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The cough sprays his hand with blood and petals.
It feels right.
It hurts. It cuts him up inside. It's perfect. It's everything he feels for that man.
He looks at the petals in his hand, as red as the blood.
They'd started out white. Pure, innocent, hopeful.
Those had been wrong, because Barty has never been any of those things in his whole life.
They were white like his hair, though, Evan's. And he could appreciate that, at least.
Then they turned pink, giddy and childish and everything Barty wished they could be but never would.
Pink like Evan’s palms and tongue.
Now they were red. And it hurt. The vines wrapped around his lungs and squeezed with thorns. They cut up his throat.
They were red like blood and like Evan's lips and they were so fucking right that he couldn't breath and barely wanted to.
It hurt the way Barty deserved. Every beat of his heart brought stabbing pain of devotion for this gorgeous, beautiful man.
If only it could stay like this forever.
But soon they'd turn black.
Not the warm, dark ebony of Evan’s skin- no, the black of rot and death and decay and everything wrong with Barty.
Maybe, then, he'd finally tell him. Find out if he had a chance. If those deep brown eyes really did fill with warmth when they looked at Barty. Happily accept his death if not.
For now, though, Barty would cherish his blood stained roses.