Chapter Text
The air was humid in the tent, dampening fabric in its way, carrying heavy scents across one corner to another. Acidic aftertastes could be felt at clumsy and arduous inhale, each intakes of breath the very definition of a clinical atmosphere. Multiple syringes sat on the table, looking back in different orders, classed by length and the circumference of the needles, each one piercing different types of texture.
One could easily find themselves intimidated by the sharp exposition, unless you were deranged and invested in the field or somewhat acquainted enough with the display to ignore it. A sick smell lingered still, somewhere between disinfectant and rot.
Blue eyes flashed across the room, in search of familiar movements. They tracked every piece of its surface, and yet, nothing worth the attention. The calmness in the tent was unfamiliar; a green dressed individual usually roamed the place to fill the stuffing silence settled in the room. Sometimes chatting and striking conversation through questions and news, other times with simple silence while watching the process of whatever he was working on.
Doctor waited three more hours for the familiar heartbeat to approach his tent. Nothing was to be heard.
He got up on his feet to trail Harlequin’s location, picking on a recent trace of his scent that led to his green tent. The latter had spent an abnormal amount of time in his own quarters compared to his habits. He didn’t go seek Pierrot with unsolicited provocations, nor did he hang around Ticket Taker for the same intention, and more importantly, he didn’t visit a single time in an entire week.
It was like he voluntarily searched to avoid any direct confrontation, the worry misplaced if only he did something incommensurably grave. It’s true that Harlequin found delight in teasing and banters but cause something to the point of avoidance was out of reach for him. After all, he knew his limits. Usually. Under certain parameters.
The given circumstances settled worrisome now.
The previous clinical scent lingering in the air fainted immediately at the exit of his tent. His arm stretched at the fabric, posing in its task to take a look around the place. The fresh air now replaced its presence, and filled his lungs comfortably, caressing each crevice of its surface and refreshing his airways in delight., providing a calmness like no other to anyone bearing its cold.
The place was indeed almost deserted except for the faint singing of a near cicada chorus, surely stuck to one of the trees behind Pierrot’s tent. Their buzzing provided a break from the night’s eerie atmosphere.
The Doctor marched in direction of the green tent with a clear goal in mind: check in with what was going on with Harlequin. It was strange in itself that the latter didn’t visit him yet for nearly a week.
Unfortunately for him, the said tent was located at the other end of the circus, forcing him to walk through the entire circus’ ground, which would likely alert someone. He didn’t exit his tent that often, never unprompted, almost always occupied by some experiments to bother interacting with anyone, for the sole exception of Harlequin that hung out in his quarters whenever he had something to talk about or time to kill.
This all added up to nothing good in his opinion.
He was lucky they had finished early tonight, wrapping up their spectacles to enjoy the rest of their evening. In conclusion, no visitor left. His sight outside of his working environment was one of the goods of the circus, it added pleasantly to his role, making it easier to take advantage of the mystery surrounding him.
The more he approached the said tent, as he took in his surroundings, the more something clogged the air, one that stuck to one’s senses even hours after the encounter. An acidic smell invaded his nostrils, a familiarly delicious one, something he couldn’t be mistaken about: adrenaline.
While he would be glad to witness its stench in normal circumstances, the smell carried from a nearby place, laced with something akin to worry and panic, and all these negative scents all came from one single place: Harlequin’s tent.
A truly unusual scenario, which didn’t mitigate his suspicions or worry.
If the Doctor investigated the heavy stench further, he would have noticed traces of blood intertwined with floral elements, a contradicting combination of scent. One that wouldn’t be possible except in the scenario where the blood was fresh and the flowers with oddly powerful smells. It clogged the air like accumulated blood clots in vessels.
Something was going on in that tent, something he will discover in little to no time if nothing comes his way to interrupt his visit.
His steps must have been quite loud because they seem to have alerted someone else in the tent. A stranger’s steps followed frantic in the room, too light to be Harlequin’s. This wasn’t good in the slightest.
He could hear a panicked shuffle travelling from different corners, a heavy bumping against some furniture before the steps neared the entrance. The surge and pulsing of adrenaline skyrocketed unevenly.
