks with a lighter heart if not much.

He’s a week shy of eighteen. Flash’s turning nineteen in September, a few weeks after they hit college.

Timber’s unsure about the progress he’s made since last time. But Flash, who was firm on staying in the car this time, comforted him with a gentle kiss on his lips and a hand caressing his cheek, telling him it’s okay if he behaves the same way he did before. Just so long as he doesn’t try to lie to Flash when he gets back in the car.

Flash gave him cute, tiny but encouraging thumbs up when Timber looked back at him.

The first thing Timber catches onto once he’s there is the cornflower blooming by the hand of his Dad’s grave. It’s gorgeous, a little lonely too but it sways happily with the wind.

Timber heaves a breath in, standing between the two graves. His chest tugs on weights. He takes his bottom lip under his teeth, still tingling a little from the kiss, and guilt pours itself all over him.

Yet the pot in his hands brings him back.

Timber kneels. He folds the dirt by his mother’s hand, mirroring the cornflower. A sunlit surface of a touch pats the new dirt around the new plant. The green carnation leans towards the cornflower welcomingly. Timber doesn’t know if he can still smile but the sight allows him to grow bittersweet hope.

He stands, glances at the sky and lets his eyes rest before his tears fall at gravity’s will.

Author's Note

ma ar baba – (bengali.) mom and dad
jagi – (korean.) honey, darling

A personal piece. This story is one of the many reasons why I have become so attached to Timber. He's just like me as much as Flash is, too.

The devil is kinda in the details with this one. While normally, I love saying things outright to annoy everyone that's told me to 'stop shoving it in their faces', I just think keeping it subtle suited Timber's feelings here. It gets more obvious near the end if you hadn't picked up on it but if you know your flower symbolism, you'll understand immediately.

No one really talks about the fact Timber probably lost his parents when he was so young (he's 16 in LoE and his parents are spoken about in past tense) so I decided to. This story hits close to home.