🥀 -{Tensei}
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.
@ingeniums-quirk
The sound of hacking is what played on the former hero’s ears as he makes his way past the ally. Tensei immediately stops and parks himself over by the opening of the spot to continue to listen; years of work in the business has you trained to look for any sign of civil unrest. He takes notice to how loud and repetitive the coughing was which meant it couldnt be smoker’s cough or from one sick with a cold. The reverberating sounds also vaguely take on a wet tone, like the person was heaving something up as they went on.
It sound painful and something in him, maybe the fire that still kindled, told him he needed to go check it out.
Maybe someone was hurt? Maybe they were dying? He wouldn’t know until he checked. So, with his resolve, Tensei turns himself into the outside corridor.
As he rolls down the coughing progressively gets louder which, in turn, motivates the man to go further. It’s dark in this place and very grimy; full of molding, wet boxes and a few garbage bags here and there. The blunette pays no mind to it as he comes to the end of the ally. He takes note of a form on its knees and holding hands to their face. Something didn’t feel right about this.
“Hey, are you-”
Just as the words leave his lips the person looks up to him and Tensei freezes, dumbstruck. It was Masaki, his former side kick with blood dripping from his hands and petals littering the small area around him. There was no way he could mistake him for someone else. He could always tell from his eyes that usually held a soft kindness, but this time they held pain and fear. Without a second thought, the older Iida sibling is scooting hurriedly towards the disheveled man. The stench of copper was in the air and it made him sick to his stomach with worry.
He knew too well the pain from this; how uncomfortable it could make you feel in your own skin. As he stops in front of the other, he puts a hand onto the brunettes shoulder, “Masaki we need to get you to a hospital. Can you stand?”
He knew how badly this dreaded disease could be because he suffered from it as well. For quite a long time now.
Masaki’s blood ran cold as soon as he heard that voice. That voice. All too familiar, all too charming, all too painful, and his chest clenched tighter, one hand gripping his own shirt so tight that his knuckles turned white. Of all the people to have passed by, to have found him--
This had to be some sick joke, right?
For a moment he wanted to believe he was just hearing things, too ashamed and too embarrassed to so much as lift his head to look at Tensei. Though he does it almost out of habit, and just the same, for a moment, he wanted to believe he was only seeing things. Maybe, somehow, he wanted Tensei to find him-- To save him of that painful longing that squeezed his lungs with every breath he took. Though, as he felt the hand on his shoulder, he had no choice but to face the truth:
That this was the real Tensei, and he did not love him the way he wanted him to, and he could never hope to tell him why he was choking on flower petals in this dark and dirty alley.
He shook his head as he looked back down at the mass before him, and without thinking he mumbled the words, “I’m fine.”
The most blatant lie he had ever told Tensei. He didn’t need to be saved, didn’t want to be if it was out of pity, and from the look in the blunette’s eyes as theirs met it couldn’t be anything other than that. He buried his hands in the snow and squeezed his eyes shut, just wishing for a moment that for once Tensei would forget his hero streak and leave him alone; but he knew him too well to hope so sincerely for something so hopeless.
