Final part hMHm ( '･･)ﾉ(._.')
~~~
The room was deathly silent after the shuddering bang of the door, dust hung in the air heavily. There was no movement whatsoever, it was as if every particle in the air had suspended.
"Makki?" Matsukawa called as he waded through the dark, calling out to the pink-haired male, where in the utter silence his voice seemed magnified.
He wasn't going to lie when he said he was scared - if it wasn't evident in his pale face, then he could feel himself lose his sanity over the wild thumping of his heart - that uncontrolled, erratic panic that accumulated with the lack of response.
"Makki? You... there?"
He hasn't answered his calls... no one's seen him in days.... He was terrible the last time I saw him-
At the end of the hallway was a lone door - ordinary wooden backside but with something unknown beyond it.
Matsukawa stopped, sniffing the air; there was the familiar yet unnatural smell of something sweet and... coppery. Almost like blood.
Every pad down the hallway echoed his heartbeat and he wiped a trickling bead of sweat on his neck. The door swung back with a vivid squeak and the ravenette grimaced. But not before his eyes fearfully widened.
All the breath was stolen from him. He couldn't move, his metal-blood solidified at the sight of a pure nightmare in front of his eyes.
"M-Makki...?" A hoarse whisper and he slumped to the ground.
Impossible. This is impossible. No no no no-
But it was there, right in front of his eyes; he was there.
"Makki." The sound that came out of Matsukawa's throat was horrible; a silent word of plea that held a vast ocean of horror and anguish.
An ocean he wanted to drown in.
Hanamaki's body was a desecrated shrine; a gorgeous Chrysanthemum plant had burst wildly out of his chest through his grey hoodie, it's flowers filling the room with its rich fragrance and colour - the boy's hair and the flowers the only spot of pigment in the deathly pale room.
Hanamaki's face was painted with his final moments - cheeks stained heavily with tears from his bloodshot - now empty - eyes and blood was all over the place.
The same eyes Matsukawa had looked at the other day.
The same eyes he'd looked at as he laughed and waited, looking for a desired reaction in those amber iris'.
Those same iris' which were now lost. Gone.
Matsukawa's whole body was shaking, he trembled and bowed his head as he crashed to the ground, then he heard a scream. A guttural scream that would have shaken the walls, shattered the windows and powdered the glass.
A scream that ripped out of his throat in pure fear and denial.
He wanted them to; he wanted to break everything, he wanted to shatter everything.
"Makki! Makki! Makki!"
An unending cry filled with tears and pain- such brutal pain. It was almost as if Matsukawa was the one that had a plant bursting from his chest.
Makki, Makki, Makki, Makki-
Hanamaki's chest was a horrible show; beneath his bony collar bones was nothing but a terrifying dark display of blood and flesh girded stems that proved their rigidity by amorously blooming perfect flowers. Roots entrenched into his lungs, which looked as if they were willing to hold onto every little space available to be alive. The redness of every petal drinking on Hanamaki's lifeline.
It must've hurt....
He must've been hurt.
Matsukawa could barely look at the pink-haired male through his gaze of heavy tears, regardless he got up and with trembling fingers, cupping Hanamaki's face, "Makki, Makki, please, wake up. Wake up, please."
He broke again into sobs, grief dragging his heart into a depthless sea, where he couldn't feel the passing of time. He stayed by Hanamaki's body.
"I need you, please, please. Wake up, Hanamaki. Please."
Matsukawa cried; he cried a million years worth of tears, he cried and screamed; denial, pain, confusion and sadness.
But also, a little guilt.
He felt sick and even more painful as he picked up Hanamaki's cold hands, holding them up while trying to breathe, trying to think.
But it was all just a white noise.
Matsukawa blindly pried Hanamaki's stiff hands open, curling his fingers around the other's in a sick way of gaining closure.
He felt sick. So sick.
There was a little stiffness in Hanamaki's hands and Matsukawa unfolded his fist. His own hands struggled with white fingers to reveal a hard substance laying on his best friend's palm. Curiously, he opened it, slowly flattening what he thought was a piece of paper.
His eyes caught the first eyes, and soon enough he was enveloped into the flowing letters that were inscribed with Hanamaki's signature handwriting.
Dear Mattsun,
I somehow knew you'd be the first one to find me, but if this isn't Matsukawa, please leave <3. Mattsun, if you've found this then that means I'm dead. Really poetic, isn't it? Lol, it doesn't suit me.
I want to tell you something - I wasn't able to tell you this because I was a coward; afraid of rejection, afraid of your reaction. But now that i don't have to wait for anything I'll just say it out (or rather write haha).
