forget-me-not (fanfic)

inspired by

a non love song from nashville by dodie

(and a bit by ‘39 by queen)

hey guys! i’m /finally/ getting around to posting this— it’s been in my drafts for idk how long. i hope you enjoy :)

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for·get-me-not

/fərˈɡet mē ˌnät/

noun

—a low-growing plant of the borage family, which typically has blue flowers and is a popular ornamental ; mid 16th century: translating the Old French name ne m'oubliez mye ; said to have the virtue of ensuring that the wearer of the flower would never be forgotten by a lover.

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   As ironic as it was, Phil loathed the outside. The air always smelt of black smoke and sulfur. He could only imagine the scents of bright yellow petals and morning dew slipping down leaves, for when his bolted window was cracked the smell of a thousand wars leaked in like cyanide.

  Locked in his room with white wispy curtains drawn closed and a warm yellow lamp filling the bedroom, a boy laid on his bed. He rolled over like any other teenager in 24th century London would do and shoved his head into his pillow, neglecting the morning bustle. What set him apart, however, was his obsession with what history books would learn to call “The Old World”. He would know, too, as those history books filled his bookshelves from floor to ceiling.

   The local libraries were sworn to hate him now, as the (although sparse) shelves of the History section were surely dusty from it’s books being checked out. His room looked like a place out of a storybook. Paper crafted vines hung around his windowsills, ripped pages of beautifully painted illustrations were pinned to his walls. Faded photographs of which he treasured were hung from white wound string, but there was one thing in his room that he held more importance than all of it combined.

  Tucked in between “The Tales of the Green”, a book about which you can guess, a polaroid picture of a teenage boy with dark curls hanging down in his face sat, with brightened dark eyes similar to that of a child. Surrounding the boy were millions of flowers and blades of grass— much like a dream. Phil could never believe it was real at one time. How flourishing it was, how true.

  Looking at the picture calmed him, the real world around him seemed to fall away when his eyes reflected the polaroid. If he concentrated enough, Phil could pretend the machine made symphony of mangled noises was a thunderstorm instead of a new industry rising from the pits of what was once dirt. Ever since he had found the picture in an old pawn shop for mere cents, he had fallen in love with it— with the boy, no less. For a name long forgotten was frozen in time, sitting there with forget-me-nots behind his ear in a place time had rooted.

   So there he sat, fiddling the with the picture as he lay motionless in bed. With the picture he felt everything at once, like he was infinite. A part of him, much less physical, was somewhere floating in the waves of space and time and swimming to find somewhere the picture was real. He space shattered like glass around him when his Auntie flew his door open. A drawing of a buttercup delicately fell from the force.

  “Philip, it’s time for Monthly Check, get out of your room so the nice lads outside can sweep the house for anything stolen.” She chimed. Phil rolled his eyes as he slowly got up begrudgingly, stuffing the picture in his sweatpant pocket.

  “Is this really necessary? Really Auntie? Like we’d steal anything.” He grumbled as familiar men (with some newly recruited boys) filed into the house. She seemed to ignore his question, leaving the doorway and ushering them in like a housewife.

  Ever since Phil was a little boy he’d hated the monthly checks. With everything so bad in London, the thievery was one of the largest problems. People stealing food, water, emergency oxygen tanks, and even weapons. Apparently, as he was told, they were preparing for the worst. Phil never knew what the worst could’ve been, because as far as he knew he was already living it.

Two of the Sweepers were walking briskly towards Phil’s room. He avoided their eyes, yearning not to look guilty for something he didn’t even do. He’d always done that. One of them, seemingly a new one by the look of his jacket and the immatureness of his nature, ran right into Phil in the doorway. If he wasn’t so mad be could’ve possibly seen it as his fault for not looking where he was going, but that didn’t seem to be the case. The sacred polaroid fluttered from his pocket and not before shooting an annoyed glance right into the boy’s eyes, he messily picked it up.

  During the sweeps, you had to leave the house. Protocol. So, Phil helped his obviously well dressed self (Sweatpants and a black shirt with neon streaks) out the door. And it wasn’t before being well down Meyer’s Street that he realized he was still holding the polaroid. For some reason, he felt incredibly guilty.

  You aren’t meant to be here, Im so sorry, I don’t want you to see this. There’s no meadows or flowers, or anything for that matter. Close your eyes, please, close your eyes...

   He would never it that his heart felt disappointment when the picture stared back at him, still.

