April
004
It rains and you are thankful because it hides the tears that make you blind to the blossoms and fruits that are nearly ripe and ready…
"We are definitely not forgetting!"
Again, with this madness, again with these lies.
They pass by flowers and Ivan can't help but notice how they are growing, mutating into superior forms of petals and fruits. It is beautiful, he notes, and it is so, so, so, cruel he thinks again, subconsciously trailing behind the crowd. It is ugly as it is pretty and he suddenly realizes he is gripping the petals of Peonies and Lily's. He is gripping them too hard, clenching them too hard, ripping them of there beautiful petals all too hard, but still, he lovingly watches them as they shudder in the wind, lovingly feeling his pain, lovingly feeling his wrath, lovingly watches them die as there stems thin and their petals take their final breaths.
Maybe the ticking time-bomb in his chest is making him mad, he smiles sadly—madly, crazily.
But he lovingly—so lovingly of course, embraces this madness.
Yao would be sad to see such life wasted, he tastes bitter and the metal of irony so well, but he is not here with them in this moment so he lets out his anger because the older man can't handle it like the flowers do.
No, Yao is to frail and to sensitive. He wilts and blooms so much like these buds of spring. He continues grinding the flowers into thin strands of petal and leaf. Fragile, so so fragile.
"My god, Alfred, do not let these doctors manipulate you with these frivolous things! You forget things because you are a natural klutz! Don't label it as these bastards do!"
He stops and listens. The flowers wilt and wither out of his hands, he may be mad, he thinks, but if he is crazy, then Arthur is out of his mind.
But Arthur is some other form of crazy, some other form of mad. He can't find the right word but delusional and liar. A man so full of pride and dignity.
Arthur is a fake.
He walks closer to the two blonds. Head lowered, guilt crashing him in waves. He's certain Peonies were Yao's favourite kind of flower. How could he have forgotten? Then again, everything is getting blurry, everything is getting washed away.
"But Artie! I don't remember my favourite restaurant and I love food!," he hears from a distance a terribly loud voice.
Alfred pouts childishly, and Arthur believes that it's cute if not for the fact that he doesn't know how to wittily answer the latter's comment. He look's astray, searching for a way out. He is not wrong, he thinks, and it is true. He hasn't forgotten much.
"Ivan! God bless you, tell me, have you forgotten anything as of yet?"
Ivan opens his mouth to reply that he indeed has forgotten things such as the fading colours of reds and the swirl of blacks that he doesn't remember clear enough to his liking but Arthur beats him to it.
"See Alfred? Nothing to be afraid of."
But there is something to be afraid of. There is something to beware.
It's strange, Ivan thinks, and ugly. He doesn't know how or why but it's strange to him as it feels foreign. There's something horrible about Arthur's smile—yes, the smile is a peculiar one. It tilts and it widens as it covers up truths and realities, the angle in which it presses on his lips look off and terrible. He shivers as the smile, that horrible smile and it's eyes gloss over him. He can't help but feel the foreignness of the smile remind him of his own.
His smile. His peculiar, tight, crazy smile.
He wonders what kind of face he has on.
He needs to call Yao.
Yet, he restrains himself, because he does not want to taint that pure, gentle and steady voice. He does not want to manipulate like Arthur. He does not want to kill Yao like the Peonies he loves. Instead he wants to own them, to caress the tear stained cheeks, to love and worship and break to his hearts content.
He likes ruin, he likes madness, he likes crazy.
There's something horrible about this kind of love. About this kind of obsession and infatuation. He knows this but he does not care. This is love sickness and like everything in life he welcomes it warmly in his existence.
He does this all for Yao, all for Yao, all for Yao.
His love is enough to push him past the brink.
"They are lying." Arthur says again, and suddenly it feels as if some kind of bullet has just blown through him because he feels and tastes the metal of bullets and he feels the rage and anger of blood fuel him. He is tired of Arthur being so blind. He is tired of forgetting. He is tired of remembering. And maybe that's what pushes him so far.
He is just so tired. So crazy. So sad. He is so jealous of life, and so mad at Death because it won't just take him.
