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Chapter Text

The building next to Branzy's tattoo parlour — The Ace of Hearts — has always been empty. For the five years he's lived and worked here, he's never once seen anyone move in.

At first he thought maybe there were rumours it was haunted, but after asking around, he found out that that wasn't the case at all.

No-one had ever bought it. It was just one of those things.

So today was an exciting day, because someone had just moved in! Someone has bought the place to start a flower shop, he'd heard.

He finishes up the working day with a giddy feeling, excited to introduce himself to his new neighbour.

He takes off his black nitrile gloves and throws them in the bin. He pushes the door open and exits the building.

Looking through the circular bay window of the to-be-flower shop, the only thing he can see that signals any habitants are the boxes scattered on the floor. Apart from that, it's in complete darkness, and he can't see anyone.

As he stands infront of the door he realises that it might be locked. They're obviously not ready for customers. He thinks it's best to try anyway.

He takes in a breath, and pushes the door open, the tingle of the bell chimes behind him as he enters.

He scans the shop, boxes litter the floor, but there's still nobody in sight. There are no flowers around yet either, but it had only been a day since they moved in, so it made sense.

"Hello?" Branzy calls after a minute. Maybe no-one is in right now. He'd have to scold them for leaving the door unlocked when they came back if so.

"Give me a second! I wasn't prepared for guests—" A voice shouts from behind the counter.

After a moment a figure launches themselves over the counter, and lands infront of him with perfect grace. They're dressed in a black and red jester costume, with a jester hat and a mask with a menacingly wide smile painted on it, completely concealing their face. Branzy steps back, the sudden appearance of a person shocking him.

"Hello! Welcome to The Circus of Flowers! I've just set up here, so there aren't actually any flowers for sale right now, sorry."

"Why the jester get-up?" Branzy asks. He cringes at the bluntness of it, definitely not the best way to make a good first impression.

"For the theme!" He exclaims, arms outstretched, like it's obvious, "This is the Circus of Flowers, I've got to sell the 'circus' part."

"Ah, right." Branzy agrees. He thinks it's a bit much, but he admires the dedication to the theme. "Well, um, I'm actually the owner of the tattoo parlour next door, I just dropped by to say hi! My name's Branzy." He outstretches his hand for a handshake, a polite smile on his face.

"Oh! Hello, Branzy, I'm Clown." He — Clown — responds, taking Branzy's hand and shaking it. Branzy ignores how warm it makes him feel. He also ignores the weird feeling he has in his other hand. Like something's growing there.

“Since you’re here, mind helping me out?” Clown asks.

"Oh, sure, why not?" Branzy says, "What do you need help with?"

Clown ponders this for a moment before responding, "Painting the outside, the green does not fit the theme at all."

"Alright! Let's get started then!" Branzy claps his hands together. "Where's the paint?"

Clown doesn't say anything. The silence is loud, and incredibly telling.

"Right." Branzy sighs, 'I'll go buy some then? What colour?"

'You don't have to!" Clown rushes, waving his hands in a panic.

"It's alright!" Branzy laughs, "I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't want to! Besides, I don't think your outfit really lends to outings."

Clown sighs, resigned. "Alright. A nice dark red, please."

"Ok! See ya in a few!" Branzy says, turning and exiting the building with a wave, the chimes of the bell bidding him farewell.

As he leaves, he looks down at his hand and sees a small flower resting in his palm. He thinks it's a lilac. He pulls at it, hissing a bit at the action, and detaches it from his body. He lifts it up to his face and examines it, spinning it around. It's just a normal flower. That had grown out of his hand. Weird.

He discards the flower on the ground and continues walking to buy the paint.

—

He pushes through the door with an elbow, both hands occupied by a can of paint.

"I'm back!" Branzy calls.

The place is a bit less cluttered than it was when he left, some of the boxes are stacked in the corner rather than strewn haphazardly on the floor. Clown is busying himself with a box on his counter, pulling out baskets and plant pots.

