#slightly...

—

the first night was the worst.

you were sitting on your bed silently, pale pink sheets pooled around you as you stared at your hands, trying to process everything that had just happened, when suddenly a ragged, wet cough tore through you. it felt as if something was clawing up your throat. then you coughed again; the sound was loud, repulsively watery. you barely had time to get up and sprint to your small bathroom before your body doubled forward and something warm and red came out.

blood.

it bloomed in the water, tinting it a light shade of scarlet. you stared down, eyes teary and droopy, tired. a metallic taste settled on your tongue and, before you even had time to wonder why you had just coughed up blood of all things, another coughing fit took over you. this time it was harsher, and it had your hands clutching anything they could to keep you balanced on the cold tiled floor of your bathroom.

your eyes squeezed shut as up you coughed up a lump of something, gagging as you did, hearing the small splash it made as it fell into the toilet. a strong grassy (and slightly vanilla) scent overtook the room, mingling with the previous iron miasma the blood you’d coughed up had brought. a wave of nausea washed over you, and you found yourself heaving and hacking up even more of whatever you had previously.

as the pain in your chest finally calmed down, you opened your eyes, your breathing quick and shallow and strained. a light sweet, nutty, and vanilla flavor mixed with the irony taste of blood lingering on your tongue. you glanced down at what you had coughed up.

flowers.

dainty, small, and shaped like stars. they were the color of chalk, pure white aside from the small splatters of blood on the petals.

why had you just coughed up flowers?

you hoisted yourself up, staggering slightly in the process. you rushed to your bedroom dizzily, grabbing your phone from the tangle of sheets on your bed and unlocking it with trembling fingers.

the first thing you saw was your search history: how to make bam yang gang, 4nemo playlist, what does bam yang gang tasye like, can i substitute chestnuts with sweet woodruff…

ignoring the rest, you quickly typed up hwy am i cougjfkn up flowers and pressed search.

a moment passed, and then the screen lit up.

hanahaki disease.

an illness where one coughs up flower petals due to unrequited love. left untreated, it may lead to suffocation and death. current cures include surgery to remove the flowers or the reciprocation of feelings. the surgery will remove all memories of the love interest, and is not 100% guaranteed to work. if gone wrong, the surgery can lead to death.

you stared at the screen with a blank expression, trying to process the words on it. your hands trembled slightly, phone shifting slightly in your grip. 

unrequited love.

when had scaramouche stopped loving you?

—

the second night, you visited the doctor.

the small examination room smelled sterile, like antiseptic. you sat on the edge of the cold table, legs swinging slightly, clammy hands clutching each other tightly in your lap.

the doctor typed something on her computer, back turned to you.

“hanahaki disease,” she said simply. “it’s… a little rare, but not unheard of. it used to be much more common in the past, but less so now. it is caused by unrequited love, of which causes flowers to grow in the victim’s lungs. sometimes the victim’s love may be requited, but their belief of it being unrequited may be so strong that it causes the flowers to still grow.“

she told you the three options. you already knew them, but hearing it aloud made your stomach twist: suffocation, surgery, or requited love. and the surgery wasn’t a guarantee; it had a 50% pass rate and, even if it worked, it would erase everything regarding your now unrequited love from your memory.

it would erase his voice, his face, his favorite animal, his eyes, even the fact that he preferred bitter things over sweet but still loved bam yang gang with all his heart.

“is there a way to slow it down?” you asked, voice cracking slightly. if death was practically inevitable you wanted to slow it down as much as possible. your fingers clswed at your sleeves, pulling the fabric over your knuckles and fidgeting with it.

she looked at you with something close to pity. “avoiding emotional stimulation might help, or avoiding the person who caused it,” she offered. “but there’s no reversing it once it’s started. you need to think seriously about your next steps.”

you left the clinic, lungs feeling heavier than before.