The new toy greeted him disheveled in every aspect of the word.
----
The Doctor was now sat on a chair he brought from a closet, his eyes roaming the almost lifeless figure on the bed. It would basically be called a corpse if not for the occasional breathing signaled by the rising of his chest. It followed an irregular rhythm, with interludes that would be approaching a coma state. Except for this occasional pattern, there was also the slight furrowing of his mask at times providing a sort of comfort on the corpse aliveness.
The human sat across from him, still with their casual stance yet tense from peeking between him and the bed. Their hands fidgeted sometimes, unsure on what to do or where to lay. Sometimes they glanced at him through his examination. If their presence was already a surprise in itself, especially with Harlequin in this state, it was also bothersome. He couldn’t conduct any thorough physical assessment without them getting a glimpse of unwanted secrets.
Test after test, after each examination came back with confusing results, he had no other choice but to try other ones. He turned at one point to the human to clear some previous unreported symptoms. Harlequin’s avoidance this week started to make sense, yet he couldn’t find a logical explanation to the latter’s body decline. Data suggested a continuous and fast progression with drastic consequences.
After half an hour, he went back to his notes and studied the results. The sheet of paper came back with unsettling results. The body was clearly failing to respond to a clear menace yet he never noticed anything out of ordinary before. The scribbled papers looked back at him, highlighting the urgency of the situation.
Clinical Note: Field Assessment
Patient: Harlequin
Examiner: The Doctor
Date/Time: [ XX/XX/XXXX | 02:45 ]
Subjective Findings:
- Patient found lethargic, unresponsive to initial verbal stimuli.
- Reports of progressive fatigue, dyspnea, and poor oral intake over the past week.
- Patient has been avoiding contact, suggesting intentional concealment of symptoms.
Objective Findings:
- General: Patient appears cachectic, with visible muscle wasting. Lying supin, minimally responsive.
- Vital Signs (Estimated):
- Heart Rate: Bradycardic (estimated XX-XX bpm). Pulse weak and thready. Abnormally slow; not consistent with fever or exertion.
- Respiratory Rate: Irregular, shallow tachypnea with prolonged interludes (approaching apnea). Dyspnoea evident via laboured chest rise.
- Temperature: Normothermic to touch; skin cool and dry.
- HEENT: Mucous membranes dry and tacky. Mask in place (paler), but facial muscles appear sunken.
- Cardiovascular: Auscultation reveals faint, bradycardic heart sounds. No murmurs or gallops appreciated. Peripheral pulses weak.
- Respiratory: Breath sounds shallow, with minimal air movement. No crackles or wheezing. Pattern suggests central fatigue rather than primary pulmonary congestion.
- Skin: Poor turgor. Extremities cool to touch. No peripheral edema.
Assessment & Impression:
- Bradycardia with Hypo perfusion: Heart rate significantly below normal range. Etiology likely multifactorial: severe dehydration, electrolyte imbalance.
- Dehydration (Severe): Clinical signs of volume depletion (dry mucosa, poor turgor). Contributes to cardiovascular instability and bradycardia.
- Protein-Energy Malnutrition (Cachexia): Muscle wasting and lethargy consistent with prolonged inadequate nutritional intake, exacerbated by recurrent vomiting.
- Dyspnea/Respiratory Depression: Irregular, shallow breathing; likely secondary to a combination of metabolic acidosis, muscle weakness.
Plan: [Pending further observation / Awaiting patient's cooperation]
Notes: Patient was found in tent in presence of a third party. Observations suggest advanced stage of systemic failure. Primary pathology remains unaddressed by the patient. Further intervention required.
Simplified version of the report:
Upon examining Harlequin, the Doctor found him lethargic, visibly malnourished (not enough nutritious intake), and severely dehydrated. His heartbeat was abnormally slow and weak, estimated at around XX to XX, while his breathing was shallow, irregular, and frequently pausing—clear signs of dispnoea (slow breathing) and respiratory fatigue. Dry mucous membranes, poor skin elasticity, and visible muscle wasting confirmed a critical lack of fluids in nutrients (water and food). Doctor concluded that Harlequin was experiencing systemic failure, but without a clear understanding of the root cause, he decided to simply observe his condition and wait for the patient to regain consciousness before taking further action.
