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Petals.
Damned petals, everywhere. They lined the white porcelain of the toilet, blood staining the bowl a pitiful shade of red. You could feel them plastering the insides of your mouth, the bitterness of them turning sour with the taste of iron.
You coughed once more, watching the water of the toilet waver under a new onslaught of half-torn flowers. Sobs tore through your body, an automatic response to the vomit and blood and pain that gripped your chest.
It was poetic justice, you supposed.
Karma for falling for a man much too dense to ever realize that you were so inconceivably in love with him, had fallen so painfully hard for him, that a floral disease had taken root in your lungs.
You couldn’t help but smile tearfully down into the mixture of bloody plants. Hell, it was kind of pretty to look at, if you looked past the suffering it caused. Little white petals stained with your blood. The romantics would be impressed.
You spat out what was left of the petals stuck to the insides of your mouth, wiping a dribble of drool from the corner of your lips. You’d had enough vomiting for now.
The sound of the toilet flushing was enough to get your stomach churning again, convulsing in an attempt to purge the flowers that were no longer infesting it. Swallowing flower petals certainly wasn’t a very healthy option, but it kept you from coughing them up for longer periods of time, so you could deal with it.
You checked the screen of your phone next to you. Three in the morning. Nobody else was awake to hear the sound of your retching. Even if they had, they’d probably assume it was from a night of stolen alcohol with Mina. After all, the two of you had recently turned eighteen. Nobody in their right mind would turn down the chance at a drink.
The hallway was silent when you crept back out, tiptoeing back to your dorm room. You could already feel the wind begin to rattle the stems taking root in your lungs, but the flowers would need a good half an hour to grow back. Enough time for you to get a bit of shut-eye.
It had started three months ago.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Nobody ever did. It was a piece of shit luck that led to this; to your sorry state. But then again, it was your own fault for letting something as weak as an emotion rule your body. That weakness would be your downfall.
But you couldn’t help it. Not when he’d been so… stupidly lovable.
Well, really, he wasn’t all that lovable. Nobody in their right mind would look at a man like Katsuki Bakugou and immediately think he was anything other than an asshole. Nobody except you.
Man, when had you become such a sucker?
You hadn’t liked him, not at first. Your first year at Yuuei, man , did he grate on your nerves. You had mutual friends in Mina and Eiji, since the three of you came from the same middle school, but you’d eventually grown close to the others in the group as well.
Bakugou was… well. Bakugou was Bakugou. He kept a distance, and you respected it. You weren’t crazy like Ei was.
But somewhere around your second year, something had changed. His insults had never really hit close to home for you, but suddenly you almost liked to hear them coming from him. You watched as he interacted with others, saw the way in which he encouraged his classmates in his own aggressive way. Saw how he cared for his friends. For some reason, it got to you. Pushed past all your barriers until you were forced to confront the feelings that had grown in your chest, taking the physical form of hanahaki flowers.
Now you were here, sneaking back to your room at some ungodly hour in the night after turning up your guts in the bathroom. How quickly things had escalated.
You could get the surgery. You could remove the tumor and this, all this pain, it would all go away. But so would your feelings for him.
And, despite how you griped to yourself about it, despite your constant complaints about how having a crush sucked, you didn’t want that. Anything but that.
You festered instead. The flowers grew, day by day, hiding in your lungs and stirring each time you saw him, until you thought they’d finally kill you.
Some days, you felt death would be an acceptable alternative to the mixture of pain in your lungs and your heart when you thought about him.
Other days weren’t so bad. Other days he’d look at you and the rest of the group that had so courageously dubbed themselves the ‘Bakusquad’ and would smile slightly. Nothing big, not like the sadistic snarls he liked to flash as he beat up his enemies. Just a small one, softer, a hint of a hint that maybe he liked you guys back. That he held a bit of pride and camaraderie in his friends. That would start the pain in your core anew, always, but you could deal with it. You were going to be a hero, after all.
If you survived that long.
Because you couldn’t just tell Bakugou. You couldn’t march up to possibly the most intimidating student in your school that you liked, no, loved him, and if he didn’t love you back, you’d die.
How awful of you it would be to force that sort of a thing on anyone. If he didn’t love you back, which you were almost certain he didn’t (because Bakugou loved no one besides himself), then you were basically condemning him to manslaughter. That was what it was, wasn’t it? He’d have to live knowing he was the reason you’d die.
That and the horror of having to tell him might permanently alter your friendship with him, unstable as it was. What if he hated you for it? Hated you for falling so helplessly in love that your body forced suicide upon you, because you were weak, and if there was one thing Katsuki Bakugou hated, it was weakness. If you were weak, then he hated you.
