A/N: Hello! This oneshot is different, and taken from A Series of Ecstasy and Angst. This will be an extended ending I imagined for Flowers from 1970, a story by astr0nomika Credit goes to them in this work. Please check them out if you can! It's an amazing fanfic, but I'll warn you: It's heartbreaking in the best way possible! Do check out their other works too!

They say time flies, and perhaps it does, considering the fact it's now been 50 years since George last heard from the past, from a certain dirty blond with emerald-green eyes, since he'd last fallen in love with someone from 1970. He should be happy, he supposed, walking outside. The sight of familiar rustic red-brick houses worn down over time, houses he knew by heart. This neighbourhood hadn't changed in years, after all. He'd grown up, been successful, had a kid- who was all grown up now, named after the voice that'd lulled him to sleep so many years before. He looked like him, too. Somehow Dream Junior resembled both of them, in different ways. But he seemed so much like him, even though he'd never met him, even if he wasn't technically him. There was something wrong, George guessed, loving someone else who'd grown up, gotten married and had children, even a grandchild, by the time you met. But love wanted what it wanted, and it knew no bounds, not even time.

That was the curse and gift of love.

Silently, George plodded up the familiar pavement, weathered by decades and decades' worth of dirt, of steps. The garden was overgrown by now, still filled with canduelas, a bright splash of flame against the melancholy backdrop of the house. The brilliance of their petals contrasting with the soft, empty abyss of his heart, mourning for someone he'd never get to have. Not in this lifetime, anyway. His eyes swept over the familiar house once, more, and a wave of regret and wistfulness washed against him, a small, bitter smile making its way onto his face. After all, how did you explain your feelings? Who could accurately describe the whirling hurricane of feelings, of love, lust and passion that tumbled through the days of youth, explain the pain he felt when the line was cut off? When all he could think of, ever love was a boy from 100 years ago, who'd held his heart and meant the world to him, before cutting himself out of life?

Interestingly, he found something sticking out of the mailbox, one that hadn't been used in years. By now, the mailbox had turned rusty, it's coat of red paint gone, replaced by a thick layer of rust. Warily, George reached out, grabbing and unfolding the paper.

The piece of parchment was delicate in his crooked and weathered hands, crinkled and folded like they'd been crushed and straightened over and over again. Dark spots littered the paper, its edges frayed and curling. Making sure it was addressed to him, George started reading. The untidy, messy handwriting caught his eyes, and his breath hitched upon seeing it. The almost unintelligible scrawl brought back so many memories, bringing forth the hurricane of emotions he'd suppressed for so long. Reminding him of words, of a letter he'd engraved in his heart a long time ago. The words tumbled their way across the page:

Dear George,

It's Dream, or Clay here. By the time you're reading this, it'd been a 100 years since the day a wrong number brought me to you, and fifty years since I cut the line, since I left you.

How have you been, George? Have you moved on, yet? I'd like to imagine you have by now. If you're reading this, you'll be 74 , won't you? How time flies. Do you still remember? I still remember the timbre of your voice, the way you'd pause in the middle of chewing in the middle of our calls. Do you? You don't have any idea how much I miss you, George. It was torture, the fifty years I waited to meet you. But it was worth every second, I promise you. I finally got to see you- you, instead of the sketch I made the last time- I wish I'd had more time to take in more of you. Maybe I should refrain from saying this now, but this is my last letter to you, after all. I'll tell you the truth this time. I wonder what it'd be like if you got to see me, too. Not me as I am now, but when we first heard- maybe you'd even find me handsome. Gods, the maybes when it came to us.

If this is my last letter to you, I'm going to be as honest as I can be. I'm sorry, George. For the abrupt way we ended. Forgive my shaky handwriting, it's hard writing with weakness in my joints (Oh, the perks of being old!) But there wasn't another path, another route I could have thought of for both of us, or any path that we could have taken. I thought of it, George. I truly did. I wished there was a way for me to go forward in time, to meet you and be with you- But that wasn't possible, and there wasn't any way we'd have been able to work out, not in any concrete sense. No good would have come out of you clinging on to our love, to an old man in your time, whom you'd have lost the moment you met him. I didn't want that for you, George, for us. There was no hope in us, not in the damning prison of time. We were doomed from the start, and you know this as much as I do, even if we hoped otherwise. Did you? I know I did.

But gods, did I love you, George. More than you'll ever know. Your voice lit my days up, you know? You didn't know half of what was going on back then, with my family. You were like the beacon in my life.. You don't know how messy my days were before you, George. Your voice was my saving grace, it gave me more courage and warmth than anything else had ever before. And before you ask- Yes, I loved Ophelia too. Of course I did. But I couldn't love her, didn't love her the way I did you. Her love gave me peace, your love gave me strength, power I never knew I could have. It feels selfish now, telling you all of this. But I needed to put it to paper, to tell you, even if it's the last thing I do. I suppose you'll never get to know how much I loved you, how much I yearned for you cand craved you then- I wonder if you'll, now. Half of me wishes you do, the other half hopes not. Maybe it's for the best you didn't know- you wouldn't have to have to hurt that much when I left.

But anyways, I love you, George. I know I said I loved earlier, but I still do. Of course I do. I'm irrevocably in love with you, even now. I'm sorry for leaving you-it's something I regret, even until now, but it was necessary.

Are the flowers I gave you still alive, George? After all this, I realise I haven't asked you if you still remember me. Gods, the thought of you forgetting me pains me. But whether or not you remember me, George, just know I loved you, too deeply, too strongly, the way a storm would. But your storm- our storm, gave me peace. I don't regret ever loving you. Remember flowers from 1970? If they're still there, it means my love for you still holds true, and I love you, George, even if my heart no longer beats when you're reading this, it still beats, somewhere in the universe for you.

Love,
Clay (Your old man) 🏵️

Tears began streaming past George's blurry blue eyes, and his heart ached stronger than before. He wanted nothing more than to run back in time to embrace the boy he'd fallen in love with, 50 years ago from fifty years before, to kiss and hug him, to tell him the words clotted in his throat, that he couldn't voice. But time had been cruel to them. Crumpling the paper, he stepped into the crumbling house, taking in the faded and tattered wallpaper, full of flowers. His eyes traced over every inch, every crevice of the house, the house they'd shared, before settling on the two handprints on the wall, which were nothing more than faint lines by now. The faint sketch of him was still there, but he couldn't make it out clearly anymore. Speechlessly, he moved silently up the stairs, walking towards something he hadn't touched in years. The sticky plastic warmed in his hands, and he dialled a number he hadn't called in a long time, fingering the crudely cut cord.

No response.

Gently cradling the telephone in his hands, George stumbled home, his heart full of things, of words he'd never get to say, that he'd carry with him to the grave. Eventually, exhaustion overpowered him, and he crumpled into bed, though not before scribbling something down, the paper crunching in his hands.

Silently, wrapped with thoughts of a love a lifetime or two ago, the boy from 2020 transcended, now an old man. Leaving nothing but a cold body behind.

The torn, tattered note fluttered to the floor, displaying his final reply:

I still remember. I love you too, Clay. You will know soon.

Love,
George.