Work Text:
And out comes the flood of blood and petals. Petals of a deep purple variety. The same shade of a pair a lips, ones that infect his thoughts like this disease infects him. Deeply rooted, just as the flowers in his chest. Impossible to be rid of, popping up unexpectedly, unpredictably. Painfully.
Looking at his hands, covered in a mix of crimson and plum, it reminds him of himself and the prince. Poetic in a way, is it not? And he can only imagine that being with him, the same way these purple flowers mix with his blood, would bring a similar yet different kind of pain. Maybe even familiar? So absurd to even entertain the thought. People like him aren't made for people of the prince's caliber. And he can feel his chest have that familiar ache, the one he's come to know all too well. The warning for another flood. He is a fool.
Despite her continued disappearance, he could still almost feel the look of distaste his mother would have. All forbid she see him like this, a disheveled heap on his floor, surrounded by a mess such as this. How much further from perfection could he be in this moment? And if she could read his thoughts, the ones he gets about the prince late in the night before this wreck comes up from his lungs, how much more would she loathe him?
It's a sick cycle, he knows. Rubbing the soft yet sticky petals between his fingers, he knows. Think of the boy, out come the petals. The petals which are just the perfect color of him, and you think of him more. Out come more petals and blood and tears, but no cries. Silence is always been the best way to handle yourself, Rose. He knows. Don't disturb those around you because you can't calm yourself, Rose. He knows.
Doomed is the best way to describe how it feels. A lost cause, stuck in a loop of longing, loathing, loving, again. And he sits, staring but not seeing anything, tears flooding his vision but not a hiccup escapes his lips. Only blood, and petals the shade to match a lovely man. One he would never allow himself to have. One he will dream of having, and hate himself for wanting, until the curtains fall, just as he did for the boy in blue. And he will fall again, into an eternal bliss where if he's lucky, he will deserve to keep the thought of him. These are the thoughts that bring comfort, his only solace and what he knows will be the end soon enough.
Though, it is only ever 'soon enough' when he's having painful episodes of coughing fits. In the moments he feels okay, he longs for it to be different. To be deserving of love, to freeze time in the moment the pain eases and feel free. In those moments, soon enough doesn't cross his mind. The blissful idea of the end is only a thought in the lowest points. Times like now, on his dark bedroom floor, surrounded by red and purple and blue. Colors he'd dream of seeing mixed in another world, but can only weep over now.
Jack Rose grabs the bed frame to assist his balance as he stands, black spots filling his vision but just as quickly receeding. His foot nudges the bloody petals on the floor as he recollects himself, steadying his breathing and straightening himself out. Mindlessly, he arranges the petals into unrecognizable patterns until he deems himself stable. It doesn't take long, not with a childhood like his where he had seconds to fix himself before his mother saw. One last deep breath, and he pushes himself off the frame to tidy this mess he's made.
He's fine, really. The more he believes it, the more he can bring others to, too. That's how this works. There's a saying, but his minds too fuzzy to recall it now, as he's sweeping the remains away. Clumbsy Jack, dropping another vase. Such beautiful flowers, too. Foolish, he'll call himself, over dropping the vase of flowers. One he never really had. Foolish, he'll call himself, for believing he could ever truly delude himself into a false narrative such as that. But he must, because he's okay, and this never happened. It did not happen yesterday, it did not happen today, and it will not happen tomorrow. He simply dropped another vase, one of plum colored flowers, ones that remind him of two lips, if you will. He'd laugh to himself, if the situation wasn't to damming.
He'll call himself a fool for a plethora of reasons anymore. But, unsurprisingly, they all seem to stem from one event. One moment, where he felt himself be lost to another. Deep infatuation, deeper feelings, he is a damn fool. If that didn't happen, he'd never be in love. He'd never cough flowers, no. He'd never drop vases, never entertain the idea of himself being lovable. It all stems from there, and yet despite the pain he's been in over it, he would never trade his heart for how life was before. It's almost refreshing, feeling this much after a childhood of repression and neglect. This is surely the better bargain. Typical that someone like him not get a better balance between the two. Someone like him is undeserving of an easy life, and this he also knows. You don't get to be a spineless pawn and get a life of ease and luxury. He knows.
And as he finishes cleaning his broken vase, his broken heart, his broken thoughts, he falls atop his bed, looking again at his now tidy hands. And he imagines those soft petals, smooth and gentle and harmless. Beautiful. He tries to fight the thought that maybe Wander's hands would be just as soft in his, and he suppresses another cough, lest he fall into another fit just after cleaning. He'd much rather fall into something comforting after what he's been through tonight. He dreams of falling into a soft yet strong, warm embrace, one he forces himself to believe is that of the few his mother gave him as a young boy. But he knows the warm arms he imagines around himself belong to the man causing this problem. A cycle is impossible to break, it seems. He knows the coughs come again, but the feeling is nothing more than a dull pain, and he is tired. And so, he rests. Alone in a bed much too big for just him, a room too dark, and far too cold.