ｃｈｒｙｓｓｉｅ

ｒｅｇｒｅｔ

At precisely four in the morning, Grayson crept out of bed into the kitchen. The tile was cold against his bare feet, but he didn't care much. His eyes were tired, but he doubted he could sleep more anyway.

He hadn't slept much at all.

All he could think of the entire night was how warm and kind and beautiful his flower was, and how he didn't deserve her. Not a killer like him.

But god, he was selfish, and he had ignored it. After all, she seemed happy. Though she had wilted a considerable amount at first, she had begun to bloom again. She loved him, or at least she said she did, and she acted like she did. That was enough for him.

But he couldn't stop staring at that damned article.

He must have read it at least a thousand times in the past twelve hours. Maybe he had initially thought that it would get easier the more he looked at it, but it had only gotten worse. There was an awful sort of stone in his chest, weighing him down.

Placing his phone over on the counter, he stood back up and made his way over to the cabinet, where he pulled out a bottle of rum. It was from his birthday, and not at at all what he preferred, but it would have to do. He hated to drink, especially in the middle of the night, but he felt so terrible he could see no other solution.

He would only have a sip or two, after all.

Glaring at the molasses-like colour as he poured it into his glass, he sorely wished that it was a cognac. He much preferred the spice-filled taste to the sickeningly sweet one of the rum. He still downed it in one gulp like it was cough syrup - unpleasant and with a slightly bitter taste behind it.

He filled the glass again after a moment of thinking. A few more drinks wouldn't hurt anyone.

(He knew good and well that it wouldn't be just a few, but that fact was ignored as the liquid seared a path down his throat.)

After repeating this process several times, he felt as though his mind was fuzzy enough to let him forget. Shakily, he put his glass in the sink and made his way back into the room, stumbling back into bed. His Chrysanthemum stirred in her sleep, but didn't wake.

He wondered what she thought of him. What she would think if she knew about Edmund.

Maybe she would be happy that he was gone, or horrified at Grayson's actions. Maybe she would understand that it was an accident, or maybe it would just make her even angrier that he had been there in the first place.

Human emotion was unpredictable. It was probably why Grayson hated it so much. He had tried so very hard to control it his entire life, to no avail. And it was ironic, seeing as his own emotions were destroying him from the inside out.

filthy fucking criminal -

scum of the earth, deserves to die -

killer -

He clutched at his Chrysanthemun, burying his face into her hair like that would do something to hide him from the awful things he had done.

Eventually, he fell into an uneasy sleep, but that wasn't much better than being awake.

His fears chased him either way.

~

It was a rare occurrence when Chryssie woke up sooner than Grayson did. So rare, in fact, that Chryssie felt the need to shake him a little to make sure that he wasn't dead.

A soft groan of misery proved that he was very much alive.

"Are you alright, Gray?" she asked him, the tiniest bit worried. After all, they were supposed to go to a new hotel, and if he felt unwell, he might not be capable of driving. She was also concerned for his general well-being, considering that he looked quite zombie-like.