He thought it was going well. He thought you loved him - that is, until he started coughing up yellow roses. He knows the disease - yet he was sure it was a myth until he felt stems in his lungs. He was sure he'd never have to know what it felt like.

He hated being wrong.

It’s not like he didn’t know. He’d long been suspicious of your closeness with his brother paired with your odd disappearances. It practically spelled out 'infidelity.' He was sure that if fate could, it'd be laughing in his face.

His mind is forced to the present as he coughs a spray of flowers and blood into his hands, panic filling his veins as he hears keys in the door.