he watched the gloom pop up out of the ground, smiling at them a bit. they were cute. perhaps he was not paying enough attention. he felt the root too late, eyes widening as he realized what was likely about happen—and it hit too soon to do anything but take it.

it wreaked. it was nauseating, and quickly fogged his mind.

“oh, shit. will—“ he breathed.

then, all went white. he had a ways to fall, and he hit the ground hard with a scattering of dirt, knocked out cold.

it seemed he was already falling for her again. whoopsie.

willow atkins

☉

she winces when he falls. the pokemon watching from the greenhouse walls, however, think it's hilarious. willow keeps her hand pressed to her kerchief as she wrangles and settles the crowing gloom. once she's got them situated, she calls out for thistle and gideon. 

with their help, and after the cloud dissipates, she pops the remaining gloom out of the ground with ease. after instructing thistle to bring them inside, the bulbasaur shuffles off, vines corralling the gloom in tow. 

the bulbasaur won't be able to replant them, but she'll keep an eye on them until willow returns. 

"give me a hand, gideon," she says. she looks up at the shop, at her cozy house above it, and decidedly turns away from it. if roman came home to this.

no, instead her heart gives a squeeze as gideon puppeteers the brute of a man with some vines. he manages to support some of bo's weight, but still willow walks with one of his arms slung over her shoulder, his deadweight at her side. 

she doesn't often think about her strength, but she's proud of herself for keeping steady and not buckling underneath him. 

several yards back from the greenhouse is a small shed. it's cobbled together (because she and her father are the ones who'd done it), but it's functional. she grunts as she uses her shoulder to pop the latch out front and then she kicks. a muddy footprint stains the door, but it's clearly not the first. 

inside smells of sage and a little bit of sawdust. she grimaces as she trails dirt over the soft rugs that cover the floor. a daybed sits nestled in the back; it only takes a few steps to cross the distance to it. 

gideon helps her get bo in the bed. sunlight streams in through stained glass windows, coloring his face with soft greens and yellows. when he's all set, she takes her own boots off and lights a few incense sticks. the smoke will clear his lungs, but it will take time. 

in the meantime, she looks at her belongings. almost through his lens. there are her meditative pillows, well worn and nestled on top of the rugs that cover her floor. a guitar stand with an acoustic is caddy-cornered by the entrance. 

with no electricity, wrought iron sconces hang from the walls, their candles half burned. she looks at him, and then away as tears finally well in her eyes. look at all i've done without you, idiot.

she wipes them away and swallows when he begins to stir. 

boruta maher

☉

even when hoisted up by the vines, his head nodded off to the side. he was out, feet dragging. if he could’ve seen himself, he would’ve been utterly mortified. this was not how this was supposed to go. here he was, giving her even more trouble.

there were no dreams, just the heavenly white of fading unconsciousness as he began to finally come back out of it again. having been knocked out more than once in his life, it didn’t take him too long to realize his condition.

“guess i didn’t do very well, huh?” he grumbled, squinting a bit as he grappled with his own still spinning head.

he tried to push himself up—too soon, maybe—and he grunted lightly a couple of times at the exceptional difficulty of it. he quickly decided this wasn’t quite the same as catching a good hit to the chin. this felt more like he’d crossed the road into the front end of a bus.

while his vision was still clearing, he peered around the room. briefly, his gaze settled on the guitar.

“will you play me twinkle twinkle little star?”

he grinned, despite his pain, although most of his face was still a little twisted with it.

willow atkins

☉

he's groggy as he comes to. she'd seen him like this before - half awake, opening his eyes to the dawn. except then she wasn't over a foot away from him, arms wrapped around herself to preserve more distance between them. she finds herself relaxing, though, as he jests. 

"no," she says, not working at all to hide her amusement, "you didn't. granted, i didn't start you with the easiest task in the world. i'll keep you away from the poison types if you come back." if, she says. she glances away. 

her gaze settles on the guitar and she rolls her eyes. bo had witnessed her first guitar - the one she'd scrounged up and saved for months as a birthday gift to herself, only to have her father gift her a lovely spruce one of brilliant make. 

she'd dropped it when roman came along. when bo left. and then somewhere along the way, she picked it back up. she stands, touches the neck of it, and frowns. 

"i haven't played in a couple months, since..." she bites her lip. "my father passed." 

she gestures to the shack. "we built this together, you know. you know how he was. always wanted something to do with his hands." her lips twinge. "he's probably rolling in his grave right now, with you lounging on the daybed." 

boruta maher

☉

if, she said. bo would come back five days a week or more if she asked, without absence, even if it meant getting knocked unconscious by gloom every time. there was no going back. he’d left everything—rocket, and the family he’d known for his whole life, respectively. he was alone, living on a prayer that his late efforts wouldn’t be in vain. and if they were? so be it.

