Archive of Our Own

It was Autumn when they met.

Sarai had something to talk about with some old man named Laurens or something. Edgar couldn't care less. What he did care though, was that Sarai insisted on dragging him along as well. So there he was, standing amidst that laboratory silently moaning about his situation and just how boring it is as the two older men talked and talked and talked.

Edgar, in the end, decided "fuck it", and left the two men to their own devices (They didn't even notice him leaving). Almost immediately after he turned a corner and into a corridor, a figure slammed into him, cursed, and dropped the pile of papers he was holding.

"Oof," The figure stumbled back with an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his head. Only then did he seemed to take in his surroundings and notice that he had, in fact, ran into a person, and not a brick wall.

"Watch where you're going," Edgar grumbled, dusting himself off while trying to ignore the dull ache in his body caused by the impact.

"Sorry, sorry. I think I just had a breakthrough and- Oh. You're not usually here," The man squinted before extending his free hand. "I'm Luca. Luca Balsa. I'm an apprentice studying under Lorenz here, and you?"

"Edgar Valden," Edgar begrudgingly shook Luca's hand. "My art teacer, for whatever reason, decided to visit yours and drag me along."

"Is your art teacher someone with names along the lines of Sarai-?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's just," Luca stifled a small laugh. "I'm pretty sure they're soulmates, our teachers. You might be coming over more often than you think."

"Oh for fuck's sake!"

Everyone was born with a strip of unnaturally straight, pitch black tattoo in the shape of a strip curled around their wrists. And they would stay black, until you've met your soulmate and had your feelings return. Then, it would erupt in all sorts of colors woven together in patterns unique to each pair of soulmates, so they'd recognize one another.

The feelings didn't have to be romantic, either. It could simply be that of friendship, or perhaps even a rivalry. Soulmates are "The other half of a pair of socks", after all.

But, if the feelings were once returned, and since then turned sour and unrequited, the strip would turn monochrome. And every once in a while, it would bleed bright red tears.

It was Winter when Edgar lost him.

There really wasn't anything out of the ordinary, that day. He was once again holed up in his home, decorating his blank canvas with masterfully blended red and toxic greens. He rarely left nowadays, after that- that filth died and he got thrown in prison, despite everything. Despite literally every damn red flag there is about that weasel of a man, he never lost faith. Now where did that leave him?

Clutching his wrist as red paint dripped down, down, down. Watched it gather into a small puddle and wonder when he spilled it, scoffing at the waste. Watched until he realized that the paint wasn't stopping. Watched until he realized that the paint was the wrong consistency. Watched until he realized his precious strip of color were monochrome. Watched until he realized that it wasn't really paint at all.

Then it hit. It hit.

Luca Balsa is dead.

He has to be, right?

He wouldn't...... He wouldn't just stop loving him out of the blue. It's just...... Not him. He wouldn't, he wouldn't-

And if he did, Edgar would just move on.

He'd lived perfectly fine before he forced his way into his life.

He could live perfectly fine without him.

He had to.

Soulmates are not the only thing binding love together.

There was also a disease known as the Hanahaki Disease, or more oftentimes abbreviated to simply "Hanahaki", which was born from unrequited love.

A person who has Hanahaki would cough up flowers that tangled their lungs and strangled their throat. The flowers vary from individual, but they all shared one constant: If not removed, they would suffocate and kill its host in a bloody, inside mess.

There are surgeries available, but the survival rates were so, so incredibly low, that you'd probably live longer if you'd just put up with the Hanahaki. Not only that, after the flowers are removed, every memory you had with the person who gave you Hanahaki would be erased. Thus, there were only one true cure: For the love to no longer stay unrequited.

It was Spring when Edgar began coughing up bloody flowers.

He was painting, again, when he doubled over in heaving coughs. His throat burned as he fell over, clutching at them and the petals forcing its way up. His eyes were screwed tight at the pain, his lips and tongue tasting something metallic. He'd retched as more and more petals, and eventually whole flowers, tore its way past his lips and spilled on the expensive flooring.

His sister had slammed his door open, eyes wide at the scene she beheld. A cat followed at her heels as she rushed forward, a hand rubbing circles at his back while tears threatened to spill.

"Who?" She'd asked after the flowers finally decided upon mercy, her hands shaking, accompanied with soft, distressed mews.

Edgar had only shaken his head, eyes still screwed shut, though it was only to keep the tears away from air.

It had barely broken Spring and into Summer when the letter arrived.