You’d rather die on good terms than isolated from him and the rest of the Bakusquad, because you were sure they’d take his side if things ever came to that. They’d named themselves after him, for fuck’s sake. Who were you? Nobody.
You were at your door, staring into your room. It was dark in there. You’d sprinted out of it after waking up in a cold sweat from your fitful sleep, blood and bile and petals already making their way up your throat. There had been no time to flip on a light. You knew the path to the bathroom well enough by now, anyway. The past three months had done well to get you acquainted with it.
Your stomach decided your route for you. It grumbled, feeling devoid of anything after spilling it all into the toilet, your dinner mixed into the horrible petals.
A midnight snack wouldn’t hurt, as long as nobody caught you. It might even wash the taste of vomit and blood from your mouth. You turned on your heel and headed back down the hallway, into the common room.
You were secretly grateful for the kitchen provided to the dorms. It wasn’t like you or the other students of class 3-A could really leave the campus at any time. Having the kitchen around allowed all of you to make food together, or at least store leftovers from lunch and outings at restaurants in the fridge.
Fishing through the refrigerator, you found the omurice Denki had made the other day, settling for something that wouldn’t upset your stomach too much. A petal caught in your throat as you microwaved the leftover food, and you choked into your arm.
Your sleeve came away red, blood dotting your elbow. Damn. You’d have washed it off, but you were tired. Maybe tomorrow, you’d use that bleach stick Sero had left in your dorm. It worked wonders getting stains out. You made a mental note to thank him at some point before you died.
Sounds from the boy’s hallway drew your attention as you picked at the plate of lukewarm leftovers, and you let your eyes slide to the entryway to the boy’s half of the dorm building. Sometimes you could hear Bakugou blast his music over there, too caught up in his own world to care about anyone else’s study schedule. He never did it past 9:00 at night, so you wondered if he was aware of curfew. It could be he actually went to bed around that time. Sources told you it was the latter.
You decided to turn your attention back to your food, assuming that whatever was happening didn’t have to involve you. You’d just eat your omurice and be on your merry way back to the nearest bathroom, ready for another round of soul-crushing vomiting.
Someone you couldn’t see stepped out from the hallway, making his way over to the kitchen. You assumed it was either Tokoyami or Midoriya, both of the two boys being chronic insomniacs. You found a bit of solace knowing there were others that weren’t dead to the world when you were trying desperately not to die. Sleep-deprived solidarity. Ha. There was some poetic nature to that. Another point for the romantics.
A gruff voice pulled you from your amusement, immediately sending your innards into turmoil as he growled, “move it, extra.”
A bit of omelette fell from your chopsticks as you turned to give your classmate a dumbfounded look. “I’m offended,” you said, struggling to sound normal even as your chest started to heave at the unexpected meeting. “I haven’t earned a special name yet? Getting called ‘Shitty hair’ is leagues above the ‘extra’ moniker.”
Flowers dug their nasty little roots in when you saw him, twisting painfully into the tissue of your lungs. You were almost rendered breathless, the sight of his sleepy face, his mussed-up hair sending the flowers into a frenzied overdrive.
“Fuck it,” he hissed, bumping you away from the silverware drawer. “I’ll call you whatever, just get outta my way.”
You tsked. “Sleep makes you slightly less unpleasant to be around. Roger.” You wiggled your chopsticks at him, stomach too riled up to accept any more food. “Do you want my omurice? I lost my appetite when I saw your face.”
Bakugou hesitated, glancing between you and the plate of steaming food, half-eaten. He grunted. “You sure?”
Of-fucking-course the only time he would show any concern for another person, even if it was a mere courtesy, would be in the middle of the night. Right when you were in the middle of a flower attack, too. Perfect timing.
You winced, feeling the flowers begin a new, much harsher assault on your body. “Yeah,” you said weakly. “All yours.”
You watched as he dragged the plate out from between your slightly shaking arms, claiming the food for himself.
“You know what,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to speak without letting out a mouthful of incriminating flowers, “I think I’m going to go back to bed.”
It was amazing, the effect he had on you. Simply appearing before you when he wasn’t supposed to sent your lungs into a meltdown, the flowers inside nearly ripping their home apart to crawl up your throat, as if escaping their cage of flesh would do you any good. His eyes, his hair, his damn pajamas made you feel like you were losing a battle with the ocean, riptide pulling you under the crashing waves as the flowers filled you up inside.
You stumbled away from the counter, hoping to whatever god above that you could keep it in until you were out of sight, somewhere where you could just heave and he couldn’t see you.
