The little ribcage inside his body was sprouting, Hanamakki faintly thought. His body no longer felt like his own. It felt like a garden of flowers, a fountain of weeds, an outgrowth of trees just starting to grow. And by the gods did it hurt.
The flowers made it clear they did not care for his fragile, fleshy body. His ribcage was opened, cracked like a walnut by insistent weeds that grew and grew until they sprouted out like an ugly surprise. The vines wrapped around his ribs like a painful hug, thorns grew into the bone and dragged painful scratches in his flesh. His lungs were not spared either. They were dry and shriveled, devoid of air. The flowers had sowed their seeds there, after all. They needed all the nutrients they could to grow big and strong.
The stinging, almost chalky sensation of a blocked airway was nothing new to Hanamakki either. He couldn't even just breathe without feeling sharp, pinching pain. What air came out was heavy with the scent of iron and grass, raw and foul tasting on his tongue.
The garden of his feelings could not be contained in a body who hid them, secreted them, and pushed them away as though they were common bugs. They needed to be seen, needed to be recognized by any unlucky witnesses. Butterfly weed with sticky orange color, purple petunias with deep gummy pigment, and yellow carnations with a bright searing hue clashed together. They formed a nasty, unpleasant collection. The warring colors fought and clashed, all speckled with the lightest dusting of red.
He was very, very tired of fighting with his own body. He was very tired of fighting his feelings. He was tired of living with this burden. Hanamakki was bone-deep exhausted. Seeing his teammate’s horrified eyes gave him a burst of adrenaline he desperately needed. He became acutely aware of Oikawa’s watery eyes, Iwazuimi’s look of horror, and Mattsun’s deep-seated panicked expression. It only further fueled the pain in his chest.
This isn't how he wanted them to see his garden of misery.