Will there be flowers?

“Will there be flowers?”
Promptly, the words tumble over Edgar’s lips. Like he needs to expel them right
this second or risk choking. Really, retching them up would have been a better form
of modesty.

“Flowers?” Valens repeats. A moment before, the two of them had been sitting
silently in the field. The tall, luscious blades of grass tickled their skin. Poking up out
of the greens, the white heads of dandelions faintly swayed with the wind. Some of
the seeds are ready for their journey and gently float by as they get carried along with
the soft breeze.

“Yeah, will there be flowers—you know, on my grave?” Edgar tries to feign the
indifference that laces his words, but the attempt at nonchalance is a facade. One that
Valens sees through immediately.

The evening sun had been warming their skin. Its golden flare stirred the sky
together into a pallet of soft orange and pink hues. Yet, a flash of goosebumps
quickly rose on Valens’ arms. The effect Edgar’s simple question had on him similar
to being thrown into the frigid stream that ran through the bottom of the field. The
same one Mila was playing in at this very moment. The noise of the water splashing
when she stomps her paws into the river along with her joyful barking carried easily
through the arcadian sky.

 
“After my funeral,” Edgar continues when Valens doesn’t respond—or can’t, more
like.

Edgar’s voice is still concealed with that same flimsy attempt at torpor, yet his
hands betray the anxiety that eats at him. A tremor, so slight, fluttered through his
fingers while the man reached for one of the long blades of grass. Fidgeting with it.
Embedding his nails within the deep green, sap-filled, grass. He refuses to meet
Valens’ eyes while he continues to talk.

“When the earth has settled, you know, when it’s been longer—longer than,”
Edgar swallows thickly. Like he wants to force the words back into his throat before
they even get a chance to touch his lips. “—just, after.” He cuts through his own
hesitation.

Valens dares to let his eyes flit up. Allows himself to look at the way the skin
between Edgar’s eyebrows folds against itself as he frowns. He glances towards the
corners of his mouth, where not even a hint of a scowl tugs at his lips. No trembling
nor pulling down of any kind, all emotions neatly hidden past lock and key. Then
back up to his eyes. The blue, typically so gentle and soft in tint, now stormy as they
focused on the annihilation of the blade of grass by Edgar’s cleaving.
“Will the flowers start to grow?” Edgar asks. His voice wavers.
He wavers.

The careful front he’d put up started to crumble, and without the gain of an
immediate response, Edgar’s fingers continued to pluck at the grass vigorously and
without mercy. It is frustration that is born from a place that Valens knows to be fear.
Valens reaches forward and plucks one of the dandelions between them. He cradles
the delicate blossom. Gently, his finger lifts one of the seeds that make up its white,
floret dome. The urge to reassure Edgar has his mind reeling with responses. So many
of them, he fears his tongue would twist up into a knot if he dared to utter them at
all.

Valens inhales deeply, hoping to settle the anxiety that flays the nerves under his
skin. The air hot and uncomfortable in his trachea. The warmth that accompanies
this month of June suffocates the atmosphere like cobwebs of dusty lace stuffed up
his lungs.

“Tell me that they’ll grow, Valens,” Edgar begs, his voice thick. Prays to him like
Valens is a deity able to grant him the mercy and solace he longs for. The corners of
those blue eyes start to shine with tears. They zero in on him, their stare unrelenting.
They await an answer—pleading for something Valens doesn’t have.

Around them, a single gust of wind blows past, cooling their heated skin that
simmers with preliminary grief. Dandelion seeds flurry between them.
Valens’ throat tightens. Constricted by something that makes it harder to breathe;
emotions, or perhaps the dandelions had taken root inside of him.
So many things he wants to say. Words of comfort. Words of reassurance. To ease.
To placate, and to pacify.

“Tell me something beautiful will come from my death,” Edgar pleads.
They die on his tongue, instead.