He's still wearing the jester costume, and Branzy wonders how he's coping in the heat of summer.

"Hello." He acknowledges mildly, walking around the counter, instead of bounding over it like he'd done earlier. He steps to the side and grabs a ladder that's propped against the wall.

"Let's go then?" He asks, "There are paint brushes there." He nods his head vaguely behind Branzy. Branzy turns around, and manoeuvres to balance the brushes on the table onto one of the paint cans.

"Yep." He responds, stepping to the side so Clown can open the door for him.

He's holding the ladder with one hand. He thinks absentmindedly, He must have some major muscle under there… He internally slaps himself at the thought, urging the red in his cheeks to recede. Bad Branzy! Bad, bad Branzy! You just met this guy, get it together!

He feels, once again, the feeling that there is something growing on him, this time on his upper arm. It feels like there's more than last time.

So weird.

"You coming?" Clown questions, holding the door open.

"Oh, yeah! Sorry." Branzy follows Clown out of the door and into the sun.

Chapter Text

They work for a few hours in relative silence, until the sky begins to be painted in hues of orange and purple. They manage to just about finish painting before the sun sets.

"Much better." Clown steps away with his hands on his hips to examine his hard work.

Branzy steps back too, and looks over at Clown.

He starts giggling, putting a hand over his mouth to try and stifle it.

"What are you laughing at?" Clown asks, genuinely confused.

"So—sorry—" He laughs, "It's just— how did you even manage that?"

"What!" Clown exclaims. Branzy's chest hurts.

"You've got paint all over you!"

Clown looks down and at his arms, finding smears of red paint all over him.

"What the hell." He says, "That's so embarrassing."

There's a red streak that goes across his mask aswell, right under the eyes. It almost looks like he's blushing. Branzy wonders if Clown is actually blushing under the mask.

I wonder what he looks like. Thoughts like these never go well. I bet he's cute. Yep. Bad Branzy! Stop thinking about how he looks under all that!

"You look so silly!" Branzy says between gasps for air.

"It's not funny!" Clown exclaims, and Branzy can hear his pout. "I only have one of these!"

"Then maybe you should've thought about that before you started painting with it on!"

"Whatever…" Clown resigns, turning his head to the side like an incredulous child.

They stand there in the silence of the setting sun for a moment, purples and oranges washing over them. Branzy is smiling like an absolute idiot, and he feels a small prick in his shoulder.

He mutters a small ouch and Clown's head immediately turns back to look at Branzy.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Ah, probably just a bug, or something." Branzy responds, because he's not really too sure what it could've been. It feels a bit like it could be a thorn.

"Alright…Well, it's getting late so, if you want, you could help me some more tomorrow?" Clown asks, a little sheepish.

Branzy would love to spend any second of any day with Clown.

He doesn't say that out loud, though. Because that's an insane thought to have about someone you met a few hours ago.

"Sure! I'd love to!" He says instead, like a normal person.

"Cool." Clown says, "Well, uh, see ya tomorrow?"

"Yep." Branzy smiles.

"Bye."

"Bye."

They walk past each other to get to their respective flats.

Branzy feels a little breathless.

—

The next day is Saturday, meaning he finishes work early, so more time to spend with Clown.

Fantastically convenient for Branzy.

The weather is mild again, so he slips on a hoodie just in case, and heads out of his flat.

As he walks down the stairs, he sees someone busying themselves with repotting some orchids into a basket.

An employee, perhaps?

The person turns their head and smiles, and puts their trowel down, standing up as they do so.

"Hey, Branzy!" They say.

What. How do they know…?

Oh.

Oh.

That's Clown.

Out of costume.

Oh God.

He is, to put in the simplest of terms, absolutely gorgeous.

He has long black hair, with white streaks at the front, tied into a messy ponytail. His skin is pale, and around his eyes, both grey, is stunning red eyeshadow.

And, God, his smile.

