A/N: This is written for a hanahaki themed event.
This tidbit of Lilia's memories was hazy at best, it must've been forgotten rather desperately millenniums ago.
Once, in his youth, he was quite certain he knew love. Throbbing, searing, reckless, senseless, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful love.
He remembered he had forgotten about this… lover of his, and the mere decade they might've spent with him. He had no reason to think of them by now, and he hadn't tried.
But you. The moment he laid eyes on you, he felt his lungs burn. And suddenly he recalled. You had their eyes, their demeanour, their voice. The curve your lips formed when you smile was reminiscent of them. The most subtle movements of your fingers reminded him of them, of their fingers that used to caress his cheeks.
For a moment he was quite convinced that the whims of some gods must've propelled them to bestow you to him after all these millenniums.
And the next moment he was quite convinced that you shall claim his life in their place. For this burning in his lungs was akin to what he had endured when he dug out their corpse in the massacred village, beneath the mountains of similar innocents who had fallen victim to the enemy's poisoned fumes.
A massacre he might've prevented had he proposed to dispatch a defensive force, or had the enemy been defeated just a day earlier, or anything except whatever they did back then.
You met his gaze. He half-expected you to charge up to him, grab whatever usable nearby and drive it through his neck. But of course you didn't, you didn't even know him. You sheepishly smiled, as they would've if he had returned declaring the victory of war and hadn't found the village in ruins.
He excused himself from the rest of Diasomnia, teleported to a faraway corridor, and let a chain of coughs escape. When he found his breath again, he also found three pitiable petals on the floor.
Three chastely white petals lying in a splat of his spit and blood.
Aah yes, he had heard of this ailment from a nation in the east, although he had never thought one day he'd be at its mercy.
Licking the blood at his lips, he laughed madly. Funny how this is what the world defines as love. Or perhaps it was what his heart felt that was ridiculous.
But never mind, he hadn't lived all this time for nothing, shutting off a few expired sentiments should hardly be harrowing by now. So when he turned in for the night early and the children began to gush over him in concern, he merrily shushed them (mostly the loud one), reassured that he would be all better by the morn.
What he failed to realise was that flowers don't vanish once they've taken root.
They grow.
By the morn, he woke with sugary words from the past still ringing in his ears, contrasted by the metallic taste of blood in his mouth as petals elbowed their way through his pharynx.
"Oh dear, perhaps I've gone rusty…" he mused. After all, it had been a few handfuls of centuries since he last had to deal with romance and whatnot. He calmly decided to give the illness a few more days to be gone.
The next morn, you happened to pass him by in the corridor, casually chatting with your peers and giggling at their jokes. He briefly thought those giggles were the most joyous music he'd heard, and promptly he teleported to an empty classroom so that no one would hear his hacking coughs.
The next week, you happened to be seated at a nearby table in the school canteen, blissfully enjoying your long-awaited lunchtime. He found his eyes being drawn to you until thorned stems crawled inside his throat and rammed what he just swallowed back out.
A few more days later, you happened to be invited to the light music club's after-school teatime gathering by Kalim for whatever reason. He conversed with you for the first time, but after two or so sentences he offered a curt smile and scurried out of the room with incredible urgency.
After exchanging puzzled glances with the other two club members, you all trailed him into the corridor to see if he was okay, yet he was nowhere to be found.
Nonsense! Most nonsensical indeed! He who had sworn off romance at multiple points in time, now writhing on the floor in his room, legs flailing about and knocking over the instruments lined beside his bed. How could he have let some mere flora coil so far up his neck?
Hearing the gagging and gurgling noises, Silver bursted into the room, appalled to find his father on the verge of suffocating. Frantically he helped sit him up against the bed, his usual dozy expression warped in worry.
Lilia lurched forward, clasping his mouth tightly. Then, as if a sinister sleight of hand trick, he removed his hands to reveal a blooming white rose, tinted carmine.
"Father!?"
"My apologies…" Lilia grunted, feebly wagging his hand, "Would you wait…outside for a bit? I've… got this."
Because he had had it. He had given enough time for this fervour to simmer down, now he must take matters into his own hands.
Of course, he was aware of how the fortunate could be cured of this disease, and if he were to set his mind on it, he wouldn't doubt he could effortlessly charm a young heart.
But he sneered at the single rose in his hand, casting it on the floor. He didn't believe in love at first sight, at least he didn't believe he would be one to fall so profoundly yet so shallowly. Then he had no reason to force himself upon you, to shackle you. These white roses had to be leftovers from a distant time, they couldn't belong here, not with him, not anymore.
Then, once and for all, he shall have them uprooted.
He doubled over, thrusting his hand into his chest. His flesh was throbbing, his lungs were searing. He knew this was reckless, he knew this was senseless— But few things weren't, when it comes to matters of the heart.
In one determined motion, he grabbed the flowers and tore them out. For a moment he wanted to raise them above his head like a sword to declare his triumph, alas, he had no such strength left. He leant onto the bed, breathlessly healing the cavity in his chest.
He tossed the roses onto the other one. That makes four in total.
His eyes scanned the tainted white blossoms wearily. Revolting, foul, unsightly…
He sent a frost over them, they dried and withered as he took a deep, steady breath.
…as was his love.
But no matter, this shall be the last.
Pressing on the mattress for support, he slowly stood up. Peering down at the wilted roses, something whizzed through his mind. A puff in his ear, a ghost on his lips, a vow at his tongue. It flew faster than lightning, letting him go, leaving behind nothing but a tear in his eye.
He blinked it away, driving his heels into the flowers until they were crumbs and dust. Dead things should stay dead.
He sauntered to the mirror, fixing up his clothes and erasing the bloodstains with magic, most of all ensuring that his signature cute grin was properly on his face, then he threw open the door in a big, jolly swing.
"Father…!" Silver scrambled to him, at a loss for words. He hastily offered the glass of warm water he was holding, unsure of what else he could do.
Lilia grasped Silver's trembling hands gently, "I'm sorry you had to see me in such a state." He downed the water, "I'm fine now, dear~"
Silver hesitated, he knew his father's hands were never warm, but this chill was somewhat… different, "You are?"
Was he?
He discreetly placed a hand on his chest, double-checking that he had indeed closed off the hole completely.
And yet he felt the evening breeze blow through his torso. He felt something had emptied up enough for its coldness to run through his veins.
Too bad this tidbit of his memories seemed hazy at best. But he shrugged it off, if he couldn't remember it well, then it probably wouldn't come back to haunt him any time soon.
Even if it does last a millennium or two, shutting off a few expired sentiments shouldn't be too harrowing for him, right?
"I am," he affirmed, playfully ruffling Silver's hair.
When you're used to plucking roses, you barely notice the thorns pricking your fingers anymore.
Is it the last? Or does it last?
Japanese flower language:
White rose (in general) - purity and innocence. It's also connected with everlasting love, its usage in funerals gives a message of "I love you even after death"
1 rose - Love at first sight
4 roses - My feelings won't change until I die
Wilted white rose - A vow for life