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Once, there was Mikage Reo. Now, there is Nagi Seishiro.
Once, there was a story; it was a tragedy. A tragedy untold, a dream never unfold.
Let me tell you a story, the little crimson rose whispered; let me tell you about the tragedy.
. ❀ . ❀ . ❀ .
Once, there was Mikage Reo. The school’s prince. The son of a multi-billionaire. The perfect flawless boy. The boy trapped in a majestic golden cage.
Once, there was a Mikage Reo only Seishiro got to know. The boy who breathed life into him. The boy who made him chase after dreams, together with him; hands entangled; existences intertwined; untold stories interwoven.
The perfect, not-so perfect boy.
The only Mikage Reo Nagi Seishiro loved. Loved more than anything else; loved more than the stars could long for the sun.
Reo always tasted like droplets of a mellow summer rain. Reo always smelled lovable; pleasant like a gentle rainfall caressing the cold skin. Reo’s embrace always felt like falling into a puddle of a myriad of petals and droplets. Reo’s kisses always felt like drifting in a gushing spring, filled with Reo’s lavender essence.
Touching Reo was always akin to seizing the waste of the sea, the infinity of the sky, the gloss of the stars. Falling and making himself comfortable into Reo’s embrace always felt to Seishiro like the one and only existing sanctuary; with a shrine above enthroning Reo, ever awaiting him.
Seishiro succumbed to Hedonism, seeking the pinnacle of bliss entitled Mikage Reo.
(But nobody ever dared to tell him how glassy life is; how fragile dreams are; how deceitful the clock hands truly are. Nobody was merciful enough to him.)
The boy was called Mikage Reo. In the blooming spring of adolescence.
The man was called Mikage Reo. In the crackling autumn of adulthood.
Now, the boy is tasting like a rotten apple of bygone youth.
Now, the boy is only bones and marrows; filthy soil sticking to the relics, defiling the remnants.
Seishiro senses the presence of death, his own demise sitting in dormant waiting. Eyes empty and hollowed, no lacrimal fluid remained anymore.
Now, a faded dream. In front of him, remnants of a life dying away; fragments of a breath. Shards of lost adolescence amidst the ruined adulthood.
Reo lifeless, unalived.
Seishiro alive, but dead inside;
numbness spread, transcendence beseeching.
Life was thorns and tendrils, wasn’t it? Seishiro found himself standing in front of Reo’s grave again. Every single pointless day, he found himself here, stagnant; drawn to Reo’s sepulcher like a magnet being forcefully pulled to the other magnet, torrential; reluctant against all gravitation keeping him alive.
Seishiro inhaled, mouth slightly agape.
If he would mouth that he was missing Reo, it was barely a hallucination. Because the word missing could never depict how much he really missed Reo. Reo was the essence of his life, after all. The only puzzle piece ever fitting. The only light ever bright enough. The only fire ever warm enough.
Seishiro exhaled.
A trifle of the salty liquid was streaming down his cheeks, crushing onto the ground, becoming one with the soil sheltering the remains of Reo. Seishiro knew his life only really started the moment he met Reo. He learned to be alive, not merely how to breathe and how to live.
Rainfall was a result of the decease of many water drops; Seishiro was a result from Reo’s affection; Seishiro’s undead life was the consequence of Reo’s eclipse.
Because now, Seishiro’s life was merely the cavity in his chest. A fraud of a heart still painfully beating in his ribcage, mocking him with a figment of being alive, but threadbare was his life.
Life was merely atrocities and calamities, right? The paradise of adolescence remained only a utopian pipe dream. In fact, only true was the tangible and aching pitter-patter in his chest.
Every step Seishiro had to take was a silent prayer that the earth beneath him would finally splitter and its’ crevices would swallow him.
Seishiro decided to return home; considering, whether it even was a home without the lavender presence of Reo. How to define even home?
Was home made to home because Reo was the one to make it home? Was a home a structure built out of bricks, walls, rooms, furniture?
Thinking about it was a hassle, Seishiro pondered. Breathing was a hassle.
Being alive was a hassle. Without Reo, everything was a pain.
. 🏵 . 🏵 . 🏵 .
Now, there was a flower; thriving in purple, blooming in all loveliness, throbbing in liveliness.
‘Seishiro’, the flower was whispering and Seishiro’s orbs dilated. ‘Reo’, he returned, the phantom of a light smile painting his lips, absorbing the pipe dream in front of him.
The little crimson rose in the garden of the dystopian Eden was watching closely.
‘Reo came back, Reo came back, back to him. ‘ The choir of the flower bed spoke.
Seishiro took a shovel, started digging, thinking about finding a better place for Reo in the garden.
