Hanahaki disease

He lies there panting. He clutches the fabric of the bed with his hands so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He clutches his mouth with his other hand, trying to quiet his cough. He lies in the petals of brightly colored daffodils drenched in his own scarlet blood. Just a few minutes ago, they were so beautiful, snow-white and bright. He feels the nasty flower sprouts squeezing his chest. Wrapping themselves around his ribs, piercing his lungs. It's getting harder to breathe. Why is he so unlucky? The image of a loved one whose love he didn't receive in return comes to mind. Such a bright smile, lovely eyes, gentle hands. Immediately he coughs, spitting out a couple of petals into his palm. Soon, it seems, these flowers will pierce through him, burrowing through his skin and tissue, sprouting further, climbing out through his own throat and mouth. What a horrible picture, though. He seems that he can't speak or make any sound at all. He opens his mouth, gulps air, but those disguisting petals are eager to see the world. He'd rather do it himself than lie here panting. The moonlight gently enveloped him, wrapping him in a phantom, cold blanket. He wondered if his lover's hands were the same. Cold, detached. Why on earth did he think they were like honey? He blinks, feeling the blood slowly trickle from his mouth. He is so tired. With all his might, he turns onto his other side, not taking in the warmth of the night. The only one available to him. In the darkness of the room, he sees to the point of pain, a literal ache in his chest, a familiar silhouette. He can't say a word. Silently he looks in his direction. His gaze is full of pain and misery, he doesn't want to look at him - he closes his eyes. Not him. This is a fantasy, why would he be here? - I'm sorry. - softly scattered words in the dead silence. He can feel how this metaphor will soon turn into reality and soon there will be just one more corpse in this stuffy room, a lifeless body, an empty shell. A nobody. But will he care? He opens his eyes, meeting still the same figure. - You promised you'd hold me in your arms and hold me for a long time. - His voice is hoarse, he coughs immediately afterward. Already a whole bud is bursting forth. Beautiful. But sprinkled with blood. He doesn't know how he's still breathing. It feels as if these flowers are taking the place of his lungs, but they don't help him breathe. Strangling, pulling their stems tighter and tighter around his neck, pushing and pushing until his eyes go dark. He hears footsteps approaching and now faintly sees another boy's eyes on him, full of regret. 'Are you sorry you didn't get to love me sooner? Yes, if it weren't for you, I'd be at full strength right now,' he thinks. Feeling of some anger overtakes him, but he can't hold such a grudge against the person he loves for too long. It's his fault for not being liked, isn't it? - You wanted someone to kiss you under the stars. - His soft voice lulls him to sleep, but if he closes his eyes, will he see the next morning? And how did he know about it anyway? Probably accidentally blabbed it on one of his walks. Walks. He'll never see him again. Never. This is their last meeting, by the bedside among the many stained petals, by the light of the night moon. Never will he see his sweet face, never will he feel the happy laugh, embarrassed reaction in response to another tease or flirtation.... Nothing. He wonders how his lips would feel like right now? The last few times he'd seen himself in the mirror and looked closely, they'd been bitten. He can feel Tsukasa's lips on his own, but he can barely feel anything. Is this what it's like to die of illness because of unrequited love? Becoming just a robot with no feelings? He wishes he could cry now, or feel even a little firework inside, like a victory. Like it was a dream. But it's empty inside. Just petals. He's not coughing anymore. - I love you. - is not a saving phrase. He closes his eyes, will there be a next morning? His pulse stops.