It's like sunshine and honeysuckle and every beautiful thing. It's like the sunlight that just reaches through the leaves, warm, but not scorching, bright, but not blinding.

It's perfect.

He's perfect.

He feels that feeling again, like something is growing on his arms.

Clown turns his head to the side, questioning.

Oh right. He's just been staring.

Stupid Branzy. He probably thinks you're weird now.

"Uh, hi! I think that you should wear that. Instead of the jester costume. All the time." Branzy says awkwardly. Shit. Why did I say that? That's so weird. You're weird, Branzy.

"Why?" Clown asks, "The theme is very important, you know."

"I- I know!" Branzy exclaims, he's really dug himself into a hole here. "It's just, y'know, I feel like it could, potentially, scare customers?" His voice rises as he speaks, there's something about Clown, the way he holds himself in that moment, that makes him a bit terrifying.

"A-and in the Summer, which it is right now, you'll probably overheat! And that'd be bad, right? Plus your hat has the little jester things on them so, it does still fit the theme, kind of?" He keeps talking, why does he keep talking?

Clown is silent for a moment, and that silence, oh it makes Branzy fear for his life.

"Yeah, yeah, I guess you're right." Clown says, and Branzy cannot help the sigh that escapes him.

"Of course!" Branzy laughs awkwardly, "I'm never wrong! Anyways, what are we doing today?" He feels a little flutter inside his heart that Clown agreed with his idea, and that he'll now get to see Clown's face everyday.

"I wanted to put up the awning." Clown says, and he gestures to a big box propped against the shop.

"Alright then, let's get started!"

–

They only have one step ladder, so they can only screw in one bracket at a time.

Branzy offers to do it, while Clown continues to pot his flowers for display.

He places the first bracket down, and tries to fit the first screw in. It's finicky, but he just about manages to get it where it has to be.

The problem that he discovers is getting the screwdriver there.

It's in his other hand, obviously, meaning it's a bit too far to reach the screw.

He reaches out, one foot off the ladder. Just a little closer…

The ladder wobbles and teeters. Don't fall don't fall don't fall.

But nothing ever really goes his way.

The ladder topples over and he lets out a yelp as he falls. He braces himself for the impact of the concrete, but it doesn't come. Instead, he lands in someone's arms.

"Thank yo—" He starts before he realises that it's Clown whose caught him, gloved hands gripping onto him.

He definitely has muscle under there… Oh, Branzy is so red. Shut up, Branzy. Stop thinking. Stop it. Especially about Clown's muscles. Which he definitely has. Stop.

He looks up and is met with that smile, sunshine and honeysuckle. He could get lost in the infinite beauty of that smile, get addicted to it like a drug. He thinks he already is. Lost and addicted.

He feels a sharp pain in his arm. He just about bites back his gasp.

Clown — after what most people would consider a bit too long, and what Branzy would consider too quick — places him down delicately on the pavement.

"Be careful." He says matter-of-factly, but there's something about his expression that Branzy can't quite place.

Something like care.

His heart jumps in his chest.

He thinks whatever is stabbing his arm just drew blood.

Friends care about friends, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. There's no way Clown could feel in any way how Branzy is feeling. It's only been a day since they met.

His arm hurts. His arm hurts so much and he can feel the blood travelling down it. He's glad he wore a hoodie today, the forecast promising strong winds.

Branzy needs to get out of this situation. If he moves his arm he thinks he might just scream.

"Yep!" Branzy says, strained and strangled.

"Maybe I should do this?" Clown offers, looking at Branzy with a worried expression.

"Yeah…Maybe you should." Branzy agrees, "Hey, listen um…" Clowns head moves to the side. Shit, he needs to come up with a good excuse, fast. "I don't feel all that great. I'm sorry but I think I might bounce. I don't want you to catch anything." Yeah, that works, right?

"Oh." Clown says simply, "Ok, you rest up, alright?"

"Of course." Branzy nods. "Bye then."

"Bye."

