Summary:

The first one is perfect. A deep crimson, brightening to scarlet at its edges and thick, firm between his fingers. It's undamaged, not even torn at its thinnest parts for all of its violent means of arrival into the palm of his hand, but sticky with saliva making its texture unpleasant. It is, otherwise, a flawless rose petal, like something you would see in a drawing; an oil painting.

It's such a beautiful thing, and so small, to be killing him.

Ilya rubs at his breastbone and clears his throat but there's nothing else to come up; not today. Closing his eyes so that he doesn't have to look at himself in the mirror over the sink he pictures his lungs turning to dirt so that the roots of the rose can plant themselves in him; choke him from the inside.

That's not quite how it works, he knows.

It may as well be.