I. Primrose
It isn't supposed to be like this.
But it is.
No
Nonononono
How could it escalate to this so quickly?
You know the answer, fucker.
It shouldn't have been this way.
It already is.
Yellow.
Pale pale yellow and white edged blue and magenta and-
A lot.
Oh god it's endless
His throat hurts and stems were down in there scratching and crawling – growing and scraping and wrapping around his ribcage and lungs.
They were spilling like rivers, one by one – petal by petal and piece by piece and in twos and threes and fours and flowersbyflowers.
But he heaves and doesn't keep it down.
Throws it all up until he throws up even his last meal.
Disgusting.
And then he collapses into the bathroom floor, surrounded by primroses of varying sizes, shapes and colors.
Tsuna laughs.
He laughs as the last petal slips past his trembling lips, smooth against his touch and impossibly pretty caked in blood.
He laughs as tears die down his cheeks and chin, dribbling slowly until they start to fall endlessly and his sobs start to drown the quiet room.
He should've just tried his damn hardest to fall out of love.
He did.
He swears he did.
But it wasn't enough, was it?
And it wasn't.
Because if it was enough, he shouldn't be bending over toilet bowls at ungodly hours every single fucking day, heaving all sorts of symbolic flowers he could care less about before until they mingle with his meals, blood and stomach acid.
He supposed this is some sort of exchange for loving someone who doesn't feel the same.
And you know what?
It was so damn unfair because shit, as if bearing unrequited feelings and self-hatred wasn't enough, he just had to vomit these thrice-fucked flowers.
It was so damn unfair.
He can't say anything.
Because, he knows, deep down, there wasn't anyone to blame besides himself.
And when his tears cease to drown him, he'll stand up; flush the toilet bowl and burn the stray flowers enveloping him, relishing in the short moment of power. Then he'll wash his face and practice his soft smile in front of the mirror, to reassure himself that he's still sort of there.
He closes the lights, goes back into his office and finishes his paperwork as if he didn't just throw up more than he did yesterday.
Primrose.
I can't live without you.
A/N: Someone stop me from writing this bullshit, I have a thesis to work on jgfaiusferyjdbsvjzbf. Don't expect frequent updates as I literally wrote this in fifteen minutes before I decided to publish this trash - this is a spur-of-the moment thing. If you wanna listen to some of my angsty ideas, hit me up on my recently created twitter cyanotone frens.
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