A Nest Of Bugs

Vocaloid - crimson eyes and bleeding hearts

SHIP: Fukase x VFlower 
TW: abuse, violence, blood, unhealthy relationships, implied SA, gore, guts, attempted murder

Deep in the woods, they hold hands, wearing matching flower crowns.

One of them holds a forever bloodstained bat, the other has a plastic bag full of porcelain dolls. The dark surrounds them, the sun just barely gone, and a flashlight ensures they stay on the path. The campground is mostly unused as the weather first turns warm, leaving the sites empty and the fire pits free for anyone who happens upon them.

A pile of sticks sits in the designated area already, and all it takes is a match to set it off. Fukase sets his bat on the ground and turns off the flashlight, watching as Flower tosses the first doll onto the fire - clothes and hair and all. She is from Goodwill, she smells of old people's attics, and it adds a fragrance to the cool night air.

The leaves rustle above, wind blowing through them. Flower and Fukase sit together, staring at the doll as it burns and smolders, and their fingers slowly creep together until they are holding hands.

Fukase kisses Flower on the cheek, feeling closer to them than he has in a long time. The fire is warm. He tosses the next doll on and watches romance burn in the dancing orange flame, whistling a tune to the birds preparing for bed.

And before long, Flower is asleep with their head in his lap, his fingers in their hair, tracing patterns along their scalp. He looks above for the stars, looks down at the fire, takes a deep breath of burning doll.

He thinks that maybe he is happy here.

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His eyes are crimson, burning. Hands are shaking. His entire body is trembling, clutching the bat so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. He's shaking so much that Flower has to pull him away, out of the house, warning him not to get himself killed. They manage to scoop him up and carry him off, his eyes glazed over, picking up speed until they're far enough away they don't need to run anymore.

And as soon as they set Fukase down, he turns on them. He raises the bat, swings it, hits Flower square across the face. They stumble back. Hands up to protect themself. He charges at them, doing everything he can to hit them, tears building up and spilling over in his eyes. Flower is speechless. All they can think of is to try and get the weapon away from him.

He's screaming incoherent syllables, knocking them down, standing on their chest and beating every part of them he can find. And they know his anger is misdirected. It has to be. So they keep their hands up over their face and take it, waiting for it to be over. Because once Fukase grows tired, he'll crumple to the ground and cry, and then they can take him somewhere safer.

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"I love you, Flower."
Fukase whispers to them late at night, in the safety of their room, knowing their father is out on night shift. He lies on their couch, his wounds bandaged up, watching Flower scrub the blood off his bat. Cataloguing every new bruise, every mark made by him.

And Flower, across the hall in the bathroom, mumbles "I love you" back. They set the bat down and begin to patch themself up, tired and aching.

Fukase feels his heart floating. He's happier than ever because Flower takes every hit and stays as tired and apathetic as ever. Because Flower understands him and his terrible impulses. Because every time he hurts them, Flower takes him home and patches him up, and he feels safe again. And they've never complained or said he "uses them as a punching bag." Because they understand.