“ah, it’ll be fine.” guess i deserve it. “i’ll probably learn quicker this way.”

he caught the light in her face and grinned, feeling more grounded by a sudden boost of confidence despite the news that he’d done poorly. maybe it hadn’t been the worst thing in the world. good medicine tastes bitter, or something like that.

bo didn’t know much about music, only that he enjoyed it, and he especially had enjoyed hearing and watching her pick through her first songs—even if it had meant hearing a gratingly mangled happy birthday, over, and over, and over…

she’d gotten better, of course. he could only imagine she’d improved since then.

he was caught off guard by the news about her father, heart sinking. he hated to contribute to the pain. to have surely been a cause of so much already. thought of how it might’ve compounded. he also knew this kind of grief too well. his face fell.

her father was a good man, and owed him a punch, at least. this was a shame.

“yeah, you’re probably right. couldn’t blame him, though.” he pressed his lips. what could he say? “fuck will… i’m sorry.” i love you.

willow atkins

☉

she watches him now, curiously, wondering if he'd known, if perhaps that's what had prompted him to make his move. his father had liked bo, up until realizing what he'd 'done to his daughter' (not that it takes two to tango or anything). they used to joke, as she grew older and roman did too, that bo had been lucky about their transfer, that he'd have strangled the boy with his bare hands if they hadn't moved. 

but from his expression, it's clear to her that he didn't know. she almost feels sorry for that too. the incense continues to burn, curling smoke, and she sighs, waves him off. 

"it's okay. i mean, we're getting better. one day at a time, yeah?" she twists her hands together and then crosses the bit of distance between them, taps him lightly on his side to get him to shuffle over and give her some room. 

she sits, a little straighter than normal, a little on edge. their shoulders touch - her thighs run flush along his (she hadn't had much meat on her bones before roman). she takes his hand and gives it a squeeze and thinks will he really stay?

"bo, i don't know if this needs to be said, but," she starts, hesitating, "nothing can happen between us. i can't...it's....it's already such a mess right now. you can understand that, right?" she flushes. "not that that's why i think you came back. i know it's not. i just - i have to do what's best for roman. before anything else, we have to do what's best for him."

boruta maher

☉

the pungent—but not unpleasant—smell of incense kicked his dazed mind more awake by the second. he took in more of the room; of how vaguely romantic it was, even.

one day at a time. he nodded, agreeing, “yeah.” it was how he got through things, too.

his heart seemed to flutter more the closer that she neared, and he hadn’t expected her to come and sit next to him, especially not quite so closely. there was a sense of relief. he wanted to put his arms around her, and apologize for so much, but he refrained.

then, he felt her hand in his. his gaze fell to it, brows rising in surprise. although it made his heart warm, and filled him with an even greater sense hope, he tried to be mindful of the vulnerability in grieving. he had a respect for the process—but damn, if it wasn’t tempting to get ahead of himself. to think there could be more…

her words were nothing short of deflating, but his smile never left. there was too much good in being allowed back in at all to be disappointed.

“that’s all i want, will; what’s best for him—and for you. i’m not here to try anything, i swear.” not that he wouldn’t, in time, if he saw an in that didn’t make him feel so… wrong. he squeezed her hand, focusing on family. on reassurance and security.

there was one thing, though. he was pretty sure she was still single. he felt like a jackass for feeling grateful for the fact, but some things couldn’t be helped.

“i wanna do the right thing, now. if that means keeping my distance when you tell me to, i’ll do it. but i’m not gonna disappear on you anymore.”

willow atkins

☉

i'm not gonna disappear on you anymore. 

she wants to believe him. she wants so desperately to believe him. but trust is something that doesn't happen in an instant, so she accepts his words quietly, and lets silence lapse between them. and when the tension becomes too great, she rises. 

"you'll feel weak for the next hour or so. rest up and then be on your way. i'll see you tomorrow." she pauses by the door and she thinks of all the things she could say, but she doesn't say any of them. because those are the words meant for a last goodbye, for a plea to stay. 

and outside, where she can breathe, where gideon is waiting for her, she relaxes. all that she has built is around her and it fills her with a warmth she hasn't felt in some time. 

her muscles ache by the time she's finished planting the gloom inside. sweat licks her arms, her brow, and she smells ripe after the long day. 

and then adelaide is home. they exchange their warm pleasantries as they chop vegetables and prepare a casserole for dinner. she helps her mother eat while roman scarfs down his food. she watches him, and she sees bo in him, and she wants so badly to tell him that his father is home. that his father wants to see him. 

but she tucks him into bed with a kiss and retreats to her room and cries for the heartache that will inevitably be there in the morning. 

