Flowers were wilted and didn’t look good in that vase at all. Tohru smirked for a moment at his own thoughts and with a short seemingly random movement the vase went down to the floor. Souji jumped up from his chair, arms wide and awkward as if trying to catch what’s already broken.
“Oh my, what have I done…” he muttered. Souji sent him a glance. Ah, good boy. They both knew he didn’t care. Just got… annoyed. Fed up with this stagnation. This feeling of rust and decay. White noise, not working channels, empty beer cans, sweet sickening smell. Souji, appearing at the same hour over and over again, doing his shit, bringing flowers and candies and one-way tickets to the other side of the window (cinema tickets actually, but always for one person only). He probably wanted Tohru to leave the apartment, go somewhere, have “fun”, chill out, whatever. Maybe he wanted the house empty to steal something. Not material, surely, but something. If there was anything left in Tohru to steal… Or maybe he just wanted him to lose his mind. That last part was the most successful so far.
Looking away, Souji sat down to the shatters and touched them with bare hands: thin trails of blood showed up immediately. Tohru chuckled, looking at the lost expression on his face. Stale greenish water was spreading out between the shatters, glistening. Wilted flowers looked like dark green worms or snakes with grey furry heads, visions from nightmares daring to slip into reality. Reality? Ha.
“I can’t… Can’t collect them…” Panic gathered in Souji’s eyes, not spilling yet; his hands scratched and wounded, going through the broken glass again and again, unable to pick any bit up. A sole tear ran down his face as he stared in disbelief at his blood-stained hands.
Tohru sighed and smiled. Tomorrow the room would reset, and another sheaf of flowers would be back, piercing his eyes with its consistency, piercing his nose with the deep, rich smell of decay. He walked closer, stepping on the glass bits, sitting down to him, extending an arm to catch his chin by the tip. Souji had the softest skin and the sweetest lips that tasted corruptingly sweet, just like spoiled honey (if only it could go bad).
When Tohru bit those lips against their will it felt magnificent, breathtaking, cathartic. When he held this face despite the struggling, it felt like he was finally doing something right.
Real Souji Seta was in Tokyo. Real Tohru Adachi would have died from not eating anything for days. Real flowers wouldn’t die an hour after they have been placed in a vase of fresh water. There was no way any of this was real.
But there was no way out, too.
He felt sick and hungry; trembling, alone. Inside out, he poured on the kitchen floor.