Title: Withering to Death
Rating: K
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: I got tired of seeing nothing but Fiyero, Elphaba, and Galinda on the screen so I decided to come back to Wicked (not like I have unfinished fics for Wicked or anything…). Also, I wrote this in about ten minutes so it is not good literature. In fact, the title is even stolen from the album name from Dir En Gray the Japanese rock band. I just really miss Bessa.
Withering to Death
When he met her she was blossoming-her face thinned out just enough to highlight the delicate cheekbones, her hair was darkening to the deep mahogany that reminded him of the dark before the dawn, and, when studied from an angle that was not blocked by the armrest of her chair, the soft curve of her hips was visible through her Shiz uniform. She was a rose that was slowly filling out with each petal opening up for him, and he knew it. She was slightly less than oblivious to the blossoming. When in his presence she glowed and those around her noticed, but Nessarose could not step away and view the brilliance coming off of her.
She called him Boq every time Galinda-Glinda-mistook his name for Biq, and she turned her head when his eyes lingered longer on the pink dress of the blonde in Life Sciences than it did on her form.
He took her dancing once a month, and when he noticed her downturned mouth after his eyes had lingered to long on a blonde form in a prince's embrace, he wheeled her away without her permission to find some secluded room, a clear hallway to the kitchen, and a lock.
She always smiled when he brought her a small plate of breakfast fruit in the morning, and another petal unfolded. When Elphaba vanished she smiled larger, but sobbed harder. The lock became more important and a handkerchief replaced the kitchen on order of importance.
It was when her father died that Boq realized she was wilting. His once beautiful rose was slowly losing a bit of herself with every passing day, and Boq had tried to distance himself from the downward spiral. He had not realized that for Nessa he was the gardener. When he had left the first night she had died the next day, and it had taken all of his skill to bring her back to the world of the living. The nurses had considered her dead when she'd locked the doors and not let anyone into her bedroom. He'd considered his Nessa dead when he noticed the odd gleam in her eyes and he edge to her voice.
It was when he found himself at the side of Dorothy's rotting house with one hand on the peeling paint that he realized that his dear Nessarose Thropp was doomed from the beginning.
A rose by any other name was still a rose, and all roses wither and die in the end.
-END-
Thank you for reading and (hopefully) reviewing. Also, if anyone likes Criminal Minds or Bones I'm off writing that now, but I will finish my Wicked stories (am I the only Bessa writer left? who's still here?).