It had promised such impossible things. It had promised a solution to his Hanahaki that wasn't surgery (He had fought tooth and nail to avoid surgery. He would rather die than to forget. One of them had to keep holding on. One of them had to keep remembering. One of them had to stay.). It had promised an answer about his bleeding soul mark.

Edgar would've liked to say that he didn't fall for such an obvious, silly scam.

Edgar would've liked to say that it didn't hurt to see his bleeding soul mark.

Edgar would've liked to say that the flowers forcing their way up his throat every once in a while didn't hurt.

Edgar would've liked to say that he was fine.

Edgar would've liked to say that his hands didn't shake while reading the contents of the letter.

Edgar would've liked to say that the letter's owner didn't have him wrapped around their finger.

Edgar would've liked to say that he didn't hurt every time he saw lightning flashed outside his window.

Edgar would've liked to say that he remained indifferent towards the existence of prisons.

Edgar would've liked to say that he could still stand to look at inventions of bright minds and metal.

Edgar would've liked to say that the color of blue electricity doesn't drive his heart mad.

Edgar would've liked to say that he didn't miss Luca Balsa at all.

And there Luca Balsa was. Sitting with the others lured by the enticing letter with its signature, red seal. He was laughing that awfully familiar laugh, only that it wasn't directed at Edgar. And that awful blue electricity sparked between his fingertips. The sight of that crude, metal collar around his neck made Edgar curl his hands into fists.

And then he had the guts to stand up and extend a hand.

"Hello! I don't think I've met you before. You must be new to the manor. I'm Luca."

And-

How dare he. How dare he greet him as if they were nothing but strangers. How dare he look at him without a single hint of recognition. How dare he, after all the grieving, the bleeding, the coughing, the pain that Edgar had gone through for him?

"I would be living under a rock if I haven't heard of you, Balsa." Edgar hadn't meant for the scoff and sneer to creep into his tone, but he was bitter. He was bitter, and he was hurting. He wasn't thinking.

He would be lying if he said that watching the smile slip off that insolent rat's face didn't tie his heart into a thousand knots.

"Oh! Your soulmate mark is still colorful!" The Mechanic had exclaimed on the rare occasion Luca had pulled off his gloves. Edgar pretended not to hear, or not to care, as Luca gave his reply, a sad smile dancing at his lips.

"I don't know how soulmate bonds work in the manor concerning time," Luca's fingers brushed over the soul mark. The soul mark of Scheele's Green as a gentle background while boltss of lightning which was that obnoxious shade of light blue streaked across its surface. Splotches of blood red occasionally slipped on the green, though the lightning always took the utmost foreground. "I don't think they ever stopped loving me, even while I rotted in prison and forgot all about them. I wonder of they ever came to visit?"

And Edgar had to choke back a cry. He didn't visit. Not once. He'd spent his time holed up in his room, painting as the blood ran down his wrist. He had spent his time trying to forget. He had spent him time wallowing in self pity and trapped in a cycle of grief and bitterness. 

His hands instinctively drifted over to where his wrist were wrapped tightly in bandages that he had brought with him to the manor. He'd felt the slick liquid sink into the strips of cloth, and oh. He knew what laid underneath them. A light grey background, with splotches of darker grey splattered randomly, while a grey that neared white streaked across all of them. The bleeding had never hurt, but he almost wished it did now. It would be better than whatever Luca's presence and words stirred up in his head.

There was a light tapping on his shoulder, and Edgar turned to face the Postman, who handed him a slip of paper reading "Visit the doctor? She has an infinite supply of bandages and painkillers.". The Postman gestured at Edgar's bleeding wrist. Before Edgar could ask him why he didn't just speak, (he had heard him do so before) the Postman gestured towards were Luca and the Mechanic were still engaged in a conversation, though they were no longer discussing soulmates. There was sadness behind the Postman's eyes, and Edgar had a feeling that the Postman knew exactly who Edgar was bleeding for.

"My soulmate," Victor had trusted Edgar (or was it simply some sort of pity?) enough after countless trips to the Doctor. He had taken off his watch to reveal the strip, and oh, how oh so colorful it was. Hues of red and purple blended with one another like paintings on flower petals. Bits of black lined the edges of his strip, though the occasional gold invaded it.

"It bled once," Victor's smile became pained as past memories resurfaced. "I did something stupid. I wasn't observant enough to notice -- I was too drunk on the euphoria on finding my soulmate, I think. I didn't notice he didn't really quite enjoy the concept --, and- and it was a very big mess."