   After the started panic he had run over to a metal bench across the road. It was really uncomfortable, he had to it, but at least he could gather himself. The picture was clasped in between clenched fingers. When he finally let go and let the picture drift to his lap, his white knuckles stared back at him. Shakily, he overturned his hand to see dirt in the creases of his palm. It was funny, he thought, seeing the outline of his hand. In that moment he felt so /real/, and alive, seeing the molded fixtures of his skin. How his bones cracked and his heart still beat and his breath was still a whisper in the wind. How he would still be warm if a hand was to touch him. For the first time, Phil realized that even without nature crawling around him, the sense of being alive would never falter. No one could take that from him, not if they tried.

    It was then, and only then, in his fascination he had noticed a smudge of ink on the very corner of the back of it. He held it in the sad light that was fighting its way through the gray clouds to notice what he was sure to had once been a penstroke. Something was once written there. And to his fortune, the indention from it could be felt under his finger tips.

   Franticly (probably too frantic) he looked for something, anything, he could use to uncover the old writing. He decided on some soot under the bench in haste. Never slowing down, he scooped it with his finger and spread it delicately on the photos edge.

  So, it read.

𝓓𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓮𝓵 𝓗𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵, 2019, 𝓜𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻

    It had taken a minute to settle and resonate. 2019? 2019... Daniel Howell. He thought the name on his mind’s tongue.

Daniel Howell Daniel Howell Daniel Howell.

   A realization dawned upon him, one he didn’t know whether he wanted to pursue or not. Manchester was only a train ride away. And a grave— he didn’t really want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about /Daniel Howell/ as a gravestone in the what was once grass, the same boy who had flowers behind his ears so many years ago.

  He’d fallen in love with a picture, with a person long gone. He didn’t know how, the lonely days were lonely after all. This boy in his head he was— well, he was Phil’s. But he wasn’t. In reality Phil knew that. Maybe seeing this boy, if even by a tombstone, would be a fulfillment to Phil’s twisted world.

  So he got on the train. And he didn’t turn back.

  When he arrived at the gravesite, it was odd. Dried dirt turned into a dust-like ground filled the arena like area topped with eroded stones. The area reminded him of an excerpt from a book on The Old World he had read years ago.

A Nature Lost : Sidney Greene : 2190

”At the turn of the World, no one thought they would have a second look on the flora around them fleeting. But now that it has gone, all of it, really, the replacement of cold stone is just that - cold stone. For what would the people buried deep below think of the world they once picked flowers from laying just 6 feet above them? If you asked me, they would wish to remain in the dry dirt. At least then there’s a faint memory of what once was.”

   Phil walked through the rock pathways of the graveyard with no real purpose. He didn’t really know what to look for, he was just wandering, feet grinding letters into the ground. He hoped once he found Daniel’s grave his footsteps would be enough for more people to follow and this beautiful soul. But then, it hit him. Did people // him? Was he a relative to anyone? If so, do they care enough to visit? The thoughts were blurring his vision until a tall willowy gravestone stuck out at his feet.

Daniel James Howell

June 11, 1991 - March 13, 2072

  His question, he found, was soon answered. A tall thin looking boy sat cross legged in front of him. His amber hair fell in curls on his head and plastic flowers were sat to the side of him in a vase. Phil, really, just stared.

      “Hello...” The boy said, slowly turning around. On second thought, Phil realized that maybe another boy staring at him in a graveyard wasn’t the most normal thing.

       “Hi- uh-,” Phil started, walking closer to the boy and glancing at the gravestone. “Do you know him?” Was all he was able to say. Nonetheless, the boy didn’t look annoyed. He just simply smiled, his hazel eyes softening.

      “You could say that. He was- is- my great great uncle. I’ve heard a lot of stories about him, I couldn’t want anything more but to meet him. It’s weird, I guess.” There was a sigh as the boy tapped the sole of his shoe. He took a second for thought and looked back up. “Christopher, by the way. Howell,” he said, gesturing a handshake to Phil.

      Phil reached in his pocket and pulled out the photo, setting it in Christopher’s hand. “I’m Phil. I needed- wanted, actually, to get this back in someone’s hands who needed it.” Christopher looked up at the boy next to him and then down at the picture. His expressions glowed; he looked like a fire that hadn’t burnt out yet. Standing up and smiling, he said,

      “Want to see something?”

     Days later, something new and real sat in Phil’s room, tangling down from a rusted can. A note lay on the soil.

”Forget Me Not: Treat me well.”

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