---
The assessment clearly shows a rapid decline of body response to the threat, likely from negligence and exhaustion. He could twist the report, and nothing would change. Something didn’t sit right with the report, and Harlequin was still out of it, unable to respond to his questions.
In the latter’s state, he wouldn’t be able to respond to many questions; and with his personality, wouldn’t want to. He poked the patient’s cheek with his pen to make sure he wasn’t pretending to be asleep and escape the interrogatory awaiting him, especially with such assessments.
No reaction met his physical prodding.
He turned back to the human, they flinched at the sudden attention.
“Are you sure you haven’t noticed any other unusual symptoms? Something that would explain anything in the report.”
He gave them the report and noticed the light confused crease of their face, reading line after line, in a poor attempt at understanding its content.
“I guess every doctor have a thing in common…” they mumbled. A while passed before they continued to answer. They returned to their hesitant stance, clearly debating on whether to speak out.
“I know something but he would have my head if I opened my mouth about it…”
So that was it. Something was hidden; an underlying issue prevented him from finishing the incomplete report.
“Your presence is greatly suspicious, be careful on the next course of actions or you might miss a step when returning to your home.”
The threat hung in the air, and added more weight to the atmosphere than what already lingered. MC opened their mouth before deciding to close it for the better, remaining silent for now.
“I suggest we wait until he wakes up”.
----
A newly updated report made its way on the chair Doctor was sat on previously. One that included an interesting twist of results, complicating the feelings of the situation.
Clinical Note: Field Assessment
Patient: Harlequin
Examiner: The Doctor
Date/Time: [ XX/XX/XXXX | 05:32 ]
Subjective Findings:
- Patient found lethargic and minimally responsive in his tent.
- Third-party reports progressive dyspnea, profound fatigue, and severely diminished oral intake over the past week.
- Patient has actively avoided contact with others, suggesting deliberate concealment of worsening symptoms.
- Reports of recurrent episodes of coughing/vomiting floral matter.
Objective Findings:
- General: Cachectic appearance with visible muscle wasting and sunken facial features. Lying supine, arousable but somnolent.
- Vital Signs (Estimated):
- Heart Rate: Marked bradycardia (estimated XX–XX bpm). Pulse weak, thready, and irregular.
- Respiratory Rate: Irregular and shallow tachypnea with prolonged apneic interludes. Dyspnoea evident via laboured, inefficient chest rise.
- Temperature: Normothermic to touch; skin cool and dry.
- HEENT: Mucous membranes dry, tacky, and pale.
- Cardiovascular: Auscultation reveals faint, slow heart sounds. No murmurs. Peripheral pulses diminished.
- Respiratory: Shallow breath sounds with minimal air movement. No crackles or wheezing—pattern suggests central/neuromuscular fatigue rather than primary pulmonary congestion.
- Skin/Musculoskeletal: Poor skin turgor (tenting present). Extremities cool. Generalized muscle atrophy noted.
Assessment & Pathophysiological Impression:
This presentation represents a severe, progressive autoimmune-mediated systemic failure secondary to the parasitic floral growth.
Pathophysiology:
The flowers growing within the pulmonary parenchyma are composed of the patient's own cellular material. While the immune system correctly identifies these flowers as foreign/parasitic, the floral antigens are structurally identical to self-antigens. Consequently, B lymphocytes and CD4+ T helper cells cannot distinguish between the floral cells and healthy host tissues. The immune response, intended to eliminate the parasite, triggers widespread cross-reactivity against multiple organ systems:
- Bradycardia & Cardiovascular Compromise: Autoimmune infiltration and inflammatory damage to the cardiac conduction system and myocardial tissue, resulting in abnormally slow heart rate, weak perfusion, and impending circulatory collapse.
- Dyspnea & Respiratory Depression: Immune-mediated damage to pulmonary parenchyma, combined with neuromuscular fatigue from systemic inflammation, causing irregular, shallow breathing and apneic episodes.