"It's very colorful now," Edgar noted, a twinge of envy flaring from somewhere within him.

"I have Emma and Antonio to thank for that," Victor slipped his watch back on, redoing the straps familiar ease. "I'm trying to say that- You don't... You don't need to grieve so strongly, now. Monochrome soulmate marks don't necessarily remain so."

"He doesn't even remember me," Edgar scoffed. "I'm not exactly kind to him when we do talk, now."

"It's not unsalvageable," Victor offered. "You two have games together. You can still win back your colors."

And oh, isn't that such a wonderful prospect? The hope it offers?

Well, there would be hope, if he wasn't sentenced to die from coughing up flowers.

The manor would heal the wounds the Hunters inflict upon him every game. It would dull the pain from crashing into an empty space cleared out specifically for rocket chairs to land. The manor would soothe bruises and the Doctor with her miracle syringe would allow everything to heal over a good night's sleep.

And yet, neither the manor nor the Doctor can remove the flowers choking his throat and crushing his lungs.

They did nothing to soothe his burning throat. They did nothing to ease up his struggling lungs. They did nothing to vanish the flowers Edgar dump out of his room's windows.

He's fairly certain his neighbors were privy to his nightly struggles. He remembered waking up to find jars of honey waiting for him outside his room door with no note, though it's simply basic deduction to conclude that it must be from the Entomologist. He remembered waking to find a letter slipped underneath his door with a simple well-wishes card from Victor. He remembered a dried iris, pressed into a letter, from a person who didn't leave a name. He's fairly certain the Gardener found the flowers he dumped out the window, because he remembered finding a carefully selected bouquet with a note "Forget-Me-Not: It symbolizes eternal and true love, as well as respect." (Edgar knew that it was the flowers he was coughing up, now).

He remembered running into Luca one morning, who looked concerned. Edgar looked disheveled, with a lack for better words, that morning. He had just experienced a particularly bad coughing session in addition to him not sleeping the previous night, and didn't feel like tidying up properly. It was too much effort.

And then he'd ran into Luca (Literally. Edgar can't help but be reminded of his meeting, when Luca ran into him) because he was so, so tired. The man had held onto his arm to stop his momentum, grey eyes appraising Edgar's own messy appearance. His brown hair were tangled and untied, his shirt wasn't tucked in, one of his shoelaces weren't tied and his capelet laid on his shoulders unevenly.

"You okay?" Luca asked after Edgar shakily pushed him away, placing a hand on the wall for support.

"I'm fine," He snapped, but it wasn't heated, instead it was tired and resigned.

"I heard you hacking up a lung back in your room," Luca continued, and was that concern laced amidst his voice?

"Well, I'm finished with that now," Edgar shut him down. "I'm fine."

"You sure you want to head down looking like that?" Luca continued to press. "It's ah, rather untidy."

"Like you're the one to talk." That got a laugh out of Luca, and Edgar fought back the urge to smile. That idiot.

He didn't notice that when they parted ways, Luca had caught sight of stray, bloody flowers strewn across Edgar's floor from the crack left by his door, slightly ajar.

He was in Lakeside Village now, gripping his paintbrush and canvas like his life depended on it (In fact, it kind of does, in a way). The sky(?) was gloomy and cloudy, it looked like it could rain any second. He could hear the drip drip coming from the Naiad behind him as she loomed ever closer, that harpoon of hers sharp and bloodstained. He tried to pick up speed -- He's so close to finishing that painting, he's so close to buy a few extra moments that could mean the difference between life and death.

Then he felt his throat tighten and his lungs begin to scream, and one brush stroke streaked across the canvas from a sudden lurch and cough, the piece ruined. He cursed as he flung the painting right at the Naiad's face. If her hissing was any indication, he supposed he hit his mark. Now he had to find a pallet, or a window, all the while ignoring the flowers bubbling up his throat and the pain that came with their scratching, clawing and implications.

But the Naiad had caught up before he could transition, the air itself turning damp at her presence.

Just as Edgar waited for the Naiad's harpoon to pierce his chest, he collapsed on himself. An indescribable pain bubbled up his throat as he coughed, and coughed, until his lungs were screaming and his throat was burning. Forget-me-nots fell onto the ground, ugly and red.

He'd die before his final game, at this rate.

To his surprise, the Naiad never attacked. She just kept hovering, looking at him with a sad expression as he coughed his lungs out. When he stopped, she only gave him a nudge with the blunt side of her harpoon, a silent gesture of "I'm letting you go this time. Move.".

