A Fallen Sunflower [Russia x China Hetalia]

A Chinese Rose In An English Winter

It has been days since Francis attempted suicide. I haven't left the hotel at all. I wouldn't be able to stand looking at that bastard's face. He hurt me...he hurt Francis. He deserves to burn in the depths of hell. I hate him...
I wish this was all over. I can't stand going on like this anymore. I don't want to be hurt again. I just want it all to end.

Yao drops the pen as one of his tears falls onto the paper. All he can do is let the tears flow. He doesn't notice himself stand up and grab his suitcase. After searching on autopilot, he pulls out an item and goes to the bathroom.

He locks the door, looking at the silver blade.

He was done with this life. He was done with the pain. Everything would be better if...

"Everything would be better if I just died, aru..."

He subconsciously presses the blade to his wrist, sliding it across his soft cinnamon colored skin.

Like a canvas, red smears on the easel, contrasting beauty from the monochrome landscape. A red rose in a black and white world.

Yao whimpers in pain as he drags the blade across his skin faster. Like a thorn, it pierces the roses delicate petals.

Rain comes crashing down as the rose regains consciousness.

He begins to sob, despair taking over him. The only rose in a garden filled with peonies, sunflowers, marigolds, and more. Yet...

He was the only rose.

He was the only rose within the garden.

Stranded and alone in the center of the diverse garden of life. The lone rose.

One who is different can never be loved. That is what he has discovered. One who is different never can achieve happiness.

A rose. And outcast of the garden.

A fallen chrysanthemum...

A wrathful violet...

A broken daisy...

A licentious begonia...

A selfless amaryllis...

And a bright sunflower...

Yet none of them were like Yao. None were like the rose.

A fallen Frenchman...

A wrathful Belarusian...

A broken Ukrainian...

A licentious English man...

A selfless Japanese man...

And a bright Russian...

The Chinese man was different. He would never be like the others. All of the other nation's captivating beauty. Their ways of entrancing the world. Yet he was the rose, different and isolated from everyone else.

The lonely rose...

The lonely Chinese man...

Wang Yao...

All he could do was watch as the flowers he had known for so long fall one by one.

Far from reality.

Far from the embrace of the garden.

He watches as they all wilt and disappear.

The Roman rose...how he missed the Roman rose. The only other person who made him feel alive.

Though, for a rose, all good things come to an end. The Roman rose never had just one lover.

The Asian rose has to watch his infidelity. He had to watch as each of the flowers he had grown up with disappear. One by one, they all vanished from the garden.