He walks past Clown, gusts of wind threatening to mess up his already haphazardly tied bun, to get to his flat.

Branzy feels a little breathless.

–

He enters his flat, and slams the door behind him, sinking to the floor immediately.

Everything hurts.

He shrugs off his hoodie with as little movement as he can manage, hissing as objects continue to dig into his arm.

He examines his arms to find flowers and thorns decorating him.

The flowers are gorgeous. The thorns are covered in blood.

He tries, fruitlessly, to pull away the thorns, to stop them from tearing at his skin, to no avail.

He tries to pick a flower, a red tulip, and it detaches from him with little protest.

He stares at it absentmindedly for a second, then picks a petal.

He loves me.

He picks another.

He loves me not.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

He loves me.

He smiles at the thought, and the thorns stab at him in punishment. He bites his tongue. He's beginning to understand this sick game now.

He picks another flower, a red dahlia, this time.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

It's better to accept the truth than to live with false hopes.

He probably shouldn't be basing any of this on some stupid flowers, anyway. But here he is.

He stares at the final petal, twizzling it around between two fingers. He loves me not.

He lets it flutter to the floor. He doesn't throw it away. He lives with the truth.

Chapter Text

Branzy weakly stands himself up and limps to the bathroom, blood dripping on his floor as he walks.

He washes up, as best as he can, and bandages his arms to try and stop the thorns from pricking at him. He hopes that it helps.

He enters his room, and immediately collapses onto his bed. He falls asleep instantly.

In the morning, he wakes up sore, every muscle aches and lifting his arm is like swords piercing every inch of his skin.

He's worried for a second, before he remembers why. And then he's worried again.

He doesn't know what to do. Call a doctor? About the flowers and thorns growing out of his body? Surely that's not a common occurrence, right?

He pulls out his phone.

Ok, maybe not the best idea, but there's not much else to do, is there?

So he searches flowers growing out of my body??

The first result is an article about a disease called Hanahaki Disease.

"Never heard of it." Branzy mutters, clicking on the link.

"Hanahaki Disease, or simply just 'Hanahaki' is a disease in which flowers begin to grow on the victim's body when around someone who they love romantically."

Branzy's face heats at that, Me, in love with Clown? We've known eachother for two days! He wants to laugh, but he knows it's true.

"While nice at first, the Hanahaki flowers develop to thorns if the victim thinks the love is unrequited. These thorns cause extreme discomfort and pain, and if left alone, will be fatal."

Branzy has to take a double take at that. Fatal?! Now that's certainly something to worry about.

"The cure for Hanahaki is strange, the afflicted must confess their love to their crush, or die. Their feelings do not have to be reciprocated, they just have to be expressed."

"Other ways of curing Hanahaki have been attempted, from pulling out the thorns to never speaking to their romantic interest again, but none have worked. There is only one cure."

Oh no. Oh fuck no. Branzy can't do that, he can't confess to Clown! He barely even knows him. He supposes he could wait until they know each other more, but he doesn't even know how long he can go with this "Hanahaki" before dying.

He hopes that it's atleast a month or two.

He reads some other articles to make sure that all the information is accurate, and not just some fake disease of some sort, and when everything proves to be true, Branzy doesn't know what to do.

He feels a little lost. There's not really anything he can do.

He needs someone to talk to about this, but he can't talk to Clown, obviously.

There was always one person he could always rely on, though.

He sends a text.

you
hey rek, u free today?

rek
Yeah
Wanna hang?

you
i am in need of major assistance

rek
Right. And this isn't a ploy to trap me again, is it?

you
no
its important rek
i promise

rek
Ok. The café at 1:30?

you
you know it!

Branzy turns off his phone and sighs a breath of relief. Thank God. He really needs some human interaction to get through this.

He feels thorns digging into his shoulder.

–

After a shower, an outfit change, and a quick breakfast, he heads out of his flat to get to the café. It's a small corner shop that sells mediocre at best coffee, but it's their spot. They never could let go of it for a nicer place.