He booked it while wiping away the blood still stuck on his lips, even though his legs and arms were shaking.

That's enough kiting for today.

"It was my family," The Naiad Grace wrote. She doesn't drip water everywhere inside the manor, thankfully, or the couch they're both sitting at would be soaked and the paper she was writing on would be ruined. "My hanahaki."

"That must be miserable," Edgar replied. Getting Hanahaki for your own family. Your caretakers, the ones who were supposed to be by your side. Edgar wondered how his sister was faring without him. He vaguely remembered that she was going to get married, and he came to a numb realization that he most likely missed it.

"They didn't love me the way I loved them," Grace continued. "They treated me like a goddess and revered me, when all I craved was the warmth of a simple family. They think I'm some sort of divine blessing, and they forgot that I had emotions. They didn't even know about my hanahaki, only the fish did."

"What happened next?" Edgar found himself asking. "Did you get a surgery?"

"No. I died before the hanahaki could take me," A small, pained smile tugged at her lips. "Perhaps you'd end up being a Hunter, like me. I think I'd enjoy your company. There wasn't a lot of paintings back home when I was alive."

He was in the Sacred Hearts Hospital this time. Decoding a cipher with none other than Luca Balsa in the central hospital building while Emily was kiting for her life and the Mercenary was finishing another on the other side of the map, injured beyond what he could usually ignore.

And there he was, heart pounding in his chest even with the absence of a Hunter, when he felt his wrists bleed.

He ignored it and prayed that Luca was too focused on the cipher machine to notice the way Edgar's hand shook from where he helped it go along. That he didn't notice the way the blood soaked through the layers of bandages like they were paper. That he didn't notice Edgar adjusting his position so his hand would be better hidden.

The cipher lit up with a large noise and both of them fell back in relief -- until Luca noticed the blood soaked bandage around Edgar's wrist, and made a noise of alarm. Edgar felt a pit growing in his stomach and jerked his hand back, ignoring how it only made the blood flow quicker. The blood-spilling itself never seemed to cause much annoyance, other than giving him intense wrist pains every once in a while and causing a huge mess, but he guessed that to someone who had never had a bleeding soul mark before (Because Edgar never stopped loving him, no matter how hard he tried. He could not untangle himself from the man that was is(?) Luca Balsa), it was rather concerning.

"You- Is that a bleeding soul mark?" Luca took a step forward, eyes wide at the blood staining the bandages. "It- You should change the bandages. I think they had to have some around here-"

"It'll stop soon," Edgar hissed as a new bout of pain hit. "It always does."

"Still, it can't be sanitary! Naib is priming the last one. We have time," Luca insists, and Edgar finally noticed how utterly soaked the bandages he wore had become. Huh, it wasn't that bad before (Neither was his hanahaki, now that Edgar gave it thought). The way it drips all over the place can't be good for kiting. It would be better, from a mere tactical and practical standpoint, to change it. Absolutely nothing else is involved.

Maybe it feels nice to have Luca care about him again. Maybe it feels nice to no longer be a stranger. Maybe he wants to delay the passing of that feeling.

And maybe, when Luca made an alarmed cry at Edgar's monochrome strip, Edgar felt relief that at last, he didn't need to hide anymore.

"You're-!"

"Yes," Edgar sighed. "I'm your soulmate."

"All this time? Since before-"

"Since before the manor, yes," Edgar replied, making a valiant effort to keep his voice even as he stole bandages from the hospital and began to wrap his wrist. "And yes, I knew."

"Why didn't you say anything?! You've been bleeding and bleeding the entire time- Do anybody know?"

"Victor and Emily does," Edgar said absentmindedly, hiding his strip from sight, opting to ignore how the moment the bandages made contact, it was stained red again. "I didn't say anything because I've moved on. I've- I've moved on. It's been months-" No. No. I didn't move on. You didn't even remember who I am. You were fine. You were happy. You don't need my sorry, moping self forcing my way back inside. It hurts, but it's for you.

It had always been you.

There were flowers climbing up the walls of his throat. There were thorns squeezing itself around his throat and there were vines strangling his lungs. The pains were worse than anything Edgar had ever felt before. It brought tears to his eyes, and his coughs must've been heard from all the way across the manor, including the Hunters. At least, it sounded like that to his pain-addled mind. His head felt like fog, and oh goodness, the pain the pain the PAIN-

His door flew open, blown off its hinges by a man wielding a shovel, followed by Victor's concerned face. He was saying something, but Edgar couldn't hear him. His throat burned, he was retching and throwing up flowers. He could barely see the tints of blue and white through the red the flowers were dipped in.

