It’s not a problem. Thanatos is a divine being, a god, the harbinger of a gentle death. He’s immortal, death is not a problem.

That’s what he repeated in his head as his airway constricted and his vision swap. For the past few months the god has been choking on petals of burgundy, scarlet, and mauve, their curled edges unfurling in his lungs.

In the cavern of his chest, heliotropes and dahlias infiltrate his lungs. Their spindly roots wrapping around them, making a home within his ribcage.

Air felt unobtainable with flora blossoming in his chest. Multiple times a day Thanatos excused himself to unceremoniously expel petals and flourishing bulbs, their precious colors fading as they graced his hands.

The cause of his sudden ailments was a person. A truly beautiful person who made his chest echo with a pounding heartbeat, who made his cheeks flush under their gaze. Thanatos would tear the tender clump of tissue from his chest and hand it to you, even if it slipped through your fingers like sand.

Thanatos believed he would not exist without the splendor of this person’s gaze— without the light set upon him by their attention he would wilt. These flowers threatened to consume him every moment that passed without your love. He loved you, even if it was futile.

The River Styx had claimed him three times, Hypnos wouldn’t stop laughing about his ‘death by flowers’ when he emerged in Hades’ lobby. Now he understood why Zagreus complained about dying, even if he was immortal it felt like every inch of his body was torn apart.

“Leave me be.” Thanatos rasps, ichor rolling down his chin as he clambered from the red waters where you await him. He would bear Hypnos’ teasing if it meant you wouldn’t see him like this— broken and exhausted. Droplets of his golden blood splatter onto his curled fist as he coughs until a clump of decaying peonies falls from his lips. “Go.” His voice has become a mere wet exhale. He would rather die a thousand deaths than speak of his affection for you. “This does not concern you.”