But, as always, nothing can ever go his way. So of course, Clown is outside watering his flowers.

"Hey!" he says, standing, placing his watering can down and giving a small wave.

"Oh, hi!" Branzy responds, trying his absolute best to sound normal. Clown's hair is a bun. A very messy one.

The strands hang and fall across his shoulders, some cover his face in small whisps, one just about reaches his mouth. Oh, this must be what he looks like when he's just woken up.

Branzy wants to reach out and move the hair aside.

He feels more thorns coiling around his arms.

"Are you feeling any better?" He asks.

Branzy blinks out of his stupor, "Uh…" He sort of forgot that's the excuse he made, "Yeah! I think it was just a small cold or something. I'm feeling much better now!"

"That's good then. Are you helping today too?"

"Oh! No, sorry. I have plans with a friend." Branzy winces, Clown was probably expecting his help today.

If he didn't know any better, Branzy would think Clown looks disappointed. There's no way though. The slight fall of his cheery expression means nothing, right?

"Ah, that's alright. Tomorrow maybe?"

"Yeah, tomorrow." Branzy smiles, even through the pain as he's sure he draws blood again.

Clown lightens up again after that. "Have fun then."

"I will. Bye!"

"Goodbye!" Clown gives another wave. Branzy waits a second for Clown to turn back to his flowers, but he just stands there.

As he turns around and walks away, he can feel eyes on his back. Thorns prick at his forearm.

–

"Right so, let me get this straight." Rek says, removing his head from his hands, "You are in love with this guy, so now you have Hanahaki, which you can only cure through confessing."

"Exactly." Branzy affirms.

"And you're not confessing…why?"

"Because Rek!" Branzy flaps his arms out, "It'll be awkward, we literally live right next to each other!"

"Branzy," Rek says, a little exasperated, "I think that literally dying is a bit worse than some awkwardness. Just tell him."

"You don't get it! I just met him! He'll think I'm crazy! Plus, we literally live right next to each other, I won't be able to escape it!"

Rek buries his face in his hands again, "Oh my god, Branzy…" His voice is muffled, but Branzy can hear how fed-up he is, even though the conversation hasn't been going on for very long.

"I'm not going to convince you, am I?"

"Nope!" Branzy is incredibly stubborn when he wants to be.

"Ok…just—" Rek puts his hand over Branzy's, "Promise you'll tell him eventually? It'd be a really stupid way to die." He says it with all the care in the world, and Branzy wonders how he managed to get such a good best friend.

Branzy doesn't know if he can make that promise. But he doesn't want Rek to worry.

"I promise." He says, entwining his hand with Rek's and squeezing it. He looks really quite scared.

"Ok, good." Rek smiles weakly, "Text me about your boy troubles, ok?"

"Rek!" Branzy exclaims, face heating, "I am not a highschooler anymore!"

"And? You're still having boy troubles. It's been so long since you've had a crush, I've been deprived." Rek pouts, dramatically placing a hand to his forehead as if he were fainting.

"Oh my god, you're such a jerk, fine. I'll text you." Branzy resigns, he doesn't say that he probably would've done it anyway. It had been too long.

Branzy feels that, as he talks and laughs with his best friend, that everything might turn out ok.

–

The next day, while Branzy is helping Clown pot the last flowers for the front, it starts raining.

It's a sunny day, so it's still warm, the puddles glisten with light.

Clown stands up and walks out into the rain.

"What are you doing?"

"Enjoying the rain! Come on!" Clown says, turning around and basking in the rain.

"Oh, why not?" Branzy sighs, placing down his trowel and emerging from under the awning.

He moves to stand next to Clown and looks over at him. His head is facing upwards to the sky, his eyes are closed and he has a peaceful smile on his face. One of those smiles that speaks of home.

Branzy thinks he falls a little more in love with Clown each day.

And each day he is reminded painfully, heartlessly, by the thorns that Clown does not love him.