"-looks really bad. Seems like the final stages," A feminine voice said, and through his tears of pain Edgar thought he saw Emily standing there. When did she arrive...? "I've seen Hanahaki patients like this...... In their final few minutes." Oh, so was he going to die? That wasn't news: Every case of untreated Hanahaki resulted in death, and Edgar had been stubbornly refusing to help himself.

At least he wasn't keeling over in the middle of a kite. Now that would have been an incredibly embarrassing way to go. Imagine the mess if Luca was in the same game. Oh goodness...... Luca.

That bastard literally lives next door.

That bastard was part of the small crowd outside his room.

"I- I mean, the manor hasn't let anybody die so far," Luca suggested. "Perhaps it wouldn't result as something so extreme."

"His condition has been worsening the entire time," Victor spoke up, voice quiet and tone gentle. "The manor usually wouldn't let wounds fester and worsen, either. The folks had always said that Hanahaki is more than an ordinary disease." Edgar squeezed his eyes shut at that. He was still coughing, the burning still hadn't subsided, but he didn't think he could bear to look at Luca. Luca, his oh so familiar messy brown hair. Luca and his new black eye, but otherwise familiar grey eyes. Luca and his hands who just wouldn't stop fidgeting. Edgar wondered what expression he would wear? The Luca he knew would never kill, Edgar knew for a fact that Lorenz death must be an accident. The Luca he knew would be averse to death happening right before him.

Would Luca wear an expression of shock? Of horror? Of grief like the Luca that Edgar had known? Or was he so different that he would wear none of these faces at all? Edgar found that he didn't want to know the answer. He can't handle what it meant if Luca betrayed his hopes and longing. He didn't want to die knowing that Luca Balsa was no longer the man he fell in love with.

(And what a shame it was that the Painter decided to live and die with closed eyes.)

Edgar didn't expect to wake up at all. He was prepared to die, he had been prepared for months. He wasn't religious, and he was plenty prepared to just...... float around in a void of nonexistance. Death wasn't supposed to be stimulating. Death wasn't supposed to have sounds -- and is that talking?

"Oh! He's waking up!"

"Shhhh! At least half of us knows how utterly confusing and horrid it was transitioning from death to this half-life. You're just going to make it worse by being loud!"

"I'd absolutely hate to offend, but you're the one being loud."

"Be nice." The sound of a light smack and an indignant noise. 

"Am I wrong though?"

"What the fuck," Edgar pried his eyes open and immediately slapped his hands over his ears when a whoop sounded from a crowd nearby. Something else hit the side of his head the moment his hands made contact, and he jerked them back, squinting at the sudden light. 

There were flowering vines wrapped around his sleeves, which were torn. They weren't clamped all that tightly, and some bits came loose as Edgar slapped his hands (which he now realized were far too pale) over his ear, which was what he'd felt earlier. Edgar was lying on an unfamiliar couch, but as his brain slowly came to, he found that he could recognize the faces of the crowd watching him.

There were the three brothers of the Breaking Wheel, the Bloody Queen, the Ripper, the Geisha and so many other Hunters. Not a single Survivor was in sight, and Edgar was as confused as ever.

"Welcome to Hunter-hood," Bloody Queen twirled her mirror shard as she shot Edgar a smile. "Death isn't going to be enough to get you out of this manor. Not even Hanahaki deaths." 

"Mhm," The Ripper glanced up from where he was cleaning his claws. "Mary! Get him a mirror. He clearly has no idea what he is right now. Goodness knows how long it took Joker and Luchino to figure out their Survivor abilities and appearance with Orpheus. I don't want a repeat of October."

"We don't speak of October, Jack!" A small, clay sculpture shattered on the wall just a few inches next to the Ripper. Edgar twisted himself upright as he glanced at the Sculptor twirling her knife from behind him. "Let it die!"

"Can someone just give me an explanation!" Edgar demanded, interrupting the Hunters' conversation.

"Well, you died from your Hanahaki in front of most everyone who lives in the same hall as you do," The Photographer explained, leaning forward so he's resting an arm on the couch. "Then Lady Nightingale came to pick you up, giving everyone present a mighty scare. She then deposited you here, and transformed you into a Hunter. Standard procedure for us, completely out of the norm for the Survivors. I'd imagine they'd still be panicking if we didn't say anything. Half of them didn't even know you had Hanahaki and that death is possible here."