- Dehydration & Malnutrition: Cross-reactive immune attack on gastrointestinal mucosa, leading to malabsorption, nausea, early satiety, and reduced oral intake. This is compounded by increased metabolic demand from chronic inflammation.
- Generalized Cachexia: Systemic catabolic state driven by chronic autoimmune activity, further depleting nutrient reserves and muscle mass.
The lack of distinction between floral and organic tissues explains the escalating multi-organ deterioration.
Plan:
[Pending further observation / Awaiting patient's cooperation]
- Continue close monitoring of cardiac rhythm, respiratory effort, and level of consciousness.
- Maintain supportive measures (positioning, airway patency) without aggressive invasive intervention until underlying autoimmune mechanism is fully characterized.
- Do not administer immunosuppressants at this time, as they may inadvertently accelerate floral growth by reducing the body's natural—though misguided—immune response.
- Await patient's return to full consciousness to obtain direct history and consent before considering any experimental or targeted therapy.
- Reassess in 4–6 hours or sooner if clinical status acutely declines.
Notes: Condition is immunologically complex and potentially irreversible without addressing the root floral-antigen mimicry. Patient's cooperation is essential for further diagnostic steps.
Simplified version:
This new report confirmed the same critical physical state as the previous one, but now offered a biological explanation of the deterioration. The flowers growing in Harlequin’s lungs are composed of his own cells, it acted like a parasite. When his immune system tries to destroy the flowers, its B lymphocytes and T helper cells (immune cells of one’s body) cannot distinguish the floral cells from heart, lung and digestive tissues. This triggers an autoimmune cross-reaction, meaning the immune system inadvertently attacks his own organs, which explains the fast deterioration of organs outside of the respiratory system. Not anything is to be done until the patient awakes.
---
The update was made twenty minutes ago after some plasma tests and reaction observation, the correlation of Harlequin’s blood with his immune cells met aggression. How were this many changes made in so little time you may ask? Well, Harlequin awoke.
----
The room was plunged in a light hue of sun, peeking from his tent’s fabric and aggressing his already dry eyes. No thoughts managed to break into his mind as a haze completely obscured his every thought.
He was still laid on his bed, and a weight settled at the other end of it. Surely the human, since the figure was too light to be anyone else.
As he regained a semblance of autonomy, unease surrounded his thoughts, another presence was detected near him. The Doctor.
Harlequin tried to move his head to the side and confirm his suspicions. However, his body never cooperated and didn’t plan to any time soon. It, one hundred percent, had a vendetta against him; he even had proof with how sore his muscles were. His neck was struck with a stinging pain that travelled down his nerve system and felt like an electrocution. The feeling of electricity coursing his veins and making his hair stand on end was queasy.
His eyelids shut aggressively, through gritted teeth and sharp exhales that followed, he tried to ground himself back to a less foggy state.
“Doctor, he’s awake!” MC probably shouted but the noise sounded saturated to his ears, making him wince at the unwanted intrusion of vibrations in his cochlea.
“Quieter.”
He felt lightheaded, his body refusing to cooperate in the slightest and Doctor was definitely beside him, it was no hallucination nor a play of theatrics of his mind.
About to give up, hands slid behind his back, providing a kind of support, and helped him sit up against the bed’s headboard with every single one of his bones crying for release. The simple action proved to knock him out of breath as he panted heavily, and clutched his dry throat. The tissues in his lungs hurt from the scraping new flowers induced with their sharps stems. Slow intakes and shaky exhales, a repeated motion until he could ignore enough of it to interact with the unfortunate visitors.
The Doctor looked at him with disapproval in his eyes, somehow entangled with worry and confusion. Harlequin adverted his gaze at the piercing intensity of the Doctor’s; he knew he had some explanation to give, he just didn’t plan to if possible.
At first, his initial plan involved escaping the situation by suffering alone and die discreetly, hopefully dragging the light symptoms out to not rise suspicion. That was after he discovered how MC’s presence accelerated Hanahaki’s progress significantly, and no amount of ignorance could undo any of its results. He had to avoid the others at any corner to not get them tangled in his foolish choice of living.
He was to be taken responsible, Hanahaki only targeted its inviting host.
“How did this happen?” Doctor’s voice carried steady to his ears, an underlying of ‘Don’t even try to get out of this without explaining’.