’Maybe, ’ Seishiro thought, ’A place with more sun rays pouring down. Reo should be kept warm, and he should take a bath in the warmth of the sun. Reo would love this. ’
When he seized Reo and took Reo into his hands, warmth was spreading and welling.
’Reo didn’t break the promise’, Seishiro thought, filled with hope, ’Reo really came back to him. Reo wanted to be together with him again. Together, until the very end. ’
It didn’t matter to Seishiro that Reo came back as a flower.
The only thing that mattered to him was the fact that Reo returned.
He came back to their garden, to their home, to their house. The house which Reo bought when early adulthood befell them and Seishiro sulked and slightly complained about rather wanting to live in a big house than a penthouse, after Reo asked him.
Seishiro still remembered perfectly. The luminous smile Reo threw at him, dipped into gushing adolescence. The mellow voice, the luster of his orbs.
He slightly bowed his head to place a soft kiss on one of the purple petals. A kiss to vow everlasting allegiance to Reo.
But in the end, he decided to put Reo back to the place where Reo decided to come back and to bloom. Because Reo decided so. Reo wanted to be here.
It was Reo’s wish after all and Seishiro wanted to make sure to fulfill his wish.
. 🏵 . 🏵 . 🏵 .
’Look Choki. Reo came back to me.’ Seishiro also told Choki the next day, after he took his pet with him outside in the garden and then put down Choki’s pot down next to Reo.
’Reo. Here is Choki. Choki is also happy to see you are back… home.’ Seishiro murmured and he caressed with his index finger one of the petals gently. But just extra gentle and careful; he didn’t want to hurt Reo after all. Seishiro also didn’t want Reo to be mad at him.
Then — Seishiro could swear he had heard Reo greeting Choki.
“Good to see you’re doing good, Choki. Please, take good care of Sei for me.”
Seishiro bit down on his bottom lip.
“I love you, Sei. I miss you.”
Seishiro bit down harder. Blood was spilling from his lips. Don’t say this, Reo. You came back to me, right? You came back because we promised to stay together. Right?
Right? emphatically plead.
Reo remained quiet this time. And Seishiro’s pleading was resonating still. Until it all went null and dwelled quietly.
Please, Reo. Take me with you.
Take him back to adolescence. The little crimson rose said, narrator of the tragedy still unfolding.
. 🏵 . 🏵 . 🏵 .
Now, there was summer. And Seishiro did all to make Reo feel good and comfortable.
He bought extra expensive fertilizer and spent more time than usual in the garden by Reo’s side. He made sure Reo did get enough water on days when it was too hot; he also made sure Reo didn’t get too much water during the rainy season.
But it’s been a while since Reo talked to him. He missed hearing his voice, feeling his presence; feeling the pipe dream of Reo embracing him.
Seishiro missed talking to him.
’Reo. I met Chigiri a few days ago. And Zantetsu last week too. You told me a while ago I should meet others at least from time to time and I did so. But I missed you the whole time.’ Seishiro told him.
Please. Let me hear your voice, Reo. Seishiro sent out a prayer.
“Good boy. My beloved boy. You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”
Ah. Reo finally spoke to him again. Finally. Reo, I missed you.
Reo. I miss you. I miss you.
. ✿ . ✿ . ✿ .
Now, autumn was approaching. The seasons were changing, so was the world around him.
But not Seishiro. Seishiro’s wheels of time long ago stopped turning.
The maple trees were colored red and yellow, crackling foliage in brown gathering at his feet. The world slowly started to wither away; the summer of Seishiro’s second chance of adolescence was fading away.
And so did Reo. Petal by petal. The green scarred by life was fading into gray and dead. The purple was decaying.
Seishiro did his best to keep Reo alive and with him. But every day, he could only watch Reo becoming weaker and weaker.
The once luscious flower, now just a reminiscence of purple; brown eating away the petals, devouring life once deeply rooted in the ground of the wet soil.
Seishiro’s hope and resurrected scintillas were dying away with Reo’s essence, once more in this life of his.
Before him, a maze of an undead solitude was unfolding, discombobulated.
. . .
Seishiro’s eyelashes flutter. He panicked.
He watched the last petal drifting away with the wind, far, far away.
Seishiro was losing the ground beneath his feet.
Seishiro’s life was withering away. Painfully.
. . .
Finally.
. ✿ . ✿ . ✿ .
Now, there is winter. Snow is falling, covering the world in white, embracing the world.
Reo’s favorite season. Without Reo.
Life was a merry-go-round. Turning, turning; until it halted.
And instead of the horses and carriages and cars, only thorns and brambles.
Entwining around your feet, keeping you in place, pricking through your skin, branding your shell.
Painting the virginity of the snow beneath you in echoing crimson.
Painful, painful. Never-ending.
Forever.
. . .
Goodbye Reo. Maybe, our next life will be better for us.
. . .
Goodbye to a world without Reo.
. . .