Chapter Text
Jean left you alone after you ran away, assuming you ran away to cry. After sighing, he turned around and continued going up. His foot was almost on the final step of the stairs when he heard a loud thud, causing his head to immediately turn. He may have been upset, but he was still concerned for you.
He searched downstairs, and it didn't take long for him to notice that the guest bathroom door was ajar, light shining through.
That was when he saw your figure laying face up on the floor, breathing raggedly. Jean immediately dashed towards you, holding your shoulders, calling out your name, “What happened?”
Your eyes were half lidded, even though you were conscious, you were clearly out of it, not being able to respond.
Jean shook his head, shaking your shoulders, “Hey, stay with me!”
But it was clear that you weren't responding anytime soon.
Panic set into Jean, but he took out his phone and called the ambulance. As scared as he was, you needed help right away, and it needed to come as soon as possible.
While the ambulance was on its way, Jean held you, your upper body splayed across his lap. He called your name many times, trying to keep you awake even if you didn't respond. Jean shook his head in denial when he saw how close your eyes were to completely shutting.
With one arm supporting your back, his other hand went to hold your face. It was still warm when he gently ran his thumb over the side of your face—when was the last time he held you like that?
He was too focused on your wellbeing, he noticed the blood staining your lips, but he didn't notice the black flower petals or the garden you left in the toilet bowl.
On the way to the hospital, he was holding your hand the entire time, never once loosening his grip.
Of course he wasn't allowed inside, so Jean sat outside of the ER while the hospital staff took care of you, eyes kept on the door and the blaring red jewel on the wall. In his hand, he was holding onto your wedding ring, running his thumb over the ridges to ground himself as he waited.
“Your wife has had a flare-up. We tried our best to remove the petals congesting her lungs,” the doctor said after they had moved you into a private room to recover.
“Petals?”
The doctor explained to him: Hanahaki was a disease caused by unrequited love.
Unrequited love? Did you catch feelings for someone else while he was working hard to make your life better?
“Hanahaki can be cured, ideally by requited love, or if the patient loses their feelings,” she continued explaining patiently.
“And if they're not?” Jean asked, holding onto the arm of your bed, glancing at your resting figure.
“Surgery is another option, but it has greater risks. Not to mention it is also expensive.”
After the doctors and nurses had left, he couldn't bear to sit on the cushioned seat beside the bed—he didn't deserve softness. So Jean sat on the cold tiles, knees pressed against his chest and palms pressed to his ears. His back was pressed against the side of the bed where you rested.
It was at that moment that Jean felt as though he were finally present, coming to his senses—work completely leaving his mind for the first time in months. He could only focus on the moment, and tracing back to when it all went wrong.
His only desire was to provide you with a comfortable life. His mind was tunnel visioned into the future, your ideal future, living a comfortable life in a fancier house, being able to afford whatever you wanted.
When did that promise become one that was made for you, into a reason to keep away? Because the harder he worked, the less sleep he got, the more tired his mind was.
When you told him that you wanted him to be there too, he felt like he was already pouring out of an empty cup, but he did it for you anyway.
At some point he began to wonder, were you even worth it? Even after his efforts and wearing himself thin, you still decided to start sleeping in the guest bedroom.
But marriage was a commitment, so he pushed through regardless with discipline.
Deep down inside, he grew tired of being the one always keeping it together.
But because of his neglect, you had been fatally injured. It now made sense to him, even though it made him upset. Of course you hid it from him—how could you tell him that you were suffering when it was because you had fallen for someone else?
He thought that you were being clingy, but maybe you were overcompensating for wanting someone else.
But now all he could do was wait for answers.
When you opened your eyes, you could see the orange glow of the afternoon light filtering through the window. The house reeked of freshly dried paint, the windows were still covered up with newspapers, your things still loaded up in piles of unopened boxes.
You were sitting on a couch, leaning on Jean's shoulder, as he was resting his head on top of your own. He was sleeping, letting out a slight snore every time he breathed in due to his head being tilted slightly forward.