"Why do you need to know? It’s hardly any of your business,” he bit back. The harshness in his speech provided some sort of anchor to him in the unstable state he was in. He was pissed and it acted as something to remember familiarness.
"Could you stop throwing a tantrum for a while? You're dying, if the state you're in isn't enough proof."
Harlequin glared at him, leveling the Doctor’s persistent stare by crossing his arms over his chest. MC visibly recoiled at the heated exchange between them, unsure on the necessity of their own presence in the room.
"None of your business." he huffed indignantly.
Tension sipped into every air particle gracing their altercation, hanging heavy between the two of them. MC's eyes travelled between the two of them, the heavy silence stifling any sound beside their exchange.
The sweat visibly pooled on their skin, glistening with the faint light rays trespassing the tent's darkness to illuminate partially their features.
Harlequin's mask sat pale compared to its usual aliveness, Doctor's eyes flashed with red, kicking out their usual empty blueness; and MC was here, fidgeting uncomfortably under the two's jabbing discussion.
"And the jar on your bedside is only here for decoration? Don't tell me you got into flowers now."
MC's eyes wandered beside the dresser, where the jar sat on the counter of the chest of drawers among other furniture. It struck the eyes with its vibrant colours, and one wouldn't miss it easily.
The human cleaned hastily the drying blood on the floor when they heard the Doctor's loud steps heading in the direction of Harlequin's tent. It turns out, they didn't properly get rid of potential witnesses to the situation at hand.
“You can’t tell me you still didn’t figure it out if you noticed those.”
The Doctor stayed silent. MC figured he was trying to put his ideas into words or he was still processing this bit of information. Maybe Hanahaki was a disease he knew about?
Sure, it was more of a fictional one, one which appeared a long time ago in some writings but devolved into a simple trope with the influence of modern medias and its first adaptation into a story in Japan.
Doctor flipped through the stack of paper that sat on his chair, pending at some of them before taking one out and handing it out to Harlequin.
The latter eyed the sheet suspiciously, and then took it in his hands, albeit reluctantly. His movements were slow and sluggish, as his fingers shook before gripping the document, almost tearing it apart with his claws.
Reading through it, he let out a resigned sigh to then direct his attention on Doctor, a sly smirk breaking on his face, giving a glimpse of his usual teasing and annoying self.
“Knew I couldn’t keep it from you…”
For the first time since he entered the tent, Doctor hesitated to respond.
“… How long?” a glint of something else tinted his voice, a strangely soft tone that contrasted with the calm and intimidating aspect MC witnessed in the Doctor’s tent during visits of his attraction.
“Too long in my opinion,” he croaked back. His voice had become hoarse from the coughing, and using it ended up to be a bit difficult now.
“I will proceed with the examination, don’t move too much.”
Harlequin leveled him up with a raised eyebrow, snickering at the demand.
“You think I could if I wanted to?”
Which is understandable. The demand was a tad laughable when looking at the state he was in.
Although, he remained blissfully relieved to the fact Doctor didn’t ask about the object causing the disease. Two directions were possible from this take: either he knew who it was and decided to spare him the embarrassment of talking about it, or he didn’t find a necessity to ask about it and respected his reluctance to speak about it.
Either were warmly thoughtful, something that clashed with the hollow coolness of his body.
The examination went on, with further tests and observations. Now that Harlequin was awake, Doctor could check the inside of his throat and approximate the damage of the flowers. Some samples allowed him to identify some flowers and he even went back to his own to bring another dusty book. That one served as a guide on how Hanahaki worked, its divergences and “cure”.
“When did you get that?” asked him Harlequin perplexed.
“I don’t remember. Somewhere around a decade ago maybe.”
Harlequin didn’t question the claim, only looked down at his hands.
While he conducted the tests, he put MC outside of the tent for “privacy purposes”—not that they needed to know how he checked Harlequin’s vitals—but came back after an hour.
And that’s how Harlequin found himself eye to eye with another medical report from which he didn’t understand any of the component.
That’s when MC decided to come back and sit at the end of the bed, like they’d done in the night.