The cockiness in Hanamaki's writing was so evident; so loud that the ravenette could hear it in his mind. Matsukawa's tear-filled gaze didn't need clearing to read the next set of words, which were written in an obviously bigger font. But every word was a fire-tipped arrow to his heart.
I love you. I LOVE YOU. I fell in love with you the day I met you. I fell in love with your smile, your eyes, your everything. The way you made me laugh and the way you're just too damn perfect.
Well, too damn perfect for me.
He couldn't stop reading, he wanted to stop - to tear the paper to shreds and burn it and shake Hanamaki awake just to hear him say those words out loud.
You see, I fell too deep, too deep in love with you, to the point where I got sick. Terribly sick. For every time I think of you, or love you, a flower blooms, and so you see.
"That's why the flowers were there."
Matsukawa breathed out a sob, sniffling and holding back the urge to simply break down.
Not to make you feel terrible but simply put, loving you killed me, or rather the fact that I wasn't loved back. It's ok, don't blame yourself, I knew it was futile.
There was no way someone like you could've fallen in love with me, and that's ok. I brought this on myself, I'm the one to blame. It's all my fault.
"No... no, no no-"
I'll always love you Matsukawa Issei, I know this sounds super sappy pls forgive me. But I want you to know the truth because you deserve it. I gave you the flowers in hope that something might sprout between us (ha, pun) but I only ended up in more pain.
I love you, I love you, I love you so damn much it hurts, even now as I write this I see blood and petals ripping out of my chest. I love you so, so so much-
Matsukawa lost the rest of the sentence in a horrid splatter of blood, a mockery of his sentence's invisible period. He bowed his head down, fisting the paper as hard as he could, pouring his frustration out in all the incorrect ways.
He cried - his chest hurt, his eyes hurt but he cried.
He wasn't directly to blame, but Matsukawa Issei had Hanamaki's blood on his hands.
On his heart.
A debt he could never recover from.
He gave himself the whole night before he mustered up the strength to pick up the telephone on his way out of Hanamaki's apartment, calling the police under false pretense while he was blocks away watching his best friend's body getting wheeled out later.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"It's all your fault."
Matsukawa didn't know Oikawa could cry so much - when he saw the brunette on the bridge he thought that Oikawa had given all his tears to the ground - to Hanamaki.
But it turned out he had a lot more to spare.
And right now, he was kneeling over on the bridge, clutching Hanamaki's last letter and sobbing violently, wheezing and howling, as if in pain.
-Well, he was in pain.
"It's all... it's all your fault." Oikawa spat out, still hunched, rocking himself gently while still holding the crumpled letter.
"I know."
As soon as Oikawa heard Matsukawa's flat response, he glared up, two angry red eyes boring holes through the ravenette's soul.
"You knew and you did what?"
Matsukawa had never seen Oikawa this violent either, it was as if Hanamaki's death had snapped something within him - he didn't think twice before he shot his words; his cruel and deadly words.
"I did nothing."
Oikawa looked away and so did Matsukawa, not having the strength to consider the other a friend even after all they'd been through.
So this is what it's like when friends separate...
It hurts.
"Oikawa, I could've loved him-"
"No, you couldn't have."
The absoluteness in Oikawa's voice stunned the other silent. Oikawa continued, "He was getting worse by the day, so even if you claim you loved him a little before the end it's all lies. Because in the end, he died."
There was no spite in those words; only plain facts. The very same facts that threatened to obliterate Matsukawa.
Hanamaki was dead because he didn't love him.
He was dead because he didn't love him.
Because he couldn't love him.
A sudden urge to be sick overcame Matsukawa, but he suppressed it, resorting to blind blinking.
"How's- how's Iwaizumi?" Matsukawa barely whispered.
"I don't know."
Silence wrapped them as a gentle breeze blew over the landscape. And with the breeze came the inevitable passing of time, swirling with pools of cool air and spring leaves, brown serrated, peacefully twirling down with the ceasing steps and the slinking dip of the orange sun.
Matsukawa sat there in the dark; alone and cold - Oikawa had left a long time ago. He didn't know what time it was, all he knew was that it was too dark to see the road without light.
He felt empty, tired and just...
Miserable.
He could hardly recount how he reached home, a silent journey with eyes downcast, his field of vision entirely fixated on the ground detached and ghosted. He heard the sound of car horns, all variably pitched and irregular; he could see the lights flash by the edge of his eyes; he could feel his overgrown dark curls tipping painfully into his eyes.
And yet, he couldn't feel anything.
There was nothing.
