Fugue #2
He dropped his head onto my chest and rolled onto his back until he was stretched out in my lap. Reaching up, he wiped a stray tear from his cheek.
“Who knew a tortured artist like you could be funny, Bodhi?”
I scoffed. “I’m hilarious.”
“You’re grumpy,” he countered, picking at the small white daisies scattered through the grass.
“I am not.”
“I bet at Christmas you’re all ‘bah, humbug,’ and plotting to steal people’s presents.”
I tugged gently at a strand of his pink hair. “I love Christmas. My favourite festive movie is Die Hard.”
“That’s not a Christmas film.”
“Yes it is.”
“No. It’s an action movie that happens to take place at Christmas.”
I held up my fist, ticking off points with my fingers. “Christmas music. Office Christmas party. John McClane writes ‘ho-ho-ho’ on a dead terrorist. And it’s about a man trying to reunite with his family.” I shook my head. “That’s basically every Christmas movie ever.”
He smirked up at me. “You’re very passionate about this.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, solemn. “It’s a hill I’m willing to die on.”
That was when I noticed the string of flowers looped around his fingers. “What’s that?”
He followed my gaze, his face lighting up. He lifted the knotted chain and placed it on his head like a crown.
“It’s a daisy chain.”
I raised a brow. “A what?”
He gasped, genuinely horrified. “You’ve never made a daisy chain?”
“I grew up in Brooklyn,” I said. “There wasn’t exactly an abundance of flora.”
Iggy sat up fast and turned to face me, suddenly deadly serious. “Bodhi,” he said, voice low. “I’m going to teach you how to make a daisy chain.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” he cut in. “I do. It’s a rite of passage. You can’t go through life never having made one. It’s sacrilege.”
I sighed dramatically. “Fine.”
But something fluttered in my stomach as he reached for my hand. For the first time in a while, I felt excited. Not anxious. Not afraid. Just happy to learn something new. Something small and innocent and bright.
Iggy gathered all the daisies he could reach and set them in a small pile on the grass. Then he picked one up by the stem and held it out between his thumb and forefinger like he was presenting it on the shopping channel.
“This is a daisy,” he explained, like I might never have seen one before. He giggled when I rolled my eyes.
“You use your nail to make a small hole in the stem.”
He demonstrated, digging his thumbnail into the green until it split, and pulled it apart so I could see it clearly.
I picked one up and copied him. Iggy watched me with intense focus, like I was Van Gogh halfway through The Starry Night.
When I managed a decent hole, he nodded approvingly and picked up a second flower.
“Then you thread this stem through the hole,” he said, doing exactly that. “And you make another hole in the next daisy.”
He repeated the steps over and over until a short chain dangled from his fingers. Then he held it up with an encouraging smile.
“Your turn.”
So that’s how I found myself, at thirty-one years old, making my first-ever daisy chain in a field of wildflowers, under Iggy’s careful supervision.
When mine reached a respectable length, he showed me how to knot the ends together into a circle.
He took the delicate chain from my hands and gestured for me to lower my head like this was my coronation.
When I did, he gently placed it on my head.
“Perfect!” he squealed, clapping his hands.
I couldn’t see what it looked like, and I was fairly certain I looked ridiculous. But Iggy was beaming, and that was enough. I fluttered my lashes and gave a ridiculous little wave, playing along with the role of newly crowned king.
Eventually his laughter faded, and for a moment we just sat there, quiet, looking at each other.
Then he said, “I’m worried people will find me boring now I’m sober.”
I reached over and tucked a strand of pink hair behind his ear. “I don’t think anyone could find you boring, Iggy.”
“What if I’m not fun anymore?”
He picked up another daisy and began plucking off the petals, one by one. When only the yellow centre remained, he tossed it aside and grabbed another.
“You’re funny,” I said. “Even in group, when things are supposed to be serious. And you always wave your hands when you talk, like your thoughts won’t come out without help.”
He glanced up at me through his lashes.
“And you notice things other people miss,” I added, resting my hand on his thigh, just above the knee. “Like when someone needs a friend, even if they don’t realise it yet.”
He looked at me properly then, and my heart kicked when his face broke into a grin. Because I’d done that. I’d cheered him up. Again.
“I can’t wait to dye my hair properly,” he blurted out, gesturing to his fading pink and visible roots.
“I can’t wait to play League of Legends,” I replied.
“I can’t wait to catch up on all the Netflix shows I’ve missed.”
“I can’t wait to wake up in my own bed without feeling anxious about what I did the night before.”
“Speaking of beds,” Iggy said. “I can’t wait to sleep in sheets that aren’t boring, institutional beige.”
I chuckled and squeezed his leg. “I think you’re going to live a long, happy life, Iggy Pop.”
He placed his hand over mine. “I think we both will, Bodhi.”
A flash of yellow caught my eye. I reached over and plucked a lone flower from the grass, tucking it gently behind his ear.
He laughed when his fingers brushed the petals. “You’re ridiculous,” he complained. “And it clashes with my aesthetic.”
But he didn’t take it out.
“You looked like you could use something soft,” I replied with a shrug.
The wind picked up, and I stood, offering him my hand.
He took it, and we started back towards where we were meant to be.
Before we reached the wall, Iggy slipped an arm around my back, pulling me into a slightly awkward side hug.
I returned it, feeling his warmth bleed into my side, his head resting briefly against my shoulder.
We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. At the opening in the wall, we just let go of one another and stepped back through the gap, trading wildflowers for rehab.
And this time, it felt like something we were choosing.