elisabet preps the flower stall and willow is tired. an abundance of floral wreaths get situated out front; she'd been busy far earlier this morning. she's setting the change jar out when the door opens. and she can't really believe her eyes, but he's there. 

he comes, each day he said he would, and each day she teaches him about the flowers, about the greenhouse, and about the plants. she keeps him away from the poison-types, as promised, and shows him how to fertilize, how to clip old growth to make way for new. 

and finally, one day, she says, "you really do want this, don't you?"

boruta maher

☉

she got up, and seemed to take the air with her. he felt the poison again. felt his face fall a little. actually, he felt the same as she did, in a small way—like he might never see her again; like she might change her mind. he figured it was likely.

gold eyes watched her back as she left. familiar blonde hair. the woman that she had become, that had raised his son—if he even had the right to call him that at this point. she was as beautiful as ever, and kinder than she maybe ought to be.

“i promise i’ll be here.”

his heart sunk when the door closed, but he was happy.

after, he was there every day that she requested. work had not been willingly flexible, but he didn’t burden her with the details. he smiled. he did everything he could.

he did really want this. he wanted nothing more in the world. everything had gone so dark, and then he’d realized much of it was because he’d left his light far behind him.

her words took him off guard. he looked over, wiping sweat off his brow and leaning the lightest bit on the handle of a shovel. his teeth flashed in a smile at the smallest nudge of progress, and he nodded.

“yeah. i really do.”

willow atkins

☉

lately, she's been thinking of the twining she'd done for him. in the early hours of the morning, when she's plucking from herbs and stems, writing messages with petals, she thinks of him, and sometimes she winds together coriander and white clover. stems wrapped together in a lover's embrace, pinned and hanging over her kitchen sink.

roman has showed little interest in her teachings over the years, but still she's left him basil and aster, edelweiss and sometimes, when he's particularly annoying, some geranium. packed in his lunches or left among his things, she speaks to him when he does not listen, or when she can't find the words herself. 

she has one of bo's wrappings tucked behind her ear today. but it's nearing the end of their time. she's finished with most of the greenhouse work early, thanks to his help. it's an odd feeling, and she almost doesn't know what to do with herself. 

the greenhouse is warm and cozy. most of the pokemon are dozing off. thistle is keeping some of the isolated clients some company. 

"i can't believe i'm saying this, but we finished for today," she says with a laugh.

boruta maher

☉

she’d picked up new and different hobbies since they’d been kids, not all of which bo was yet aware of. because of this, while the little things wrapped behind her ear seemed very willow, they didn’t register as otherwise significant in meaning.

despite his rough start, he was getting things down to a science. sure, there were always new things to learn here and there, but the basics had become much easier. sometimes, he would work slower just so that he could spend more time in the same space as her.

today, they were done remarkably early, regardless of any stalling he’d attempted.

no matter. he’d reran this scenario in his head a few times.

“guess we make a good team.” and imagined scenarios be damned, he’d still said something weird right off the bat. his hand came up to his hair and his face pinched lightly in regret, but he pressed on. “uhh... want to get some lunch?”

willow atkins

☉

she pulls off her gloves and sets them on her workbench. some of the soil bags could still get put away. she could organize the tool rack again. the fertilizer ought to be catalogued for the next couple of months. but these are things for next week, things that are written in a schedule she's never been able to keep up with. 

to have this empty space is...odd. so she resists the urge to fill it with more work. and it's not because of the company she'll keep otherwise (she tells herself). 

she makes a face at the comment and then rolls her eyes. "gotta admit - hasn't been half bad having you here to help." she puts her hands on her hips and arches her back, stretching out her back. joints pop and she rolls her neck, thinks maybe i'll finally get to use some of the lavender i dried for those bath salts...

she looks away from the flower beds she'd been staring at while thinking and back to bo. she straightens, a bit embarrassed when she realizes what she'd absentmindedly been doing. 

"lunch sounds..." her stomach rumbles. "good." she checks her phone. plenty of time before roman gets home. 

boruta maher

☉

the eyeroll sent mixed feelings dancing through him. regret. amusement. adoration. his own gaze followed the slopes of her structure as she stretched out. gold hovered, until he caught himself staring and averted.

what was there in fallarbor, anyways? in his mind, he’d imagined taking her to a café they’d visited as kids. for some reason, he couldn’t seem to remember the name of it. he didn’t go down that road anymore.

not yet.

his stomach growled as well. typically, bo ate much more than he did when he worked with willow. he was known to consume at bare minimum two sandwiches during a regular mission. by the end of these afternoons, he’d been famished like clockwork.

”great.” he grinned. then, a pause, as he wrinkled his nose a little, teasing, “what’s even in fallarbor? should we go to rustboro?” to the café, whatever the hell it was called?

willow atkins

☉