Whitefish River i never went to prom, now i’m stuck on the dance floor just holding your hand

@Ronnie
nts: 4w 6d

Every day is worse than the last. Cramps and aches always crush his abdomen in the morning and continue to do so throughout the day. Medicine helped, but no herb in Rusalka's supplies were strong enough to keep the nausea away forever.

Cupid felt just as trapped on the plateau as he did on the mountain. But it was worse now. He could not run to the heavens to escape lingering eyes.

And his belly, oh that was the worst part. It was at the first stages of preparing for his future children. It began to swell. It looked so gross.
This was gross.
He was gross. He wanted it to stop.

Cupid fled from the plateau at dusk in search of some solitude. He spent all morning and the afternoon at the flooded river. It was strange of him; he hated this place. He hated the water and the mud and the silence. But he stayed, pacing along the bank for hours.

After about the thousandth trip around the river, he spotted something different in the snow. A flower, it's petals perfectly blended into the surroundings. That was strange; flowers were not supposed to bloom this early.

Cupid approached it slowly, sniffed it, stared at it. No fuckin' way. It looked like a poppy. A strange gift from the winter. He shouldn't be consuming the seeds, but he is. One seed, then another. Maybe they'd make him feel better. Maybe they'd kill him. 

What's the difference?