Was that the first sign, the trail of rose petals?
Or was there a much longer trail, tracing back through the days, weeks, months? Back even before Touga's most recent trip to Ohtori? Had there been an evolving pattern of small gestures and silences? Had Saionji seen it, that monstrous form lurking on the horizon? Had he seen it, but found its presence too unbearable to mention? Had he hesitated, each day, coming home, before opening the door, dreading just such a sight as that?
The petals were like drops of blood falling towards the door. Red. Of course they were red.
He leapt to follow them, rushing through the apartment, tripping over things, pushing off the walls to keep from crashing into them, sending the cat streaking under the coffee table. He hadn't stopped to take off his shoes, or close the door, and his book bag lay where he had thrown it against a wall.
The trail of petals ended at the bathroom door. Saionji flung it open and hung against the frame, breathing hard.
Why did people think that candles were so romantic? Was it the soft illusion of their light? A hearkening back to an earlier era? Saionji didn't even recall owning very many candles, but they were all around the room, dotting almost every surface, all burning. They recalled that match that Touga had dropped, still lit, to the floor.
Touga was lying in the bath, swirls of hair clouding the water around his shoulders, with a glass of deep red wine hanging from the fingers of one hand. He raised the glass to his lips and drained it, then fixed Saionji with an imperious look.
"Was it Aristotle, do you know, who once said that if he could choose a way to die, it would be to slit his wrists in a hot bath?"
Saionji didn't reply.
Lifting the glass above his head, Touga paused for a moment. Then he calmly tipped his fingers and let the glass fall, smashing on the floor below. Saionji flinched at the sound, but stayed where he was at the door.
There was a pair of razor blades lying in the soap dish. Neither of the two of them used that kind of razor, there was no reason to keep them in the apartment, much less lying around. Touga reached for them, gracefully, with an air of exaggerated dignity, and it wasn't until his finger was resting on the flat metal surface of one that Saionji broke away from the doorframe and lunged at him.
Saionji quickly took hold of Touga's wrist, and held on tight. Touga jerked back, but that first tug couldn't even loosen Saionji's grip. He thrashed more and more fiercely, back arching, like a wild animal caught in a trap, and Saionji had to brace against the wall, but still Touga couldn't tear his wrist free.
All of a sudden, Touga went still, head hanging forward, all resistance gone. It was a while longer before Saionji backed off, releasing his hold and clutching the razor blades in one hand so tightly that they cut to the bones of his fingers. He was panting, blood rushing, water dripping from his hair.
Saionji edged away, watching Touga warily. As he reached back, fumbling for the door, Touga tilted his head back, eyes closed, one hand resting lightly against the outside of bath. He smiled. Saionji stopped.
"Look at yourself, old man." He opened his eyes and slid his gaze to rest on Saionji. "Getting so worked up, rushing in to play the hero. Is that the only reason you want me to stay here? So you can tell yourself that you're saving me?"
Saionji slammed the door behind him, but he could still hear Touga's laughter, mocking him through the wall.
It was a while still before Saionji realized that he was bleeding, leaving smears and drops all over the apartment. And it took days to find them all, and scrub them all out. He was never really sure, afterwards, if there weren't one or two left, one or two that had evaded him.