Work Text:
He doesn't know how he has the heart to go back.
It's impossible to lose his way, though. All he needs to do to go back is to follow the red petals— step by step, loves me, loves me not, until they begin to mix in with the blood that pools around Tsukasa. After that, he can stop. After that, he can look down at him, out of horror, out of grief, out of regret.
It's his fault his hands have lost their warmth, after all. It's his fault his eyes have lost their shine.
And yet they shone so radiantly, when he led Yuuta around with a grip so tight he'd lost feeling in his hand. Sparkled as though he'd become a child again as he babbled on and on about Guertena's each and every work.
For all it was worth, he'd never backed down, either. Yuuta's determination to protect seemed to reflect in his eyes, when he'd take charge to find out where to go next when he'd felt as though been led along just a bit too much. When a little girl by the name of Mary had joined them, sweet and innocent. When he'd found himself separated from them, the two placing their faith in eachother from across the thorns.
He remembers it had been the other way around, too, in the moment right before he'd fallen onto Yuuta, almost keeping him in place as he'd started to shake. Tsukasa had almost lost him then, if he was right – laughable, how pathetic he is – yet something told him then that that wouldn't happen again. They could lose Mary, a painting not unlike the others they'd encountered, but his rose wouldn't stay in her hands for long. That must be why Tsukasa stepped forward just then, making the offer to exchange roses, not stopping to listen to Yuuta's pleas.
He's sure that if he'd spent one second less in shock, wasted one less second on hesitating in case he'd be met with this when he came back, it would have all been alright. With Mary burnt to ashes, they'd have made it out by now, back to where they were before. Where they'd been in awe over the Fabricated World painting before the lights flickered, hand in hand.
He's ruined it, though – all of it – and all he can do now is weep.