Masaki has held his breath underwater before. For seconds. Minutes. This was nothing like that. This was like having someone hold a knife to your throat and telling you to stop loving. If he could, he would, in an instant, but just as he had no say over whether he’d live or not he had no say over whether or not his heart would keep beating.
(He vaguely remembered how this began.)
His chest and throat burned like fire, begging for relief from the searing pain, for air, for even just a moment of rest. Yet, the rest would never come, and as he heaved the contents of his lungs onto his hands and the black slowly start to creep into the edges of his vision he knew very well that it wouldn’t.
(What was once fond memories of wild hand gestures, smiles and grins bright enough to rival the sun, and passionate declarations paired with loud laughter somehow became a poison in his mind.)
Petals fell to his fingers, to his hands. What once was a delicate shade of purple was now stained with splotches of red. What once began as sole petals had become full blooms of hyacinths falling from his lips, and they felt like spikes digging into his throat and lungs as they grew inside of him. He could still feel the bitter taste on his tongue, mixing with the harsher taste of iron.
(What was once bursts of warmth flooding his chest and stretching to his fingertips became a searing heat that forced him to cough and wheeze, strangling and tearing him apart from the inside.)
If there was any moment of relief it would be in knowing that at least no one would see him like this. Pathetic, hunched over in an alley he’d dipped into to hide as soon as he felt the growingly familiar pains in his chest. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, whether that was because he didn’t think himself worthy of their concern or because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the pitiful looks he knew he’d get.
As the distant noises of people chattering and walking about in the streets of Hosu began to fade into a faint ringing in his ears, all he’d soon hear would be the sounds of his own strained chokes and gasps as more hyacinths forced their way out of his crowded lungs.
Red spotted purple petals and flowers hit the snow beneath his feet. It was almost poetic, in a sick and twisted way, and he found some sort of equally dark solace in that.
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