—

the third night, you saw him again.

it wasn’t on purpose, obviously.

you had found yourself wandering the streets past sunset, wrapped in a scarf you hadn’t worn in years and a jacket too thin given the weather. wool itched at your neck and frost nipped at your skin, but it was something to do.

you turned a corner. the convenience store near your home was still open, warm golden lights casting long shadows through the frosted glass of the doors. you decided to go inside, body quivering slightly from the cold clawing at you.

you stepped in, a sudden rush of warmth blowing at your face. you smoothed out your hair, frizzy from the wind blowing at it outside. you glanced around, and then you saw him.

he was seated at one of the corner tables used for eating, head tilted back just slightly, one thin hand resting loosely beside a styrofoam cup. the tips of his fingers tapped against the side with a careless rhythm. his other hand held something brown, small, and square between his fingers, near his mouth.

bam yang gang.

his lips curled just faintly around the first bite, his sharp eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if even sweetness was something he fought against. 

that was always the way he ate it, like it hurt him to savor something so sweet.

your feet didn’t move, frozen at the entrance, watching as he chewed slowly. he didn’t look up, didn’t see you. you didn’t know whether to feel relief or grief.

the only reason you took a step forward was because the cashier shot you an odd look.

you wished you could taste the same sweetness he did at the moment. you could only taste the bile rising in your throat.

you pressed your hand to your chest, as if that could keep the petals down.

—

the fourth night, you ran into kazuha.

you hadn’t meant to — then again, you hadn’t meant to do much of anything lately. you had stepped outside once again, trying to escape  the cloying scent of grass and vanilla and metal your room was filled with.  the heavy ache in your chest had dulled into something quieter but always present. even the petals had stopped being surprising.

you’d stepped into the same convenience store again, not because you wanted to see him but because you craved familiarity. or maybe it was just cold outside and the convenience store was the closest place by your house which was warm.

you were halfway down the snack aisle, staring blankly at a row filled with chestnut-flavored jelly when a familiar voice startled you, their words lilted, a smile evident in their voice.

“hey.”

you turned, startled, and suddenly you were looking at… kazuha?

his face lit up when he recognized you, though there was something sheepish behind it. his platinum hair, normally neat and tied in a small ponytail, was let down and partially covered by a hood. his cheeks were tinged slightly pink from the cold outside, a plastic bag swinging from one of his hands, filled with boxes upon boxes of instant ramen.

“long time no see,” he said softly, voice almost drifting like a whisper.

you both stood in awkward silence, the hum from the refrigerators nearby the only thing breaking it.

“how’ve you been doing?” he asked gently, voice lower now. there was something cautious in the way he looked at you.

you swallowed. “not great.”

“figured,” he said. “you look like shit.”

 then he winced, a hand lifting as if to catch his own words. “sorry. that came out wrong.”

you forced a slight smile.

you followed him to a small table in the corner of the store. it was the same one scaramouche had sat at the night before.

you sat across from kazuha as he pulled out one of the boxes of ramen he had. he offered you one, and you shook your head. you couldn’t eat anything these days.

“he’s… not handling it well, you know,” kazuha said after a moment, standing near the convenience store’s little hot water dispenser, grabbing it  and filling the cup to the line.

you stared at him blankly. “…what?”

“he won’t admit it,” kazuha murmured, eyes distant as if he were recalling something far away. “acts like nothing’s wrong, but he’s been picking fights with everyone lately. xiao said he almost broke a mirror in the dorms over nothing.” he shook his head with a soft, rueful smile, strands of hair brushing his temple. steam curled around his face in lazy tendrils.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. you were afraid that if you did, you’d start crying.

kazuha glanced at you, smile instantly dropping. “you’re sick, aren’t you?”

you froze.

“…it’s that obvious?”

“no,” he said quietly. “but i’ve seen it before. long time ago, back in inazuma. it doesn’t always look the same, but… there’s a certain look people get when they have it. yeah. i know.”

you looked down at your hands.

they sat limply in your lap, knuckles pale and fingers trembling. you squeezed them tighter. 

“how long?” he asked after a pause, voice so gentle it made want to start tearing up just by hearing it.

“a few nights.”

kazuha exhaled slowly, eyes flicking across your face. “and it’s already this bad?”

you nodded, gaze glued to the floor. “i thought it was just a cold at first. but then i started coughing up petals the same night.”

it was how something so terrifying, so painful, so fucking horrible, could still be beautiful.

