Flowers were always something he disliked, maybe when he had been little he had held no distaste for them, but that was no longer the case. His mother had adored them though, so he never faltered and showed his simmering hatred around her, even after her death. Every few days she would pluck a flower from the small garden outside, while it may not have been what she wanted, it was enough and it was theirs. He often had to wonder if she ever really did love them though, the looks of sadness in her eyes when she saw them, or how she would run away into the bathroom, shaking with coughs, littering baby blue coloured petals across the floor she'd just sweep away later.
The more time went by, the more petals seemed to come. Like a never ending fountain, only growing more and more pressurized. Soon enough, he was picking the petals up for her, waiting for her breathing to become less labored and her body to stop shivering. They soon became too much to just throw outside, piling up on the yard. There was a notable growth in the amount of bags that came out of their house after that.
He had been out of the house the first time it happened, searching for a job after his mother grew too weak to continue hers. It was too quiet at his footsteps clacked against the tile, a growing grime between them. He froze as he saw the petals littering the floor once again, blood seeped into them, creating a mixed array of blues, purples, and reds. He had found her slumped over on her knees in the bathroom unconscious, blood in a thin trail down her chin and a simple, yet beautiful baby blue nemophila sticking out of her mouth.
He lifted her up, carrying her as the blood added another stain to the amassing amount on his tattered blue suit he had gotten for work. The more the coughing fits came, the faster they would reappear, until it was once a day. A large blotch of blood was stained into his jacket and several flowers sprung from her mouth. Each he had to cut with exact precision, not to cut her mouth and throat open. The more he did, the better he got with the knife, cleaner and quicker cuts every time.
It continued on like that for a little under a month, a constant cycle of getting slightly better only to get worse the next day. Until one day, she didn't get better. Petals littered her hair and a bouquet seemed to grow from her mouth.
He hated flowers after that.
His feet quietly clacked against the wood flooring, almost silent. At this point his job had become almost repetitive, the same goal every time, the location the only thing changing. His movements were nearly robotic, his muscles seemed to already memorized the actions. He was pulled out of this trancelike state by the sound of talking, he froze, inches away from the doorframe. A look of confusion passed over his face when he listened in, the red sniper had never done that before. It was out of character and it caught him off guard. He stepped a bit closer, looking into the room.
He really should have expected it he thought when he looked back on it. Instead of the same greying and short man, there was a tall and lanky one sitting there. When he spoke again, the spy discovered what he was actually saying. Half sentences you had to piece together to understand, gruff grumbles about how his targets wouldn't stand still or missed shots. He wasn't even checking behind himself, his back was wide open, it was sort of cute, in a way you would find a child who didn't see the bigger picture and dangers way.
He stayed there for a few minutes longer, just watching. A morbid fascination keeping him from backstabbing the other, wanting to gain as much information on the man as he could, if to just gain a slight upperhand. It wasn't until the announcer's voice rang throughout the field that he walked up behind the sniper, not even bothering to cloak himself before taking his knife and sliding it harshly into his back. A garbled scream came from the other before he fell silent.
It followed that same pattern for days, the hiding spots changing every time. With every passing match he waited a few seconds longer to kill him, content with just listening and giving a light smile whenever the sniper would curse after missing a shot or hurting himself. It had been raining when it happened, a rare occurrence in Dust Bowl. Time seemed to tick away until after the game ended, it had caught him by surprise. As the sniper started to stand, he cursed himself for waiting so long and cloaked, sneaking off to base.
As the sun started to set that night he gave a cough that led into a light coughing fit. Catching his breath, his face paled as he pulled his hand away from his mouth, a singular red petal sat there, a deep contrast to his glove. He found it a tad ironic.
