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"Masa."
It's not real, he thinks, the words rolling against his tongue but never reaching the air.
"Masa.."
It's not real, he repeats. It's quieter now, his strength and resolve melting down into the oil slick of his chest. It's not real, but it could be. That's his fault. That's his fault. It's his.
"Masa..."
It's not real. She's not vengeful. She's not unkind. She was the balance of the Kujous, he was the tipping point. This is not real, the dagger sharp side of his brain says, the side versed in psychology and science. This is guilt. This is guilt. No, this is vengeance, the side of residual spirits and dust says, the side that's lived this five times over. This is payback in kind, dear Masamune.
"Masa....."
The smell of gladiolus and forget-me-nots and roses - always, always roses - fills his nose as a hand clamps around his throat. It squeezes - tight, merciless, so unlike his memory in every way - and he relents. Decaying flowers catch in his chest, sprouting more as he's torn apart, mouth open in a silent scream. Is this how she felt? Is this how she died? The flowers blossom in his brain. They bloom and the petals brush across his face - the bridge of his nose, the Cupid's bow of his lips, the edges of his eyelashes. His thoughts are clogged with carnations and heather, and they race in sweet-smelling panic. This is real, this is real, this is real. This is not, this is not, this is not."How could you... Masa..."
It's not real. It's not real, even if it was what he deserved, for being the brother that he was.