“How is he even alive? It shouldn’t be possible for any human in his state.”
Neither of them responded, opting to busy themselves with drifting into their thought and reorganizing medical notes.
Upon understanding that they wouldn’t receive any answer, MC fished something out of their backpack and dropped it down on Harlequin’s lap.
What he found when looking down was a small warm bottle and recipient carrying a mixture of something golden brown. He recoiled from the weight and stared at them inquiring for an explanation.
“And what is that supposed to be? Poison?”
They rolled their eyes at the accusation.
“If I wanted you to die, I wouldn’t give it to you in the first place.”
Doctor took the two objects to check them out.
“Thyme tea, and a mixture of honey and olive oil. Classic home remedies.”
“See!”
Harlequin stared doubtfully at them.
“You being nice is suspicious as it is. I was right to assume—“
“What in the world do you mean—“
“He means ‘Stop being nice to me, I have a reputation to uphold’,” interrupted Doctor. He knew they’d continue arguing until the next dawn if given the opportunity, it was for the better to shut them up quickly.
The heavy glare he received was a minor inconvenience to the intervention. MC looked smug and crossed their arms in triumph to the indirect admission of Harlequin with his silence.
“Let’s get back to the questions now,” he announced while taking another blank sheet.
He laid on his lap the Hanahaki book brought earlier, flipping until he stopped at the view of a page entitled “Progression of the disease”.
“Let’s start with how you managed to track Hanahaki’s progression,” he clicked his pen on, pointing it towards a margin.
“The pain, and the size of the flowers, sometimes their colours too,” he gestured vaguely to the jar full of neatly kept vegetation.
Doctor scribbled something in rough scratches and arrows pointing at some words on the page’s sections.
“Do you know the exact triggers of your flower regurgitations?”
Harlequin responded by showcasing a so-so gesture, not a definite answer but more questions pressed.
“What are the common flowers you get?”
At that, he hesitated. There were chances that Doctor knew about the Victorian Floriography; he still wasn’t sure if Columbina taught him that part of flower understanding or left it out in favour of information about medicinal herbs.
“Chronological order or…” he trailed off in feigned boredom, his voice carrying a slight hint of secret distress.
“So there was more than one flower, “ he murmured while noting, “Go with whatever suits you.”
He found a small opening in the invitation and decided to keep silent on some of the flowers; there were way too many to list anyway. However, when looking back at every flower he got, they all held negative meanings. There was not so much left for him to save face when nearly every one of Hanahaki’s offerings was compromising.
Maybe he should leave out the ones where everything changed. Doctor wouldn’t find a must to know about Red Columbines anyway, right?
“Sometimes, yellow flowers or along those tone, there was also black Dahlias too,” he shrugged impassively.
The answer did manage to annoy Doctor, too vague except for the last admission, and entirely characteristic to him. Although slightly pissed off, his cadence didn’t falter one bit as he delivered the next questions with the same calm he bore with the previous ones.
“What kind of yellow flowers exactly?”
Long seconds pass, like muddy water struggling to flow continuously in a river. That was when someone whom was silent for quite some time decided to intervene and rub salt on the wound.
“He smelled like daffodils the first time I saw it,” MC quipped, completely out of their own volition considering the fact no one asked them anything.
“Who asked you?” he replied irritably. Were they truly here only to throw him under the bus?
“Thank you for the detail, do you remember any other scents during other encounters?”
The assault of questions was getting to his head, too many in a single conversation and it hasn’t been more than an hour since he woke up after fainting. His headache came back progressively, as if waiting for the perfect moment to spark again and make him writhe in agony over his helplessness.
“I’m sorry, I only remember lilies, hydrangeas, and maybe roses.”
They sheepishly ribbed the side of their neck, uncomfortable at the heavy glare Harlequin sent their direction.
“It’ll be enough for now,” he reassured before turning back to the impatient patient. Pretty ironic of a phrase. “Care to tell me what colours for these?”
Harlequin hesitated for a while but decided to give in. Doctor was trustworthy enough to be left with his problem. He wouldn’t rat him out at any given occasion; depending on the gravity of his act.
“Orange, blue, and yellow.”