"Transform?"

"See, this is why you should get him a mirror," Ripper said, smug as her turned to face Bloody Queen, who scoffed and waved her hand. An all-too-familiar sound traveled its way into Edgar's ear, and he flinched. In a match, when you hear a mirror, you run. Here, though? In the Hunter's common area? There was no swishing of a glass shard followed by sharp pains. There was just a mirror in front of him, that was strangely enough, operational. What was even more strange, though, was Edgar's new appearance.

He was no longer wearing his beret hat, and his hair was no longer tied up. Flowering vines laced with thorns wrapped itself around his neck, his cheeks, his limbs and poked through his shirt as it dragged itself around his torso. His skin were a deathly pale, and only then did Edgar realize with a jolt that he didn't have a heartbeat. A patch of red and blue flowers grew over his left eye, and other sorts of flowers of a similar color scheme lined his face. His capelet was decorated with blood splatters, and his shirt, although tucked in, were torn in the places where the vines shot through.

He could recognize himself in the mirror: He still recognized his right eye, and although his hair was styled differently, he recognized the color. He recognized his frame, and he recognized some of his flowers as the ones he was coughing up just a while ago. But at the same time, he was something else. The vines puncturing his body and the flowers adorning his face were foreign. His skin was too pale, his body too silent. 

A thought struck him as his eyes were blown wide. He jerked his wrist upwards, eyes scanning for the familiar soul mark. Did his transformation erase it? Where was it now?

He found it buried under flowers that wrapped itself tightly around his arms, hiding it from sight. Instinctively, Edgar seemed to still feel its presence. It was simply wrong if it wasn't. But he couldn't see it. He couldn't see the greys (The colors?), nor the blood that used to drip down from it.

Somehow the state of ignorance this forces him in just made him feel worse.

Grace took the time out of her day to teach him the dos and don'ts of hunting. The other Hunters offered their assistance, which felt strange. The people who hunted him on a daily basis now treating him as a peer (Which he was, now), or even a friend (Edgar was still hesitant on that, but even he could not say no when Robbie somehow manages to give him the puppy eyes when there's a sack over his head). He supposed their situation is not that different from the Survivors, them being pulled in without knowing the full extent of what they've signed up for.

"Your abilities seem to center around the flowers," Grace signed. That was one of the activities she and the other Hunters had him engage in. There were only so many sentences one writes on with webbed hands before your hands, which were webbed, begins to feel tired and cramped. She got to learn a special kind of sign, one invented specifically to accommodate her features. "Ranged, too. Like my harpoon! But your flowers act more like Ann's cats, tangling them so they can't move."

"You can stop them from rescuing if the person just needs a tiny bit more to be sent off," Grace continued. "That's how Ann uses her stuns sometimes. But Burke mentioned that you feel more like a Chase Hunter than a Camping Hunter. Your vines can extend and close distances, sort of like Bane's hook and the Cowboy's lasso."

"They're going to hate me," Edgar's lips twitched. "I have a game...... Next week?"

"Yep," Grace nodded. "Hey, if they managed to get a four person escape, it's just your first match. Goodness knows how long it took Keigan to master her complicated abilities. Before she did, she was losing quite a bit."

"I don't care about my win rate," Edgar admitted, sucking in a breath. "It's more of the Survivors themselves that concern me. I don't know if I can face some of them." If you told Edgar that he would befriend the Naiad and grow close enough to spill his innermost insecurities when he'd first arrived, he would have scoffed and mocked you for just how incredulous it sounds. And yet here he was, the girl teaching him how to hunt, and him feeling secure enough for the first time in so, incredibly long.

"Worst case scenario, you finish your game and hide here for the rest of eternity," Grace half-joked. "I do think an attempt, at least, needs to be made."

"It's not like I can defy the Manor Owner anyway," Edgar sighed. "Lady Nightingale lets one or two substitution go, but I don't think she'll allow me to hide out the rest of my games."

Goodness, I'm scared.

"I'm glad you're alive. Well, sort of alive," Emily said from where she was strapped onto the rocket chair. She was relaxed, and Edgar had to admit, if you ignored the wires keeping you strapped down, the chair was pretty comfortable. "Hanahaki can be...... Painful. Do you still suffer from it?"

"No," Edgar shrugged, keeping an eye out for any rescuers on their way. "Death cured it."

