a/n: spoilers/theories for route xx galore. also, there are two 'he's in this drabble: kuroha and seto. it should be easy to figure out who's who.

written for the drabble prompt challenge on the anime and manga fanfiction challenges forum, prompt #7: flowers.


{:kissing:}
corpse[flower]s


His favourite flowers are those that can survive the most brumal of winters; the kind that never wither, or at least only when there is no one left to see it.


Seto weaves flowers into her hair with his nimble fingers, plants an awkward kiss on the azalea, and she breathes in the life he infuses into the satin petals. It's like a fairytale.

"My queen," he murmurs jokingly against the threads of silken silver, and they blush furiously; she's too flustered to say it back, so she saves the little my king on her tongue for another time.

And for the longest while, she thinks she'll never hear another person say the same words to her, as long as they both shall live.


She isn't wrong, but she isn't right, either.


She is still holding his hand as the world melts. It is an oil painting, blended colours sliding off the rickety surface—slowly, gently. She thinks he says I love you. She thinks she says it back.

And his smile melds into blood, weft threads unravelling into limp-strung seams, folding into grey nothingness on a canvas where black and white aren't supposed to mix—

She twines her fingers into his, desperately holding on before even they slip between the cracks in their infinity.


Strings of theatricality woven into gossamer wings adorn her back, painted all the colours of nebulae and stardust, a silent kiss carving out you're mine against her delicate skin. His lips lift from hers, leaving behind a sempiternal trace of volcanic ash and rusted metal.

"My queen," he whispers, lips on her lobe, hand on her wrist, knife on her heart. Her breath is erratic, stilted, choking puffs fogging up the looking-glass painting. Her hand is pressed up against cold reality— her friends' bodies— Seto—

"If you love him so much, then use your monstrous power."


Click.

"I know you think you're a monster."

Clack.

"I'm a monster too, you know."

Pause. Survey the devastation abound; the despair in the air, the lasso around her neck. Observe her trembling fingers, her glassy eyes.

"We could be monsters together, you and I."

Recite the words verbatim. Remember this moment now and forever.

"I'll be your servant, you'll be my queen—isn't that the perfect recipe for a tragedy?"

Wait for this moment to repeat, over and over again.

He is still laughing when the world shatters.


She is shaking, a withering flower beautiful even when amid permafrost death. The encroaching hellfire batters her paper skin cold; the snakes hiss and spit at the command of their master, ripping apart this tapestry he calls art and she calls insanity. Rinse and repeat, drawing a fresh sheet from the ashes only to tarnish it once more.

She cups her hand to her mouth, trying to remember his fingers against hers; trying to erase those poison lips with his sunshine smile.

When she crumbles, there is no one left to see it.