“Wait.”
His voice rang out from behind you, pausing your efforts to escape with one single word, because if anything was more important to you than the infestation of weeds taking up your lung space, it was him.
So instead of fleeing to the safety of the bathroom, you just… stopped. Turned to look at him. There he was. In all his 3:00 am glory, looking like he’d just woken up from a restful sleep. Good for him.
“Your eyes.” He looked down at where you stood, your weak legs struggling to support you.
Could he see that? Could he see how hard you were holding back your coughs? Damn. Was your discomfort that visible? You didn’t want him to see you like this, not now. What if he thought you were uncomfortable because of him?
“Were you crying?” His hand reached out, but he paused as you flinched away, the flowers pushing their way further into your chest. “Tell me why.”
You idiot. Why’d you only start caring now?
“School. Tough assignments and the like, you know.” You brushed him off casually, knowing that simply telling him that you hadn’t been crying wouldn’t work. The man was nothing if not stubborn.
But he wasn’t satisfied. “You look like shit.”
“How kind of you to notice.” You desperately turned away, feeling blood beginning to gather at the corners of your mouth. “It’s getting late. I’ll let you enjoy Denki’s leftovers.”
“No.” He reached out to you, and that was it.
Some people go quick.
A shot or a sword to the chest, maybe some other sort of physical trauma. Others, slow. Cancer wrecks their bodies from the inside out, modern science doing nothing to stop the methodical march of the malignant tumors.
Death was never predictable, you found. It had fascinated you as a child. A force so mysterious that it could take any person, no matter their personal strength, from this world in a variety of ways.
A hand on your shoulder was enough for you.
All it took was one minuscule touch, and all the months you’d been desperately trying to hide the stupid fucking disease were wasted. Gone, in the blink of an eye, fluttering from your lips in the shape of tiny, bloodstained petals. Flowers fell from your lips, a fountain of fatal emotion. Stems tore the inside of your mouth apart. You collapsed under the weight of your own body, feeling them surge forward.
Boy, there sure were a lot of flowers. You wondered if all that really fit inside of you. Just how big were your lungs?
But then Bakugou was there, and you weren’t thinking about your lungs anymore, because you were thinking about him , and how he was looking at you, eyes wide, like he was panicked , or something. The thought was enough to make you smile. Bakugou, panicked? Please. Hell would freeze over before your fearless leader let any emotion other than anger slip past his facade.
And then he was holding you, and you were pushing him away, because, no, stop, you’ll get blood on your clothes.
“I don’t fucking care,” he hissed at you. “What the fuck is all this?” he asked. He was holding the petals in his hands, the fucking petals, blood running down the crevices of his palms as he held them up to your face. “Were you hiding this from us?”
“Hanahaki,” you coughed, your voice crackling from somewhere inside that awful forest of flowers. “Couldn’t tell you guys. Didn’t want you to worry.” It wasn’t a lie. It was a partial truth.
“Who? Hey, tell me who, damnit.” A hand came up to lightly cup your face. “Shit, this is a lot. How long has it been going on?”
You held up three fingers. “Three months. Can’t say who. Would rather die.” You grinned up at him, the movement making the stems of the flowers rub the flesh of your throat raw.
He watched in awed silence as another wave of petals forced their way out of your mouth, physical representation of unrequited love you’d never learned to share. It really was beautiful, you supposed, to be in the hands of the one who caused it all.
If you were spitting up stems, then the disease had progressed faster than you’d thought. You’d heard of people lasting up to three years with the flowers, yet you’d lasted barely three months. Another weakness. It was laughable.
You remembered that civilian you’d saved during your internship, once. He was a middle-school student, not much younger than you. You’d been able to snatch him from a hanging bus during a bridge collision, saving him from a long fall into the depths of the water below.
He’d come up to you afterward, begging for your autograph and telling you that you were his new favorite hero. That he’d never forget you, and was excited for when you became a pro.
You had promised to remember him too.
Guess you’d have to go back on that promise, a little. You wouldn’t be making it to the pro level, not if the flowers currently forcing their way from your body could help it. Sorry, kid. Maybe he’d find some other hero to fawn over. Maybe that hero would be Dynamight. Poetic, huh?
“Hey, hey, can you hear me?” A hand on your shoulder brought you back, and you heaved up another bout of blood and the barely-digested omurice you’d eaten not minutes before.
“Bakugou.” You clasped his arms, feeling him grip at your shoulders to steady you.
“I’m here.” His eyes. He knew. He knew you probably didn’t have much longer. God, it killed you to look at him like this. For some reason, his eyes looked wet. “I gotta tell you something.”