He is reminded each day that this love is nothing but sharp, slicing pain.

He is reminded each day that love is the most painful feeling one can have.

And still, he stares. He stares at Clown and his peaceful face, serene and tranquil, and he lets himself fall further.

He doesn't care if it hurts. He wants to feel that love before it crushes him.

Clown opens his eyes and looks at Branzy's mesmerised face.

He looks away as quickly as he can.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Branzy breathes, he's still thinking about that smile. Moonlight and honeysuckle. He wants that smile to be for him one day.

The thorns grow inwards, tearing at his skin. He bites his lip.

Not now. Please. I want to enjoy this.

So he closes his eyes and smiles, listening as the rain hits the ground. He barely notices the feeling as Clown takes his hand.

He doesn't notice the hydrangeas that grow at all as he's trying to figure out what that means.

Surely it can't mean Clown likes him back, that'd be ridiculous.

If Branzy opened his eyes, he'd see a rainbow stretching brilliantly in the sky.

Chapter Text

Summer crumbles to Autumn, leaves fading green to brown.

And as Summer washes away, Branzy continues to fall like the leaves from trees.

Clown will say something and Branzy's heart will flutter, only to be immediately shattered by thorns growing into his skin.

Still, he savours those moments. The brief existence of lightness that places itself in his heart, even if only for a moment. Even if that lightness means pain, even if it means blood, even if it means death.

Branzy would suffer the torture of Hell if it meant he could see that smile on Clown’s face. Moonlight and honeysuckle. Good thing Clown smiles a lot, anyways.

They start to hang out more outside of friendly chats as they open their respective shops.

Going out to a coffee shop after hours, talking until the sun only just peaks from over the horizon. Clown likes his coffee plain, straight black. Branzy calls him weird for it, sipping his latte and laughing as Clown pouts.

They go on walks, surrounded by the autumn leaves, beautiful and dead.

Branzy thinks there’s a sort of bittersweetness to it, the leaves are beautiful, painting the ground in oranges and yellows like a fire, and yet, they are dead. The leaves are there because they have run their course, fluttering to the ground to decompose and rot.

To only be looked upon in splendour upon death, how pitiful.

Clown collects the leaves he likes the most.

The next day, he presents roses that he had crafted out of them and gives them to Branzy.

Such an act, of course, causes more thorns and more pain. But it makes Branzy feel like he’s in a romance movie for a moment, presented with a rose by the fair prince. So he smiles.

Clown smiles too, its a wide one, teeth and everything. Branzy has never seen Clown smile like that before. He has small fangs. It’s like shimmering stars and galaxies. He thinks he could get high off of that smile.

The thorns continue to coil around Branzy's arms, they begin to stretch across his torso, stabbing at his abdomen and restricting his breathing.

He wishes he could rip his heart out. Love is supposed to be easy, one of those things that fills you with a whimsy lightness — whatever type of love it is. But this love, everytime he feels that lightness, is immediately followed by a constricting pain that weighs him down and destroys him.

He wishes he could rip his heart out, because he's scared that eventually it'll destroy Clown too. Whatever he does. Tells him or not. He thinks both will equally grind Clown to dust.

Clown says that Branzy is like the sun. Branzy doesn’t quite know what that means. Clown tells him it’s because he makes him feel alive.

Branzy tells Clown that he is like the moon, mysterious and graceful and beautiful. He doesn’t say the last bit, but it’s true.

The sun and the moon. Forever apart, destined to never be able to last forever. Momentarily, they are together, eclipsing, but soon enough, they are separate again.

All the leaves are dead, Winter is fast approaching.

The flowers don't grow as much anymore. He starts to keep them, they never seem to wilt, so he finds it nice to keep a little bit of beauty with him.

The flowers make him feel a little bit more like a work of art than a decaying and dying man.

Branzy tries to pull and dislodge the thorns from where they’d settled in his skin, constantly pushing deeper in. He tries desperately, hopelessly day after day, to no avail. It only causes wounds to be pulled further apart, ripping and drawing more blood than before.