"And...... The soulmate mark?" Emily continued. Edgar just raised his hands with a tired expression, brandishing the flowers that now curled over. Not a single smudge of color, nor blood, could be seen through the vines wrapped stubbornly around his wrists. He was completely blind.

"No health complications? Nothing troubling you? Luchino often complained about his back when he is a Survivor, but he never had such an issue as a Hunter."

"Are you giving me a health checkup while I am trying to kill you?" Edgar demanded, eyebrows raised and arms crossed. Emily only gave a laugh in return, lips twitching into a smile. 

"I mean...... Even after everything, I never stopped being a doctor," She squirmed a bit under the wires. "I still want to help people and make up for past mistakes. That was why I came here, originally."

"Noble," Edgar noted. Unlike mine. Chasing after a shooting star. Huh, never would have thought that I would be dumb enough to do such a thing. But here I am. Half-dead and half-broken. Having a chat with a disgraced doctor I am obligated to murder.

"He missed you, you know?"

"Who?" Edgar's heart leapt into his throat and internally slapped himself. Who else?

"Luca," Emily opened her mouth to say more, before stopping herself. "Naib is coming, from your left." Edgar whirled, vines extending from his entangled arms. There was an alarmed shout and "shit!". He let himself enjoy a startled laugh as he tugged the Mercenary closer, the green clothed man shooting a glare at his direction. Emily smiled from where she was sat, calling out a greeting and starting small talk, something about a frog in the garden and a disappearing golden ball.

Edgar couldn't really find it in himself to pay attention as his mind kept dawdling about something Emily had said.

"He missed you, you know?"

"Luca."

"How do you handle being...... this?" Edgar waved his hands around the room, at the grey walls, the red couches, just everything. Grace was slumped over table, snoring lightly as she rested her head on a pile of papers, a quill forgotten on the side. The Photographer hummed as he fiddled with his camera, gaze flickering at where Edgar was hunched over a canvas, pencil in hand.

"Being what? Half dead? Or a Hunter in general?" The Photographer asked, mouth parting in a triumphant grin as he placed some tool that Edgar didn't have the expertise to recognize aside.

"Half dead, being dead to the known world and the people you love, everything," Edgar didn't meet the Photographer's gaze, though he had a feeling that he had turned to look at Edgar. He just stared at his canvas, hands shuddering as his fingers pressed as tightly as he could on his brush. The red was good. It wasn't dripping down. It wasn't dripping as if it was liquid blood. Just regular, red paint.

(Grace slapped him when he tried to revert to old habits. She'd shoved a tube of paint at him instead. He'd stopped, after that.)

"......" The Photographer sighed, slumping into a chair and tapping on its arm. "For some of us, we view this opportunity as a second chance."

That caught Edgar's attention. A second chance? The Photographer caught his gaze, but he himself looked deep in thought.

"You've met Mary, I believe?" He settled with. "She was a queen, married at fourteen, who did not know the plight of her people and victim to the endless toils of politics. She'd expected to die upon that guillotine, but well, here she is, with us eccentric folk. It's her second chance, and she wasn't going to squander it."

A second chance, huh? It does make sense, seeing as how all the Hunters are trapped in this half-life, half the hunters were dead, and some were never alive to begin with. And with the way the Photographer looked, it seems as though the second chance sentiment applied to him, too.

Then the door flew open, revealing one Jack the Ripper and a grinning Sculptor.

"So Joseph, you paint, right?" The Sculptor immediately cut in, eyes lit with chaos that honestly scares Edgar.

"I used to? Why?" Joseph eyed his colleagues carefully, not so subtly positioning himself over his camera.

"Art club," The Ripper filled in, his grin visible with his mask knocked towards the side and whatever he usually wore underneath off in the comfort of the Hunter's side of the manor. "Galatea was talking to Philip- Then he mentioned how the Toy Merchant dealt in the arts for making toys. I remembered you painted and that we have a literal Painter -- Hello there, by the way -- and that our dear Embalmer has a trait labelled 'Artist'. The man wax poetics about how embalming is an art all the time. We should start an art club."

"By that definition, you should rope the Violinist in, too," Edgar remarked off-handedly. "Music is an art as well."

"Absolute genius!" The Sculptor cackled, clapping her hands together. "You'll be a great Art Club member!"

And despite himself, Edgar later realized he was smiling.

"The Hanahaki was for me, wasn't it?"

Edgar snapped his head towards the man bound to the rocket chair and sighed, "Yes. It was." Little flowers fell from his arm and onto the ground, beginning to take root even if it should not have been possible, choking the land. It was strangely reminiscent of when they choked his lungs not too long ago.