You didn't want to disturb him yet.
Looking around once again, you remembered this day—the day you first moved in together in your new house. It was tiring, despite all the help you could get from your friends and family. There were still boxes to unpack, furniture to build, rooms to clean, floors to mop, but this was a new chapter for both of your lives.
You pulled away, and Jean woke up as his head fell forward without you there to rest on. “Hm?” he groaned out, eyes opening slowly.
You sat back far enough to look at him wholly while he adjusted, leaning back and rubbing his eye with a bent index finger. His bangs fell over his eyes, making him look much younger than he usually does than when he combed back his hair—a style he preferred the older he got.
“I missed you,” you knew it was a dream, but you felt like you wanted, hoping that this Jean would still understand. You felt your throat constricting and the corners of your lips curve down to a frown as you tried to hold back tears as you looked at who your husband used to be.
Jean let out a laugh, but it wasn't to make fun of you. He brushed his bangs back, but a few strands still fell across his face. His eyes looked up to yours, warm and filled with adoration, shrugging, “I was just asleep for 10 minutes.”
You couldn't explain to him, nor did you have the patience to in a dream. Your arms reached out and you embraced him in a tight hug, hot tears cascading down your face. All of your sadness poured out in that dream, it felt so real when you were struggling to breathe because of how hard you were crying.
When your eyes opened to reality this time, you squinted from the harsh white lights. The blanket draped on you was thin, and the mattress was firmer than you remembered. You felt sweat run down your face, your body feeling fuzzy, and your heart racing.
Your eyes squinted at the mop of hair at the side of your bed. You weakly called out, your voice hoarse, “Jean?”
Your husband immediately turned around, looking at you with an expression of pure relief. He stood up, “You're awake.”
“What happened?”
“You passed out, had to get the petals removed from your lungs. They told me you have hanahaki.” Jean looked at you with disappointment in his face—a far cry from the ones in your dream, “Why didn't you tell me?”
“I'm sorry,” you gave up before even trying to explain yourself. Your sunken eyes didn't move away from the spot on your lap.
Jean was afraid to hear the answer, but he wanted to know, so he asked the question like he was ripping off a bandaid. “Who is it?”
“What?” this time, you actually looked up, needing to look at him, confused.
“You're hurt from unrequited love, right? So have you fallen in love with someone else while I was too busy to give you any attention?” Jean spat, clearly failing to hide his bitter tone.
You shook your head, denying the accusation, “No, there's no one else. What are you talking about?”
For the first time in a long time, Jean looked at you properly. Your eyes were filled with genuine bewilderment at the idea of having someone else, loving someone else, when the cause of your problems was standing right here in front of you—and he could see that. All that pain, the dark circles around your eyes, and how the light in your eyes were gone.
Contrary to what he thought before, it was entirely his fault. No matter how distant he was, or how he treated you, the words he said, your heart still held onto him—to the point that you could have died.
Jean rarely cried, at least in front of you. You could probably count the times you've seen him cry with only one hand, even after years of being married. His knees weakened, and he kneeled beside the bed, palms pressed against his forehead. Tears dropped onto the bed as his shoulders shook.
In those times, you would have reached out and consoled him with your words and actions, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning your head on it, just being there for him.
But now, all you could do was stare at him. Not out of apathy or as revenge, but because you weren't sure if he was still the same man who would accept that from you anymore.
“I thought that I was working hard for you. But along the way it turned to resentment. Before I knew it, I was working myself to the bone without even knowing why.”
You listened to his side of the story for the first time intently, eyebrows furrowing.
Jean continued, raising his head up from being hung low, “I've lost sight of what I already had, took you for granted, and I'm sorry.”
Your chest felt lighter again. The pain was still there, but it was much easier to breathe.
“If you want the surgery, I'll pay for it. I worked hard for you. It's how it should pay off.”
You woke up from a nightmare only to be confronted by your husband, who then started to cry and change his demeanor from how he acted just moments ago for you, telling you he'd pay for surgery that you were too terrified to undergo.
