— Flowers.
TW(s): psychological obsession, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, suffocating possessiveness, gaslighting, forced isolation, existential dread, body horror regarding artificial/non-human anatomy, self-loathing, religious/existential guilt, subtle emotional abuse and cruelty within a relationship.
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Dante would hand you a clump of wild rare Black roses; unaclipped, raw, roots and leaves still visible because in his eyes, an earnest gift must show how casual and natural it is. He probably picked them from a lane's side in the mouth of the underworld— to where the point of no return emerges. He is no fool to just uproot any flower: he chose roses in their dimmest color as to let them tell you with no words that his love for you crossed into a chasm of no end or horizon.
Vergil wraps a posey of Aconites in paper sealed with a golden ribbon. They are poisonous, He knows— not out of malice or hate towards you, but of the way he sees how love engineers: absolute promise to protect you even when separated, poison is to destroy anything or anyone who may try and snatch you out of his hands.
Nero doesn't wear the mask of toughness when he thinks of what could draw a smile on your lips. He spends a lot of time contemplating his gift to finally settle on climbing a hill outside Fortuna and plucking a bundle of cyclamen. What is a man when he can't protect what he adores?— He can't voice into words how you should (must) not think of anything (anyone) that can tear you apart from him, but these fresh wild cyclamens can; gifts speak louder than words.
Trish isn't a human, unlike you. She's envious— not of you, but out of the thought that she doesn't belong anywhere close to where your world resides. She may shed tears and that would make her feel a needle’s end closer. On rare strolls alone, she'd pick a single yellow hyacinth, cut off from its peduncle. It belongs on the top of your ear— or better in your mouth, so you could taste how bitter the feeling of looking at a fruit out of reach is.
Lady remembers the way her mother's needle sewed certain shapes through fabric— they were always flowers, all colors and images from paradise. She loved the color purple that she planted a chaste tree once upon a time in their garden. It was all before the storm that whirled her life to ruins, but at least she had the pleasure of remembering. She did tell you once —in a fleeting whisper, half wishing you wouldn't hear— that you reminded her of that tree; with all its plush blossoms and vibrant violet, unaware how far its fragrance traveled. She picked a small branch; crushed but still possessing beauty, hoping one day you'd realize how chaste you are to her.
Lucia has only the luxury to cry. She's too loving to tell you how far pain comes when you're shackled with the knowledge of being artificial, no drop of blood of her beloved mother running in her veins and the amount of ink and puss leaks from her next to your human pure form— a one with guilt of sinning feels sullen in front of its idol; judged, glared at or worse: despised. Giving you a flower feels like insulting you, for a song from a crow is an assault on beauty. Matier told her once that cypress leaves were grievous, mourning the absent, yet washing of all blasphemy. It's a little branch with a message beyond the sky: I want to be exorcized with your clean hands.
Nico— Nicoletta, the weirdo, four eyes; as you'd sometimes throw as a joke. She'd smile along of course, in hopes of covering the specks of hurt. You're cruel, why do you get a pass for every time you mimic her stuttering or aim one of those ridiculous nicknames at her? If she wanted she could retort, but she chooses not because it's very rare to feel this need of someone. “Saw t-t-this...” she extends an oil-soaked gloved hand to you, fixing her glasses, a daffodil crowning her dirty palm. “I… think it suits your… eyes” she was at loss for what had to be said. It wasn't about your eyes. If anything, it's about the feeling of being an emotional punching bag instead of being seen back.
Kyrie had a little hedgerow outside her room's window. A clump of jasmines, lilies and one surviving pink brier. She hovered over them at day and at the edge of golden hours, watering too much and never less— less means abandonment, abandonment slid to hate. The pink flower: pliable petals, sweet scent and ticking thorns tearing with ease was a perfect gift to offer. Would it have crossed your mind that a simple flower was a Trojan horse? Kyrie wore her heart at her sleeve, but in a corner of that heart hid an urge to build a cage with more briers; all what you could dream of would come to you if you nested inside with her.
