Arthur's fingers traced the curve of the petals, soft and red against the pallor of his hand. He hummed, the tune old and unfamiliar, nameless in the backdrop of the quiet. The petal curved beneath his hand, folding in on itself, creasing diagonally down the side.

The tune faltered and faded away as he stroked the petal with the broad of his thumb, trying to smooth out the crease. He gave up when it remained stubbornly there, hesitating for a split second before plucking the flower from the stalk, stem between his fingers.

One of the thorns dug into the sensitive flap of skin between his digits, but he paid it no mind, merely pulling it away and watching the blood trail down the back of his hand, over the ridges of bones and tendons that stuck out unattractively through his skin.

"You can complain that every rose has its thorns, or you can rejoice the every thorn has its rose," he muttered, watching a drop hang precariously on the jutting bone of his wrist before falling soundlessly to the ground below.

Phantom lips between his fingers, he looked down to see a faery, delicate fingers on his own. He watched, wordless, as it flew away, catching the green of his eyes on its small form. He watched it go before turning back to the gleaming trail on the back of his hand, drying against his skin, making the flesh around it seem so much paler than it really was.

"But every thorn cuts all the same."

Look guys. I live.

So have a drabble now. That makes no sense? But since when does my writing make any sense at all anyway?

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