“scaramouche… he’s always liked flowers,” kazuha mumbled, mostly to himself.

silence lingered between you both after that.

outside, wind howled past the windows of the store, tugging at the weather-worn plastic signs taped to the glass. you glanced at them absently, watching them flutter. things fell apart so easily.

“you need to talk to him,” kazuha said quietly.

you turned back to him silently.

“what?”

kazuha hesitated, poking at his noodles. “i’m not saying he’ll say what you want him to say. but… you have to tell him.”

“he left.”

“he’s scared.”

“so am i,” you said, louder than intended.

your voice cracked a bit at the edges, and you startled yourself with the sheer rawness of it.

“i’m scared all the time, kazuha,” you said, voice shaking. you blinked, eyes glassy and eyelashes sticking together, wet. “i wake up with blood on my sheets and flowers literally surrounding me every single day. i can barely breathe half the time. i can barely eat. i’ve been coughing so hard i see stars. what’s he fucking scared of? what does he have that he has to fear?”

tears started spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them, nose reddening. your gaze flitted to the ground.

kazuha didn’t say anything. he just reached over the table and gently placed his hand over yours.

you stared blankly at your shoes. your chest felt much too tight again. you pressed a hand to your sternum, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, nails digging in. it didn’t help. the pressure was still there, hot and insistent, like something writhing underneath your ribs and in your lungs.

you doubled forward suddenly, the bitter taste of bile rising sharply in your throat. a harsh cough tore through you, wet and ragged, shaking your entire body. the pressure in your chest intensified, as if something was twisting and clawing at your lungs, refusing to be held back any longer. your hands flew instinctively to your mouth, trying to stifle the cough, but it was no use. you gagged, the taste of something metallic and distinctly nutty flooding your senses.

kazuha’s eyes instantly widened with alarm. without hesitation, he dropped his ramen box onto the counter and ran to your side, hand firm on your back as you bent forward, gasping for air. the warmth of his touch contrasted sharply with the cold chill settling in your bones. tears pricked at your eyes, your body trembling. star-shaped petals spilled out of your mouth and onto your hands, smearing blood and spit onto them.

your coughs subsided into shaky gasps, but the ache remained — deep and relentless. when your breathing steadied, you leaned weakly against kazuha’s side, eyes dull with exhaustion. his hand remained on your back, gentle but unwavering, and he looked down at you with a gaze full of nothing but pure concern.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered around your hands, voice barely audible. you choked on a sob this time instead of flowers.

—

the fifth night, you could barely get out of bed.

the ache in your lungs had settled into something near-constant now. every breath you took felt shallow. pale-pink sheets stuck to your skin with sweat, and your mouth still tasted like iron and nuts and that awful sweetness you once loved but now couldn't stomach. a petal clung wetly to your chin.

you didn’t remember falling asleep, but you must have. when you had opened your eyes, the sky outside your window had dimmed into something bruised and purple. the sun was basically gone and the stars were still nowhere to be seen.

and then you found yourself outside again.

you left the house wearing only your nightshirt and slippers. no coat, nothing to protect you from the wind.

you walked aimlessly for a while.

and then you saw him.

he was standing by a streetlamp near the corner convenience store, head tilted to the side, a steaming styrofoam cup in one of his hands. his hood was pulled up, casting a shadow over his sharp features. even in the dim light, you could see the familiar violet of his eyes.

he looked up before you could turn around and disappear.

his expression shifted the moment he saw you. he blinked slowly, lips parting. not quite surprise, something much more akin to dread.

“…you look like shit,” he said.

his voice was detached, but there was a hesitation behind the words that gave him away.

you didn’t reply.

you stared at him, throat raw and hot with unshed tears. the wind bit into you, and you regretted not mustering up the energy to wear something warmer.

he looked at you, then away, then back again.

“kazuha told me,” he muttered. “about the flowers.”

your heart stopped.

“didn’t believe him at first,” he said. “thought he was lying or being poetic or some shit like always.”

you stayed silent.

his gaze dropped to the ground between you. he took a sip from the cup idly, eyes narrowing slightly as if lost in thought. 