He loses track of where the vines end and he begins. Sometimes he feels like he’s not himself anymore. Just a wad of vines and despair.

As Winter creeps around, it gets worse. It all gets worse.

Him and Clown start hanging out inside to escape from the biting chill of the outside. It feels so intimate, to see Clown’s home. To live with him in it for brief moments.

And to let him into his home is more scary than anything else. He has to frantically clean up petals that he left on the ground and tuck away all the mess he’d left around to make his flat look somewhat presentable. He’d been living in a mess the past few months.

It’s still nice, though. Watching movies and talking about nothing and everything, living with each other in the silence.

He learns a lot of little things about Clown as the Winter drags on. For instance, Clown likes cheesy romance movies. It makes him laugh, because Clown had this aura about him, when they’d just met, threatening and intimidating. But the more Branzy learns, the more he realises that Clown isn’t any of that at all.

He’s really just a guy. A really lovable, adorable guy who likes flowers and his coffee black and cheesy romance movies. He’s a guy Branzy can never have. It scares him a little.

One day, Branzy notices a vine creeping up around his neck, peaking just above his shirt collar.

As the days go by, it gets harder and harder to hide it all, one even coils around his ring finger.

So, he decides, finally, to lock himself in his flat and not come out.

Ever.

Until he is cold and dead on the floor.

He wonders if the thorns will still be alive once that happens.

As he turns the lock, he gives a silent apology to Rek, he hopes he doesn’t blame himself.

Chapter Text

After a few days of Branzy’s self-imposed isolation, Clown starts knocking on his door. They never gave each other their numbers, as they lived right next to each other, and Branzy was glad of that fact.

Until Clown decided to take the other option. He thinks frantic text messages would be a lot more preferred than this.

He knocks on the door, atleast twice a day, shouting pleas or what-not. Branzy tries his best not to listen, because he is a very weak man, and would surely open the door.

He always has headphones on hand to best ignore the pleading noises from the love of his life at the door.

Branzy lives like this for two weeks.

He lay on his sofa, which he had fallen asleep on the night before, not having the energy to walk to his bed, breathing heavily.

He thinks this is it.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

He weakly reaches for his phone and checks the forecast — rain. Great. It's not like he’ll be able to see it anyway. Maybe the quiet pitter patter of rain on his window will be a nice send off.

Instead of rain, he hears knocking at his door. As usual. He tries to reach for his headphones, but they’re too far away, and if sat up he thinks his whole chest would rip open. The vines are so tight, the thorns so deep.

The flowers started wilting a few days ago. He didn’t have the will to pull them off.

Suddenly, there is the noise of a violent kick ringing in Branzy’s ear. And then frantic footsteps.

Clown knocked down the door. He really is strong.

“Branzy?” He hears Clown call from the hallway. He can’t move.

“Branzy!” Clown exclaims, Branzy can hear the harsh breaths he’s taking.

He hears the thud of footsteps travelling to the sofa. He looks over and sees Clown looking at him, eyes wide.

“Branzy, what’s happening to you?” Clown says panic lined in every word he speaks, worriedness painted on his face. Fear doesn’t look very good on him, Branzy wishes he was smiling.

Branzy doesn’t say anything in return, thorns digging into his side in agonising pain. He presses his mouth shut to stop himself from screaming. It’s just like getting a tattoo, the needle hurts sometimes. Everything is fine.

“Please, Branzy,” Clown chokes out, face scrunched up from the tears, “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

And that’s just it isn’t it? There is nothing Clown can do. Branzy knows that if he just says it, utters those three words, he’ll be fine. But he wonders how quickly that worried face will turn to disdain, how quickly Clown will spit on everything they’d built and throw him away. He wonders how quickly the small flicker of hope he has resting in his heart would be snuffed. He doesn’t think he could live like that. He doesn’t think that that reality would be living at all.

