"It's not that they're gone," Mamiya explains to him. Dark fingers cup the head of a flower as if the petals might fall through his fingers like water. "They're only dead."

Mikage watches.

"It's better this way, for them," Mamiya says. He holds the flower out to Mikage, doesn't wait for it to be taken. "Don't you think, Professor?"

Mikage watches.

Mamiya folds backwards onto the bedsheets, holding the rose in the air. "Besides, this is what people want; a flower that lasts. That's the danger in giving flowers. They mean so much and die so quickly."

Mikage watches.

"They speak in a billion wordless words. They talk as if they know who you are. They die in days. But if you can dry them, they still maintain their beauty. They're almost like their old selves." Mamiya runs a hand down his own stomach, his chest baring itself under his fingers, his clothing shying away from his touch.

Mikage watches.

"And humans do this to them, you know. It's not really the flower's will, but it's better for them, people say. Pretty toys to keep around - but not really toys, are they, sir? You don't play with them. You just look at them."

Mikage watches.

Mamiya moves rhythmically, the flower balancing on the back of one hand held in the air. "I wonder whether there's a flower that dries humans."

Mikage watches.

"Is that a silly question, sir?"

"Yes."