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They'd tell you love was kind, sweet, beautiful... and she was—beautiful—but she was cruel, and the taste she left in your mouth bitter.
All akuma were different, and yet very much the same. They were passionate, dangerous, and twisted. She was a monster—a disease.
It only took a moment—a touch of her fingers, a brush of the thorns along the hem of her bridal gown, or a breath of the gold dust that rose with her every step.
Flowers bloomed, not rooted in earth, but around the heart. It tangled, it strangled, it grew—burst in vivid colors as they spilled from the mouths of the dying, laying them a bed in which they would rest.
Many were red. Many were roses. Many were hers. It was soft, thornless, but deadly all the same. The lady's rose was rich, with petals so many they didn't leave any room to breathe, the bright red broken only rarely by blue so deep it voided the light.
"Damn it, Chat, breathe!" she begged him.
She couldn't understand why he would hasten his demise. Why he closed his teeth and let it take him over. Why he wouldn't let it out, not even to scream.
It hurt, she could see it. His love for her was hurting him. Still, he held on. Held it in like a secret. But he couldn't keep it, because he had to keep fighting! If he fell, he risked losing the miraculous, losing the battle.
He couldn't fall. He couldn't let it show—
He can't know! She can't know! No one could know... It would end them—it would end her. And he'd sworn...
"It has to stay secret", she'd told him, "Anything that happens here—"
"I know. I will keep it with my life. I promise."
He couldn't allow himself to fall, but he had... and he knew... he had to keep it secret. One more secret: himself, his princess, and his heart. It was just supposed to be one more secret. He could do that, he'd thought. But now... now he wasn't so sure.
"Get up!" she screamed, "Fight!"
He fought—
Until he fell.
Ladybug would've cried in relief when she finally saw red escape from his lips, but the sight only brought further despair. This wasn't the red of petals.... This red bled from his lips slow. It didn't fall to the ground or catch in the wind, instead staining his neck as it spread.
This was wrong... Ladybug's roses were heavy, but they didn't hurt as they killed. Something else was killing him—ripping him apart from the inside!
A gentle brush, followed by a piercing shock and the flowers spilled in a silent confession.
Red.
They were red.
But it was the red of blood.
And beneath, a gentle pink...
A rose...
Simple.
Sharp.
Wild.