He really wishes Clown would just smile, he misses that smile. It’s the type of smile you wouldn’t expect of him, a smile that speaks of moonlight and honeysuckle.

“I’m sorry.” Branzy croaks, reaching a shaking hand to rest on Clown’s cheek. He thumbs away his tears, and he smiles. Smiles soft and polite like that first day they’d met, like death is not creeping around him, like it is still that tender summer and not the agonising winter.

“Branzy, Branzy please. I can help, please.” Clown pleads desperately, he leans into Branzy’s touch, placing his own hand over Branzy’s. He looks like he is drowning and lost, eyes searching Branzy’s hoping for something.

Branzy hates it. He hates that desperation, hates how his lip quivers and his eyes cloud with tears. Branzy realises, right then and there, that this is worse than anything death could bring. Clown's pleading gaze and miserable frown is colder than the tendrils of death clawing at him.

Branzy realises that as much as he can't live without Clown, Clown can't live without him either.

So he surges forward, thorns ripping and tearing at his skin, and presses his lips against Clown's. He feels Clown gasp against his mouth, before he relaxes and returns the kiss.

His lips are so soft. It's a stark contrast to Branzy's — dry and cracked for the longest time. He feels alive again.

The vines feel a little less tight around his arms, the thorns a little less sharp.

He pulls away, and looks up at Clown. Ah, there it is, that smile. Sunshine and honeysuckle and love. He wants to kiss him again, and again, and again until his lips are sore. But not now.

"I love you." Branzy says, and in one foul swoop his chest feels lighter, he can finally breathe. He feels warm, his flicker of hope turning to a raging wildfire of realisation and tenderness.

The thorns lose their grip.

Clowns eyes are wide, lips parted in shock, pink dusts his cheeks. He doesn't say anything for a moment, before enveloping Branzy in a hug.

"Branzy!" He sobs, "I love you too! I love you! Is that why this happened? Why didn't you just tell me?!" He gushes, clutching onto Branzy tightly like he might slip away.

"Sorry." Branzy responds, "I— I just thought, you'd hate me, or something…"

Clown shoots away from the hug and grips Branzy's shoulders tightly. He stares at him with a harrowing expression. Deadly.

"What." He says. It's not a question.

Branzy sucks in a deep breath. "I-it's a bit stupid now that I've said it out loud…" He diverts his eyes away from Clown, "I thought you'd—you'd leave. I wouldn't be able to live anyway if that happened."

"Branzy." Clown says slowly, "I would never leave you. Never. You are so important to me." Clown moves his hands from Branzy's shoulders to his cheeks, cupping his face gently. "I love you. I can't believe you ever thought anything otherwise."

Clown has this look on his face. Branzy understands it in an instant, hurting and regretful.

"It's not your fault, y'know." He says, placing a hand on Clown's arm.

"I didn't say it was."

"You didn't have to say it." When did it get to the point where he could tell exactly what Clown was thinking by the small changes in his expression? The furrow of his brow or the dilation of his pupils, the ever so slight downturn of his lips? "Don't blame yourself. I'm an idiot."

"I can't disagree with that." Clown laughs, and Branzy slaps his arm.

"You weren't supposed to agree!" He says in mock-offense.

"Ok, ok." Clown chuckles, "You are incredibly smart and wonderful, my love." He leans in to kiss his cheek.

Branzy's face is so warm, he feels like he's on fire. It is so unlike the cold, biting feeling of winter he had just moments ago. The ice has melted, spring is approaching.

Clown laughs at him, not unkindly, and buries his head in the crook of Branzy's neck. "Never do that again." He says softly.

"I don't think I can do that again." Branzy jokes, "But I wouldn't. I'm sorry." He brings a hand to card through Clown's hair. It's so soft, like he'd always imagined.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

He loves me.

The thorns lay blunt on the floor, and Branzy can feel flowers blooming. He thinks they must be red asters and honeysuckle.

They both feel a little breathless.