He gripped the handle of the blade tighter, creeping up the stairs, growing closer and closer to the sniper. A glare was set on his face, driven on killing the sniper again. As he hit the top step he paused, listening in. Holding back a smile, it lasted only a second before another set of coughs racked his body. Petals littering the floor. The sound of a chair screeching rang through the walls as it was pushed back. Footsteps echoed, almost covering up the coughs. Hissing, the spy cloaked, small coughs still scratching his throat. As the sniper stepped into the hall, things seemed to go silent other than the faded gun fire in the background. The dead standoff continued on for minutes, the sniper seeing the petals around him and quickly looking around himself in a wave like fashion. With an unintelligible grumble he he walked past the spy, just barely not brushing up against him.
He couldn't do it. It seemed like months that he tried, day after day, never able to get that finishing blow in. Each day the flowers became worse, more and more coming from his lungs, pressing against his throat. It felt as if something was climbing up his esophagus, clawing from inside his skin. His hands clenched the sink as his breathing grew heavy. With a rugged cough, he felt a thin trail of blood fall down his chin, a distant look in his eyes. There was a silent second before his body shook, red petals coming out along with the blood. His vision started to go black as he felt something push itself up his throat, stretching his lungs and mouth almost too far. He fell to the ground, head resting against the wall, barely managing to stay conscious. It was like that for over an hour, heavy breathing the only sound in the room other than the drips of blood hitting bathroom tile. When he finally managed to stand, a butterfly knife was pulled out of his pocket. With careful movements, he cut the geranium from his mouth, his hand moving from memory. After a deep breath, he wiped the blood away from his face with a handkerchief, the blood staining it a dark red.
His steps were silent as he slipped behind the sniper, his knife twirling in his hand. Just as he was about to embed it into his back, the other looked away from his scope and lowered his rifle. Before he could notice, the spy stabbed him in the back, leaving it there he stepped away. The choking feeling started to rise again as the taller man managed to turn to him. His mouth moved, words obviously coming out, but he couldn't hear him. The blood pounded in his ears and his throat seemed to block up. Blood seemed to pour out of his mouth at a steady pace and silent hacking racked his body. Petals and flowers grew from his lungs, blocking his mouth and pushing it too far open. He gave a scream as he felt his jaw dislocating. Falling to his knees he looked over to the other man, tears streamed from his eyes as he stared down the shaking barrel of the gun before a loud bang rang through his ears.
Wrenching his eyes open he stared at the faded walls of the respawn room, a soreness in his jaw and a pain in his head.
He hadn't been secretive about it, rather the opposite. Flower petals littered the base floor, creating a mess everywhere he went. So it hadn't surprised him when the medic had pulled him aside one day, a genuine look of worry on his face, an offer to surgically remove the bittersweet plants from his chest on his lips. With a shake of his head and a polite decline, he pulled away, too attached with the feelings and hating himself because of it. It wasn't long after that when tiny white petals of baby's breath joined in among the others, stained pink and red from blood.
When the next match arrived, he didn't even make it all the way up to the sniper's hide out. He fell onto the stairs, leaning against the wall. A creeping vine seemed to crawl up his throat, one after another until it was almost too much, stretching his skin nearly too far. Just as they seemed to stop coming, thicker ones wrapped around the previous ones, thorns reaching out stabbing and tearing his esophagus. His silent screams turned into choking coughs as he struggled to get the pooling blood to exit his lungs. The sounds of nearly footsteps pounded against the repetitive thud of his heartbeat in his head. A back and forth battle of which could be faster and louder. It almost became too much, a constant noise with no silence, too fast for a break in the skirmish.
Forcing his head up, he looked up to see the sniper, his kukri rested against his side, grip loose. A crooked smile grew on his face, flowers sticking out at odd angles. "Je t'aime," he struggled out, words jumbled together, too incoherent for anyone to understand, much less the man in front of him. He sucked in a choked breath, before his eyes flew open in pain, a singular scarlet rose erupting from his mouth, a centerpiece to his human boquet. The sound of footsteps rattled in his ears as the sniper slowly stepped back before he sped away, the noise growing faster and more faded at the same time.
A laugh escaped him, but it came out as harsh breaths, his lungs shivering. As he saw his vision fading around the edges, he felt himself falling.
But respawn didn't catch him.