oh, if only tilden could give her everything she hoped and dreamed. if he could make those ‘if onlys’ happen and grant her wishes true - but he was a simple man with rough hands and nothing close to a god. he wanted to worship her as if she was one, to show her the sun and tell her that things are still beautiful. to uncover the plants that are just sprouting and show her life lives on and she is tough and beautiful and she can too.
when he heard her voice crack, he began to sit up. he watched her now, closely and listening. it broke his heart to see her anything but happy, and most of the time she wasn’t happy. he couldn’t fix this - fix her, as he had thought but he developed patience and understanding (mostly. on bad days these were forgotten concepts.) he let himself move over to her, his hand going to rub her back and reminding her how to breathe. “daisy, breathe in and count to three and then breathe out and count to three.”
the whole world was cold, but sometimes it wasn’t and tilden had to believe that. how could it be so cold when the sun stood in front of him (even when she believed to have no sunshine left) with tears glittering her eyes and he felt the warmth clear as day. he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, whispering to her how good and tough she was and the world wouldn’t always be this way. “i got you,” he’d tell her, here in the fountain before stepping out and gently hauling her from the waters as well. “i got you, dais.” his voice soft as he crossed the line and held her form in his arms in the dirt with all the trees and flowers privy to their private intimacy.
“in winter, you can’t farm anything. plants don’t really grow during that season and so typically i had called it the season of death. things could only wither and die, and it was sad.” tilden began as his hand slowly made way to run his hands through her hair. their confusing relationship was all so easy and yet frustratingly hard at the same. he didn’t help it, and that selfish part of him didn’t care either. “but spring always comes back around. ice and snow melts, and so do people’s frozen hearts. everything regrows, changes and maybe even fit to fight another winter if only to see the spring again.”
tilden looked towards the ever greying sky and told her, “what good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” the only john steinbeck book he had ever read that kept his attention, didn’t know he’d ever find it come in handy one day. “things change, regrow, and fight. daisy, you are tough - believe me, i’ve seen it.” he looks at her now, holding her face in his hands and staring at her with nothing but compassion and a brave face. “you’ve always had enough sunshine in you, you’re just in the shade so you never see it yourself, love.”
Plants were so difficult to grow. Daisy had tried so many times, and so many times she had failed. She loved them, but they didn’t love her back, not enough to stay. It wasn’t the same with Tilden, though. He could grow anything as if he was breathing life into it with just his smile, as if that was the real magic. He made it look easy, so easy, he made everything look easy, and Daisy longed to follow him into it. He believed in things as naturally as breathing, while she struggled for every lungful.
Her lungs were tight and burning now, but they eased as she let Tilden’s instructions filter in, let the warmth of his hand filter in, too. He always knew how to talk to her, just like he always knew how to talk to his plants. She wanted to be a flower, for him. Maybe someday she would be.
He pulled her out of the water and into the safety of his arms, and Daisy curled up there like she had done a hundred times before, resting her cheek against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was cool and wet, grounding. Flowers needed water, too, not just sunshine, she remembered.
She closed her eyes as he started telling her a story, each word stitching back together the pieces of her heart. He was good at stories. She was good at silly ones, at play-pretend, but he could do all kinds. He could speak the things she was too scared to even think about, the thoughts she hid away in the little (big) boxes in the back of her mind.
She was quiet for a long time after he finished speaking, letting his words settle into her bones. “Winter,” she whispered. “It’s not all bad, winter. There’s snow. And hot chocolate. And warm scarves.” She sat up enough to be able to look into his eyes, one hand resting on his chest. “And this winter’s not all bad, either. There’s fountains. And big trees.” Her smile was watery, eyes soft and shining. “And you.” Her fingers flexed on his chest, and then straightened again. “You’re too good to me. If I have any sunshine at all, it’s because I’m reflecting yours.” Love. She wanted to add the endearment he had used, but she couldn’t toss it out as casually as he had, so it hovered uselessly on the tip of her tongue. She leaned down and kissed his cheek instead. She had always better with actions than words, anyway.