"Stop playing the fool Arthur," he say's, and he doesn't recognize his voice under the emotion. Green eyes turn livid and blue watch in silence. Silence dances around him, he doesn't know why it's suddenly so loud.
"What…what in the world do you mean?"
"Stop, da? You are not an idiot. You are no Doctor."
There is stillness in the April night. A horrible stillness and it brings some other kind of sickness to the lush scenery. He feels his eyes strain in the night.
"I may be no Doctor but I know what I am—"
"You are forgetting," Ivan urges, and he steps closer while the other backs away. "You are forgetting and it's a horrible process. But soon you will forget everything and it will all be o—"
"Nonsense!" Arthur shakes his head, eyes so green, so powerfully in denial. Ivan thinks its funny, Ivan thinks it's stupid. Alfred watches in amazement. He does not know what to think. It is a clash of both violet, green, and blue within the sky. The sky that watches and spins, and it will continue spinning until both him and his sunflowers finally touch the peace of sleep.
He's tired, exhausted, he's at his limit.
But theres always something that stops him, stops him from going too far, something that makes him pause. Something old and new that flickers in him, something like a washed away dream still lingering.
Yao.
"Nyet, nyet, you are forgetting," and Ivan laughs, he chuckles, but there's a certain depth to the low rumble, intervals of sanity washed away by reality and time. He is amused as he is tired but he has fun watching the frown deepen. There is a beautiful madness to what he is doing. For he is telling the truth. He is a truth seeker within all these lies. For the truth hurts while lies sooth, life is a beautiful lie while death is the painful truth.
But he knows that to be wrong because life is cruel, ugly, and holds monsters that can kill you. He knows, and yet he still believes that life is something blessed, something worthy. He hopes.
Yao and sunflowers are more then enough proof.
"Do you know what day it is?" He asks, and he waits. Smiling.
"April twenty th—"
"Wrong."
"April eleventh—"
"Nyet!" Ivan walks closer still, he is the truth teller while the other remains blind. He is so sick of it, so sick of them.
"You are forgetti—"
"Stop!" Arthur cries out, perhaps those are tears in his eyes but Ivan does not care.
"Stop, just stop!" He cries again, and Alfred sees the tears, sees the shock and the realization. His fists clench and curl, but he does not intervene.
"Da. Cry. And remember, remember that you are forgetting, and that it is painful."
"No, no…"
"You, Arthur Kirkland, are not subjected to telling us that we aren't forgetting when you can't even remember the date. Stop lying to yourself," Ivan looks pained and Alfred only clenches his fists harder. There is a kind of realization that flickers and fades like candles within green eyes.
Burning, burning, slowly, slowly. Like love like hate like disgust.
Good, he thinks. Good.
"Cry. Let it all out." And Ivan chokes out a broken sound. And maybe it all ends there. The truth is out, the pain has already ebbed and eaten him away, and suddenly he realizes how much he loves life. How there is still so much he needs to do, so much he needs to learn and love and hate, and he can do all this if only he had more time. Time. He doesn't have time.
"Arthur. Stop hurting yourself." He closes his eyes, hearing broken sobs and cries, all muffled by fabric and Alfred's strong grip.
"There was a better way to do that, Ivan," Alfred spits out, he ushers the older man to stop crying. Shoulders tremble and the April night is still so pretty and undeniably fresh in the tears. The air basks in the salt that Arthur adds to the Lily scent.
"Da. I know." A nod, a smile, a frown, and a walk that ventures further away from the two. He walks and he feels like running but he walks steadily, calmly and that's what makes him so crazy. So perfectly out of his mind in all this madness.
He gets his phone out, already dialling the older mans number, a yearning and anticipation makes him smile. His heart beat quickens and falls. His neck itches.
"你好, Yiwan?"
[Hello]
He grins in spite of the harsh frown, "Da, hello Yao,"
And then there is a silence and he say's, "I killed Peonies today…"
And Yao lovingly, so lovingly of course, laughs.
Lovingly, lovingly, we fall, lovingly, lovingly we break.