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Kurosawa always wanted to give Adachi flowers. He perused flower guides and florists, took pictures of bouquets and tried his hand at general flower arrangement.
He often wondered what Adachi would think. Which flowers he preferred. If there was some way to magically come up with what Adachi liked, or needed, at any time.
Now his wish was granted. He found himself peeling flowers off his skin. Like the peeling skin flakes of eczema, only in flower form. Flakes were petals. Once he scraped off a large piece, which transformed into a full flower as it peeled off.
A magic, of a sort. The flowers were nearly always red. Red camellias. Spider lilies. Begonias. Any kind of flower, if there was a red, was there. He wondered if he could produce a carpet of flowers, if he shedded his skin in full like a snake.
After a while, his skin stayed a shiny raw. He was still peeling petals. Even his hair had come to play. Black, and red, and black. How could he face Adachi like this? His entire house was drowned in flowers. And he was still blooming in love.
For the rightful owner and crowning glory of this gruesome garden was not here. And so the amount of flowers grew. He paid in blood for every decaying flower, paid with life for every fresh bloom.
A dying man surrounded by the cloying smell of death. Now the flowers were crawling out of him. Every breath hurt, for his nerves had turned to flowers. Every last cell was transformed, or transforming.
In the silence of his flower-filled coffin, he heard a quiet, timid knock.