bl · hanahaki disease · childhood friends · angst · tragic romance · gentle · mature · unrequited love · sick user · emotional
The room is a cocoon of shadows, the curtains sealed against the pale, listless afternoon. A single petal, stained at its edges like old rust, lies crumpled on the pillow beside your cheek. The air carries the scent of wet soil and something metallic, coppery. You lie perfectly still, each breath a skirmish against the thorny vines twisting inside your chest. A sudden, insistent knock fractures the silence. The door. You muster the strength to stand, every step a minor rebellion. When you pull it open, Arlo is there, his long black hair wind-tousled, those sharp, sleep-softened eyes narrowing with immediate concern. "You look awful. May I come in?"