“I…need time to think about it,” you answered, still looking down at the side and focusing on the light from the window, covered by the thin, beige coloured curtains.
—
You were discharged from the hospital but still needed more time to rest at home, staying in bed while Jean took care of you, taking a week off of work— something he hadn't done in a long time.
He would cook everything for you, unless you requested something from a restaurant or a cafe.
As nice as it was, you were still upset at Jean. An ugly voice gnawing in the back of your mind bitterly whispers that the only reason he started caring for you again was because you almost died. It took him nearly losing you forever to realize what he had almost lost, and now he was trying to repair it.
And you couldn't just accept his kind demeanour after dealing with him being so cold to you for so long that it felt like this version you've been wanting back felt wrong. Especially when the words he said that night of your anniversary that almost took your life still haunted you. That was the power he held over you with this disease, and you were terrified of it happening again.
While he did already apologize at the hospital and was clearly making an effort to fix his mistakes, it was still maddening to see him act like the person who told you he didn't love you anymore was gone.
At first you assumed that your heart felt lighter because Jean was finally loving you again. But with the voice in your head that kept criticizing him, you also wondered if maybe…were you the one falling out of love this time?
It was a morbid thought, but also a sign for you and Jean to finally talk properly.
So you did, when he was placing your tray of breakfast on your nightstand as usual. Jean already was back to working again, but he still made the effort to wake up early and cook you something.
“I don't want the surgery.” you said while watching him set up your meal on the bed tray. With a little bit more vulnerability, you added, “But, at the same time, I don't want you to love me because of this.”
Jean was a bit startled to hear you talk out of nowhere, especially since your words with him have been sparse lately. Then again, it was normal for you to start a conversation out of nowhere. He was almost relieved to see a familiar trait return to you once more.
“I'll love you anyway. I'm your husband, I promised that from the day I married you, with or without the disease.” Jean set the final plate on the tray, looking down in guilt, voice low, “I'm sorry that it took me up to this point to remind you.”
You added in your own thoughts, “You're enough, Jean. I'm sorry I didn't say that enough.”
“Yeah. I was, for your future, but I wasn't for you.” Jean sighed, his breath almost like a wry, self-deprecating laugh, “I should've been there for you when you needed me the most. I promised to take care of you, too.”
“What you said that night…”
Jean immediately knew what you were talking about from how sad you looked when you said that. Regret twisting his heart. He kneeled beside the bed so he was eye level with you to make sure you knew that he meant every word, “I don't want your forgiveness, not until you really mean it. Until then, I promise to keep making it up to you.”
You hummed in response, slowly nodding your head. While you grazed your left hand, you were now reminded of the absence of your wedding ring. Well, you noticed before, but of course you didn't want to ask Jean at the time. “Where did my ring go?”
“Oh, I got it.” Jean took the ring out of his pocket, and then looked at you with a timid expression, one he rarely wore on his face, “May I put it on?”
“Sure,” you replied, extending your hand for him to take, and he did, gently taking your smaller hands to slip it back on your finger.
Before Jean could pull his hand away, and he did that despite himself because he was unsure if you were averse to his touch, you held on. It wasn't a tight grip, just a resistance to him moving away. You looked at his face as you did, watching for signs of discomfort or disgust, but of course now Jean just kept his hand there.
You observed him, comparing him to the dream. He was just as tired, but not from picking up boxes and furniture to move into the house. Months of overworking and exerting himself to his work caught up to him, but his eyes were now a soft yellow ochre, looking at you curiously.
“I…” you started, throat constricting again as you failed to hold back the tears, squeezing his warm hand, “I've missed you so much—”
Jean opened his arms, a sign that he was giving you permission to embrace him, and you immediately wrapped your arms around his shoulders as you cried, tears making a mess on his shirt.
“I know—I know, I'm sorry.” Your husband held you securely even as your body trembled from crying to hard. His other hand stroked your back in a gentle manner, looking up at the ceiling to keep his own tears from falling. “I missed you too.”
For the first time in a long time, you think that things might be okay after all.