“then i saw you just now. and… yeah.” he looked back at you, a flicker of guilt in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual nonchalant expression. “you look pretty fucking sick to me.”

“i-” you tried to say something, but your voice cracked. you pressed a hand to your throat, the ache pulsing like a heartbeat.

he sighed, tugging his hood back a bit. “i came all this way because kazuha wouldn’t leave me alone,” he admitted, voice low. “he’s been on my ass. ‘go see her,’ he said. didn’t expect to run into ya out here, though. was g’nna wait a bit til i went to your house.”

you started to speak, but a cough spewed out inside of words. you doubled over, the world narrowing to the rasp in your lungs and the way his eyes darted with concern.

his cup hit the ground before you even realized he’d moved. dark liquid splattered onto the ground, and the faint aroma of roasted beans lingered in the air. steam curled lazily from the remnants in the cup, twisting upward like smoke caught in a breeze.

“hey-” his voice cracked mid-word as he caught you by the shoulders, steadying you. his hands were cold, trembling just a little. “breathe. shit, just- just breathe, okay?”

you nodded, but the motion only made the dizziness worse. the cold dug deeper, threading through your veins, and you felt impossibly small under the streetlight’s harsh glow.

he exhaled, the sound sharp. “you shouldn’t even be outside,” he muttered. “you’re gonna…” he stopped himself. swallowed the word.

die.

you knew that’s what he’d meant. you almost wanted him to say it.

the silence stretched, thin and fragile as glass.

he shifted, jaw clenching. “you should probably get that checked out,” he muttered, as if the words could make up for the silence between you.

you tried to laugh. it came out cracked and ugly.

“yeah,” you rasped. “not like i already have! i would’ve never thought to get it checked out! do you think i’m fucking stupid?” despite your harsh tone, your eyes were glassy.

scaramouche flinched.

for a moment, neither of you said anything. the world felt painfully still, save for the soft hum of the streetlight and the dull rustling of trees due to the wind. you could feel him watching you, even when he looked away.

“you shouldn’t be out here,” he said again. his tone was flat again, that same detached indifference he’d perfected ever since he stopped caring.

“you shouldn’t have come,” you whispered back.

his head snapped toward you at that. something flickered across his face — hurt? anger? regret? you couldn’t tell anymore.

“yeah,” he said after a beat, voice tight. “guess i shouldn’t have.”

you looked down at your shoes, the cracked pavement blurring. you wanted to say you missed him. that it still hurt. that you were sorry for whatever you did that made him pull away. but the words wouldn’t come. only another cough, wet and weak.

he moved then, instinctively, one step forward, then froze again. you saw the hesitation in his eyes before he pulled back.

“take care of yourself,” he said quietly.

and then he turned.

the space where he stood felt colder once he left, like he’d taken the last bit of warmth with him.

you pressed a trembling hand against your ribs, trying to steady your breath.

you wanted to call out his name, just once more, but the sound died in your throat, swallowed by the night.

—

the last night, you wandered into your kitchen.

mustering all your remaining strength, stepping over piles and piles of dirtied flowers, you walked to your kitchen, bare feet padding gently across cold tile. the lights stayed off. you didn’t have enough energy to to turn them on.

you weren’t hungry, not really. just tired. you’d barely slept; every time your eyes closed, you dreamt of him leaving and the silence that came after.

you leaned against the counter, arms limp at your sides, breathing slow. your gaze flicked to the small glass jar sitting on the highest shelf. empty. it had been for weeks now. you didn’t even need to check.

you remembered when you would sit in the kitchen in the tired hours of dawn, the whole world hushed around you. scaramouche would be sleeping quietly in your bed, face squished against one of the fluffy pillows. you would pray that he wouldn’t notice you were gone. you would go to your kitchen. you would go to your kitchen and just simply stare at the empty jar where you had once kept bam yang gang, the jelly scaramouche brought home every so often. it was one of the only sweets he liked, and, before you could even try it, you’d find out he had scarfed down all the jelly. you could only imagine the taste. you still didn’t know. the only reason you had wanted to try it was for him, to understand what exactly he liked. but, if you had to guess, maybe it was similar to the flowers that were slowly killing you. the slightly nutty taste, the lightness of it.