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It's been weeks, and he's still not quite settled in here.
He walks through these halls and thinks of a child's laughter, aching.
He walks through these halls like a ghost, like something buried long ago that's come back to haunt the people that live in this very place because it is where his heart belongs. He wonders what else belongs, casts aside visions of the pain that shouldn't so well.
Wylan has done everything Kuwei can possibly think of to try and ease him into living, but Kuwei doesn't feel it yet. He thinks some part of him died before he was even born, and that he's just been in a state of constant decay ever since he left the warmth of his mother's womb and was forced to venture into the cold the world keeps close.
Wylan has been a constant, his only constant, and Kuwei both cannot bear it and doesn't ever want to let it go. He hadn't then, when they'd been younger and at each other's throats, but he'd not known what else to do. He still doesn't.
His heart is a cavernous thing, broken and bruised and frozen solid from his time under Fjerdan arms.
Wylan is warm, but Wylan burns, just like the gift Kuwei has lived with all his life.
It is a curse, in both senses, and he whispers it to himself like a prayer until the Saints finally answer, confirming.
Kuwei wakes with the flowers in his throat, wakes as they take firm root and begin to rise with the early morning sun.
He cannot breathe. His mind empties, and all he can think about as he tries to get his lungs working again without pain bursting at the corners of his eyes is the day that they will refuse his demands.
He has not been demanding with Wylan, but this feels like one in itself. He knows who they are for, he is no fool. He reaches a shaking hand into his mouth and down a bit and plucks bloody wisteria from the sides, and that is quite simply that.
He doesn't do anything about it. He waits for Wylan's eyes to stop searching, and knows he only looks so intensely at his face in the days following because it is about as grey as Jesper's eyes.
Contrary to popular belief, Kuwei was never interested in Jesper. How could he be, when Wylan was right in front of him? Wylan, so much about Wylan, too many things to name. He'd kissed Jesper because he wanted to understand — how can Wylan like Jesper, want to kiss Jesper's lips and hold him close, and not do the same for Kuwei? He'd been at the piano because he wanted, like a child, to see if Wylan might join him, that a common interest beyond their work that Wylan actually enjoyed could be a ground for friendship, for more between them?
He wasn't in love, and the flowers didn't come then. He wasn't sure what he wanted, but he was sure that he wanted Wylan.
He cannot escape his past, and he cannot escape his present. His future is nowhere in sight, not anymore.
The flowers are here, now, and they will never leave him. He will make a beautiful garden out of his insides, perhaps a meadow, and he will keep his fire at bay. He refuses to destroy it, to destroy them. He will die for any greater cause than he's fought for, because he may be a cynic, but all Kuwei ever wanted was to be loved.
He's dozing on one of the parlour sofas, blanket hastily draped over him, when he hears soft footsteps pad their way in. It's Wylan, of course, because Jesper is much louder in the way he walks, and the staff of the Van Eck Mansion are much more hurried and business-like. He wonders when that will become of Wylan, and hopes he doesn't survive long enough to have to see it.
He feels a cool hand press to his forehead, can only hope Wylan doesn't notice the red at the edges of his lips, threatening to bubble up and over with purple cascades. He feels him lean down, bring the blanket up to Kuwei's shoulder's, a hand on the side of his face that is terribly, horribly gentle.
"Rest," he whispers, as though commanding Kuwei right into his grave.
It's one of many instances, in the coming days. It doesn't matter that they leave him running to whatever bathroom is closest until the toilet bowl or sink counters are stained with red, until he's retching as the pretty little lilacs hang from his mouth as he coughs and coughs and the seat or rim is left melting from the sheer force.
It's a reminder not to let him lean into it. Wylan will squeeze his arm at 11 bells, and at 12 noon he'll find him and Jesper giggling, giddy as they kiss and let their hands roam all over each other's bodies. He's not sure they know the walls aren't thick, and he supposes that's part of the punishment.
His dreams are plagued by what it might be like to press his lips to Wylan's own, their laughter intermingling instead of acid, constantly spitting at each other. He dreams he's not alone, and wakes in a sweat, choking again on a fantasy.
Marya finds him at his worst. He quickly becomes unintelligible, muttering nonsense as the flowers grow and he starts to loose so much blood and air he enters delirium. He cannot thank her enough — for taking care of him, then, when he cannot do it and when she knows Wylan—
"I see the way you look at him. I see that want. I know you cannot have it, and so I will give you this."
He's questioned, after, as is expected. He doesn't answer, and they don't pry.
He knows the staff know, too, perhaps thanks to Marya. If so, she said something dreadfully kind and definitely overestimated him.
Purple turns red, and that's when he knows it's almost over.
Wylan stays close by the entire time, and Kuwei feels like it just expediates the process. He takes to leaning his head on Kuwei's shoulder, takes to rubbing circles into his arms and nuzzling close, all Saints, and Kuwei shakes with the effort of keeping his flowers down.
He's in a daze one day, eyes having sunken in and his hair fraying when he goes up to Jesper with a clump dyed red and asks him if he can turn them orange. Jesper's eyes widen in alarm, Kuwei's breathing labours, and soon he's with him as he crumples to the floor, holding him tight.
He stupidly utters Wylan's name, and he watches as it lands.
He looks at Jesper and he feels nothing.
He looks at the sunrise, thinks of the sea. He looks at the sky. It's all a painting.
"It's him, yeah?" Jesper asks, when he's in bed and cleaned up, when sense has reclaimed him.
Kuwei nods. There's literally no point.
"I thought… it's not me?"
Kuwei shakes his head no.
"You kissed me."
"It was the closest I could get."
He makes a closer friend out of Jesper, even if he knows that there's guilt carried. Both of them are wise enough to realise that feelings are not a thing that can be controlled.
Jesper urges Kuwei to tell him.
Kuwei refuses time and time again.
Jesper threatens to do it himself, and Kuwei threatens to set his hat collection on fire. Jesper doesn't care, which is really annoying, and it takes a lot of senseless begging for him to give in, Kuwei on the floor, an image he uses against him.
Kuwei refuses time and time again until, eventually — finally — his time comes.
A song in his ears, one that he knows from childhood, floating from a tin whistle. Wylan's flute, silver metal. He lights his hands like matches, and all flame must die.
Wylan and Jesper have gone to meet with Kaz for an upcoming job. Marya has gone to the lakehouse for some time, and the staff are nowhere to be seen. Kuwei is alone, which is nothing new and feels very fitting.
He walks through the halls, out to the garden, the wisteria. Jurda flowers lie in a bed beside, and he wails. He misses them, pitifully, misses everything and there's just so much and—
His mind slows. He coughs, weaker. He knows the stems, the buds are here to stay. He listens to them grow, crackling through. He imagines Black Veil, their time, the grave. He hopes they let him keep this one.
Saints, he's hysterical. Crying until… well, until they're not his anymore. Until a hand slips in his own, someone tries to haul him to his feet, but his legs are vines.
Wylan stares down at him, terrified. He stares down at him, and Kuwei mutters it.
"It's you."
Fire and water make stone. Something solid. Wylan, Kuwei, Jesper.
A headstone and two causes.
From the dirt below grows flowers that visitors pick and take home to die.