Wilting Flowers

27: Black Butterflies

The paper containing the bucket list had haunted Grim's nightstand for the past four nights, calling out to him. It had been picked up and read over again and again, but it was a desperate, needy thing, craving more panic than what Grim was already bathing in.

The list, as Grim had memorized it, went as follows:

Watch the ENTIRE Star Wars Saga in ONE NIGHT

Try dragon fruit

Go to a butterfly sanctuary

Try fifteen cocktails (I want to try yours, Grim!)

Try absinthe

Go to an arcade

Go to a cat cafe

Go to LITERALLY ANY big fancy library

Talk to Lucy :(

Talk to parents??? (Probs impossible, it's alright tho)

The list was so easy, which made sense for Immy. She was relatively easy to please, what with little things bringing her so much joy. What eased her into her next walk from the cafe to HQ was a dog she encountered on the way.

The last two items were the problem. Although she insisted that the last one was only if there was a slim chance of ever being able to see them again, it still broke Grim's heart.

Lucy was possible. It might take a whole lot of effort—especially since Grim was absolutely opposed to another party, and Gabriel couldn't host, due to having been blocked—but Grim was willing to put the work in.

He just couldn't shake the feeling that there wasn't enough time. Immy would die any day.

Any day.

He couldn't shake the talks they had on Tuesday, either.

'Amata.' 'I need you.' 'I want you.' 'Wow.'

She knew what she did to him. The 'wow,' however, proved Gabriel's theories and Grim's fears true: he was actually doing something to her. He wasn't going to forgive himself for dragging her through the same hell he was in, and secretly enjoying it. Something had to be wrong with him. How could he just watch?

There had been many close calls over Grim's two days home. He tried to give more distance to her, for safety. He refused to push away her affection, however, and would melt as soon as her arms were around him. Too weak kneed to walk away, too infatuated with her to ignore it, he did the selfish act of reflecting the behavior.

And so, he lay on his bed at 2 AM, his body itching for more of it.

Confliction plagued his mind. The only emotions that didn't seem to be warring were guilt and longing.

The guilt was eating him alive, and the longing was joining in the feast.

He wanted nothing more than Immy and death.

Neither wish was attainable. Such was the curse of the reaper.

He tossed and turned, never certain of whether or not he would get any sleep.

When he heard the screaming, he decided.

Snatching his gloves off the nightstand, he threw himself out of bed, into the hallway, and up the stairs with ease.

Tugging his gloves on, he swiftly opened Immy's door, stopping it from slamming against its stopper.

"Immy," He breathed.