“Carry on,” you laughed before wheezing. Man, that did nothing for your sore throat. At least you’d get to listen to Bakugou. You feared he’d truly be the last thing you’d hear because damn, you weren’t certain you were actually breathing anymore. Was the sound of shaky breaths coming from you, or him?
“I don’t know who caused this to happen to you, but I promise I’ll find out, and I’ll fucking kill them. I promise.” His voice came out strained, hard to hear over the sounds and lights that were starting to appear from behind him. You guessed the two of you hadn’t really been quiet.
“Don’t.” You clutched at the front of his shirt. It was slowly turning red. God, you hate the color red.
“Shut up.” His eyes met yours, and you felt your heart twist. “I don’t want you to leave us, not yet. I actually like having you around.” He placed an arm on your shoulder as one of the other students rushed in the room, the sound of their voice muffled by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. “I never said anything because I hated the thought of being teased for it, but I don’t fucking care anymore.”
“What the fuck are you saying, you ass?” Your voice was barely more than a broken whisper, petals and stems and leaves and blood breaking through the words.
Bakugou’s laugh was harsh, short breaths in quick succession of one another before he bit down. “I’m fucking jealous. Of whoever you’ve got the hots for so bad that you’re willing to die for them.” He ran a hand through his hair, blood smearing into his ash-blonde locks. “ I love you, dumbass.”
And then you died.
That was the point of it, wasn’t it? Hanahaki disease was an affliction that affected you because there was someone out there you’d die for before you’d let a surgery take the memory of them away. That was the cruel beauty of the situation. That was the fucking point.
You died right there in your tormentor’s arms, his part in your death unbeknownst to him, his requited love unknown to you, and then you breathed out that final petal and came alive .
Sound burst around you. Sound, then smell, then taste, and all the other shit that came with being a living, breathing person.
You tasted ash on your tongue. Bittersweet petals and iron blood and omurice. Stomach acid ravaged the cuts left behind by the disappeared stems, and you choked down the bile that had risen in your throat again. You could smell the blood, smell burnt sugar and vomit and burnt sugar again because he was holding onto you, your face buried into his neck.
And there was his voice, speaking harsh orders to someone behind you because he was, if anything, a leader, and he was taking control of the situation, as always. Always so demanding, even in a time like this.
What was this, exactly? Not really an emergency, per se, though you could see the feet of a few of your classmates gathered at the outlets of their respective hallways. It seemed a few came to rubberneck what could possibly have Bakugou yelling frantically at three in the fucking morning.
Your sense of touch came back, you could feel his warm hands rubbing your back, could feel as he pressed a wet towel to your forehead. Were you sick? You didn’t feel very feverish, though your mind was racing about a thousand miles a minute, asking every possible question.
You didn’t even think this much during the surprise math quizzes Ectoplasm liked to give out.
Of course, the first words out of your mouth were “what the actual fuck?”
❖❖❖
You fidgeted beside Ei, the wait for the graduation ceremony making you restless.
“Quit squirming,” Katsuki’s gruff voice came from your other side. He slung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his armpit, bumping your forehead with a knuckle. “You’re making everyone else nervous.”
“You’re nervous, too,” you hissed at the man. “Your gross-ass sweat is getting all over me, you oaf.” You shrugged your way out of his grasp to lean into Eiji’s shoulder, smiling.
“I swear it’s like we’re not even dating,” you told the redhead. “He even buys me my least favorite flowers on Valentine's day.” You pouted. “He makes fun of my figurine collection.”
“He admires you for it,” Ei whispered back to you. “He used to talk about it all the time after we visited your room for the first time in our second year.” He poked your shoulder. “He had the hots for you for so long.”
“I can hear you.” Sparks popped in Katsuki’s palms, and you smothered them with your own hands, wrapping your fingers around his thumbs.
“Just admit you’re a sappy romantic,” you teased. “You have all those books that you read--”
A large hand clamped over your mouth. “I dare you to finish that sentence.” The warning was clear in his words, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It’s our time.”
You glanced up, and sure enough, Present Mic was announcing your names.
“If I survived a near-death experience, I can survive graduation.” You grinned at the blonde. “Though if you were a little bit more open with your feelings, it wouldn’t have had to have been such a close brush with death. I could have sworn I saw my late dog, there.”
Katsuki pulled you into his chest, brushing your lips with a quick kiss before taking the lead of your class, haughty as ever. “Don’t just survive,” he called over his shoulder. “Conquer.”
You rolled your eyes. Of course your boyfriend would say something cheesy like that. It was endearing.
To you, at least.
And man, were you a sucker for it.