"Why," Luca struggled to find the words. "I guess I should've expected, I mean, from what I remember right now, you don't talk about your feelings very often."

"You what?!"

"Remember. Just little pieces and bits. They come incredibly slow," Luca explained. "The more time I spend around you, the one thing from my past, the more I remember."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Edgar dragged a hand over his face. "For fuck's sake." He took in several deep breaths, his brain a scrambled mess. All this time, Luca remembered something. It wasn't everything, but it was something. And oh, isn't that a wonderful prospect?

"We could...... Try again," Luca offered. "I might not be who you want or remember. I might not give you what you were pining after, but... We could try. Maybe start small, like the beginning. Just chats, friends?"

"For some of us, we view this as a second chance."

"He misses you, you know? Luca."

"You can still win back your colors."

Edgar took a shaky breath, trying to press down the tears threatening to spill, "Yeah. We could try."

"We met because Sarai and Lorenz were soulmates. You ran into me while I was trying to get away."

"I remember that! The look on your face when you realized you might have to visit again and again. Heh, I wonder how I managed to forget something like that in the first place."

"Oh, shut it. You would be horrified if you had Sarai as your teacher, too. And for the record, I didn't know that you were mine, either!"

"How's Sarai when you left?"

"A tragic accident. He's dead now."

"Huh. Really? A tragic accident?"

"A tragic accident."

"Poetic, I suppose."

"Mhm, in more ways than one."

"I think I remember this painting actually, but some things are off."

"It's just a recreation of what I left behind back home. It was a good idea, but poorly executed. It deserved a second chance."

"There's a lot less red."

"I don't think I'm as fond of that color anymore. I find solace with hues of greens and blue, now."

"You? Not liking the color red? Who are you and what have you done with Edgar?!"

"Oh, shut it, Balsa."

"Hm, what's this?"

"A thunderstorm. It's mainly just practice. Actually, get closer."

"Oh?"

"I need you to do the..... electric thing. The zap. I need the color."

"You do know that natural lightning probably looks different from my man-made zap, right?"

"The storm isn't natural. I need to see that blue, alright?"

"Pft, any particular reason for this specific shade of blue for an unnatural thunderstorm?"

"It just so happens to be what I had in mind! Inspiration is hard to come across, alright? And a muse is even harder to find."

"And have you found your muse yet?"

"... Ha, I think you know the answer to that."

Edgar didn't even first notice that his flowers unraveling.

He had decided to humor Jack on his Art Club endeavors earlier that day, and well, even though multiple someones ended up getting stabbed, multiple revelations about their shitty backgrounds, morals and mental health, along with complete chaos, Edgar would visit again. The definition on the "Art" of Art Club™ was getting broader and broader the more they gave thought on it, Edgar wouldn't really be surprised if he was greeted with new faces the next time he showed up.

He had slumped onto his bed, utterly drained as he pulled the blankets up. Strangely, things almost always felt cold nowadays. The blanket's usage was more for a placebo effect than anything. His mind was all over the place, some parts still dwelling on the events earlier that day, some parts focused on a new painting's topic, and some parts wandering over to Luca.

Talking to Luca again felt nicer than Edgar had originally anticipated.

And it was bearing that thought that Edgar brought his arm up across his face, only to notice flowers unraveling from his wrists and displaying unique, beautiful colors in all its glory.

The soft Scheele's Green. The bolts of stark, striking lightning the same blue he'd employed in his painting. Splotches of blood red that now resembled paint more than blood.

Not a single bit of white, grey or black to be seen.

Edgar felt his heart pound as his gaze was trapped within the mesmerizing colors of a soul mark he had grown so used to being monochrome. In that moment, Edgar decided, that the soul mark was more colorful than any rainbow. The soul mark was more dazzling than any star upon the night sky. The soul mark was more elating than any victory, no matter how hard won.

He laughed. The laugh wasn't condescending, nor arrogant. The laugh sounded so genuinely relieved and slightly choked with tears of disbelieving joy. After so many years, so many months, at last. The soul mark, his soul mark, was colorful again.

Truly, this was a second chance. Truly, he still had the chance to win back his colors, back then.

And even with bloody petals and bleeding souls, Edgar was still here. Even with bloody petals and bleeding souls, his soul mark shone.

And even with bloody petals and bleeding souls, Edgar found it in himself to laugh, love and relish in them all.