-----
(TW: self harm and sht tonne of blood)
Matsukawa always found solace in his beige walls, white stripes that ran from top to bottom and exuded a burned musk cologne that was his signature.
But now it smelt like flowers and vines.
And of Hanamaki.
The lights were off when he entered his room, it was dark and cold, like it was nowadays, the dark circles in his eyes spoke of many sleepless, miserable nights.
Nights he spent looking at Hanamaki's flowers; dry pressing and few and crying over the rest, he didn't bother cleaning them free of his friend's blood. Sickeningly, but sweetly enough, it was something he treasured.
His room was a mess, clothes strewn everywhere and most of all; letters. There were papers crumpled and torn, most of them carried angry, scratched lettering that spoke of one chant repeatedly.
A single cry he would never in his whole life ever utter without having a thousand hot needles pierce his wounded heart.
Hanamaki.
Matsukawa had dropped out of university. His absence didn't raise suspicion, most people assumed he was still grieving his best friend's death.
Every day he would enter his bathroom and uncover a new set of razors. With the hopes of feeling physical pain, with the hopes of drowning in his own blood and experiencing Makki's final moments, to live in his best friend's dying emotions, he dragged lines along his wrist.
Shedding a few tears at first and biting his lip against the pain soon turned to cries for more, and delirious laughter as he slipped on his crimson floors.
Now it was nothing.
I love you.
He could barely see through his thick vision, blurry and unsteady as he lost pounds over pounds of blood.
And as if following an ancient ritual, carried out by countless ancestors before him, right on the stroke of midnight, Matsukawa talked.
He spoke a diary entry he was too overwhelmed to write about - he was even terrified of picking up pen and paper, as the action immediately spurred thoughts of his coral haired best friend, the letter, the sight of his deific body.
"Hey, Makki, tell me," Matsukawa's voice had turned unrecognisable even to himself in a span of a few days. As if he was witnessing the execution of someone drenched in guilt, he heard his own voice echo through his bathroom.
"Tell me, how am I supposed to live now? Now that I've killed you."
He had received several texts from Oikawa and Iwaizumi - the latter had travelled abroad for further studies and Oikawa was simply worried. Either way Matsukawa felt no need to contact them, now that he'd lost that one person that connected time all together,
"Makki," he said, not even fighting the hot tears that once again flowed the same track down his face, carrying the slightest tinge of red, "How do I move on, like a normal human, after killing you. I've killed you. Even though you told me I didn't. I did, didn't I?"
He bowed his head, accepting the piteous looks of the Gods that looked over at the voice of a broken man which, however, did not go anywhere beyond his tiled walls. It hit him back, more excruciating than before.
"Couldn't you have waited for me, Makki? Couldn't you have said those things to me to my face?"
Then, Matsukawa screamed, he squeezed his eyes shut and cried, he cried his one prayer over and over, as if a God's name, over and over, in hopes to summon him from the dead and fill him once more with light and love.
The razor in his fist bit down his flesh, embedding itself deep, but it didn't compare to the pain in his chest, that repeatedly struck every time he screamed Hanamaki's name, the echo of his cries piercing his ears and drawing blood from there, as if every part of him coveted death.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, his view fogged red and tears still flowing, ignoring the blood from his mouth he stumbled to his desk, falling heavily in the form of a beautiful shrub whose petals still glistened as if on behalf of Matuskawa's tears.
In the little light available, it stood glorious, being tended to religiously by Matsukawa. For him, it was his shrine.
"What- what do I do Hanamaki...? I want you back, I need you back. I- I cant breathe-"
He coughed, eyes shut once more against the pain, his chest hurt, his eyes hurt but he still cried.
He cried for dead love. He cried for his damaged heart. He cried for what he knew and couldn't do and finally, he cried for what could've been.
"Makki... Please, come back."
Matsukawa's last plea was barely above a whisper, unable to draw one more breath.
"Makki, I love you."
Matsukawa Issei, aged nineteen died on the twenty seventh of January, found dead in his apartment at 5 in the evening.
Cause of death: Hanahaki.
------------ the end---------
AN: 27 Jan is hana's bday (*￣3￣)╭
(☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞
(。・∀・)ノ
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ヽ(✿ﾟ▽ﾟ)ノ
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(⌐■_■)
Ok congrats on creating a shit show, im awesome hel yeah, now lets pop a beer-
⁝⁝⁝ -this is the spell checkers comment-
damn i don't think i've cried this much since IAL or GIE. author istf ur a bitch this hurt me so much. to the people who read this~ please form a cult with me so we can murder the author~
thanks for reading ⁝⁝⁝
^i hope she doesn't find this acc holy crep-(⊙_⊙;) ⚆_⚆