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As much as it beat the flowers, the rain helped them grow, and under the guise of dark skies and ominous rumbling, the plants were set to be renewed.
Alan loved the rain, and even more so the time after, when the clouds would part and the light would make the moisture on petals shimmer.
He believed the storm beautiful.

But as he lay in the worn bed of the cheap hotel, fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of Eric’s chest, and heard the distant roll of sound, he could only feel melancholy.
There could be no parting clouds for their tale. There would be no shimmer, no gleam of light. Only the Thorns, which thrived in the darkness, and choked anything in their path. He could not be Eric’s light, when the dark had so sewn itself into his being.