“Thank you for cooperating for once.”
“Don’t give me sarcasm, I deserve care.”
At that, he felt like the two other habitants of the room rolled eyes in sink. Doctor’s not visible through the goggles of his mask but his lack of retort was telling.
“Do you, by any chance, understand some flower messages you’ve gotten?”
And here it came, the dreaded question.
“Do you want to know if I know what I’m dealing with or I’m a connoisseur of it?”
“Oh, big words,” murmured unhelpfully MC.
“Just an example. Do you know what blue hydrangeas mean then?”
That one was routine at this point, how could he forget the very first one he got and announced his doomed fall?
“They can mean vanity and rejection in the classic Victorian language of flowers, but gained another meaning in Western interpretation. Something along the lines of distance between two people.”
During his explanation, it felt like every time he had to analyse the small petals he got in his early years, when he thought Columbina was the victim of his shallow emotions. Hanahaki had it for him and kept a steady mystery on his condition before hitting him like a truck the moment a pesky human acted like a menace to him.
The thought held a bitter aftertaste in his mouth all day long from the dry vomit, petals rarely tasty. They just had the taste of grass but with less taste in them.
When he looked up for Doctor’s approval, he found him still scribbling on his book, taking notes of every word he got out of him. He couldn’t help but feel a bit warm at the thought of how invested Doctor was in his condition. Being too absorbed in his misery and pain, he did neglect his surroundings in favour of focalizing on himself.
Harlequin turned his head ahead and met the human’s glinting ones, something was coming.
“I didn’t take you for the type to open books and spread your knowledge,” they razzed.
He was not about to be the human’s victim of teasing, that had always been his task and not the other way around.
“I can spread something else if you need me to, what do you say dear one?”
That seemed to do the trick as their expression conveyed nothing more than pure frustrated outrage. A delightfully fun sight.
“That was smooth, fucker,” he gasped at the name and was about to quip back but they beat him to it. “Why don’t you use that line on Pierrot?”
Harlequin froze at the question.
It’s not that he didn’t expect teasing about the human’s discovery; but until now, Pierrot’s name had never been mentioned in Doctor’s presence.
“Fuck you.”
He looked at Doctor to peek at his reaction.
“I already knew if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said decisively.
Even MC faltered at the confession. ‘How could he know that easily?’ was literally written on their face, and Harlequin wanted to ask the same. They beat him to it again.
“How?”
“Let’s say the way he acts and sounds when he rants to me about Pierrot is different.”
The human beamed at the declaration, he didn’t like that too.
“HA!” they exclaimed while pointing at him. They usually jabbed at his chest when doing that but refrained with the current circumstances. “Told you!”
“Bullshit, you just like being against me.”
“It can be both!”
Infuriating. This human was nothing more than infuriating.
----
After the long altercation, Doctor kept monitoring Hanahaki’s progress while MC came between shifts at their café, providing “entertainment” as they said.
Harlequin’s state didn’t deteriorate since the fainting in front of MC. His body though, had received a heavy toll and was in the throes of utter agony at any given sudden movement.
So, he found himself in a kind of dance, trying what worked with his current high standard body to prevent any shock or fainting when he worked. His spectacles continued and he was never this thankful to only have marionettes to control in his entire life.
Truth be told, his tentacles felt more stiff than slick and they sometimes left him paralyzed during a performance, forcing him to improvise in the middle of numerous scenes.
When Jester or Ticket Taker confronted him about it, he only responded with a vague “felt like doing it” before slipping back into his tent to massage them back to smooth motoring. A tough task with how sensitive they became to touch. That hyper sensibility was likely due to the weakening of his body and constant state of stress, giving less leverage for his tentacle and thus less strengthened.
Other than his appendages, breathing became an even more arduous task, sucking the energy out of him at any given opportunity. The flowers ceased to climb at his throat but continued to fill up his lungs consistently, gripping tightly around his bronchioles.
Tonight, the Doctor summoned him to his tent to proceed with a particular examination. He claimed it to be necessarily special and much needed for his critical body.
The usual check went on until arrived the throat examination. This night, Doctor adjusted his penlight to a higher setting and the tongue depressor pressed firmer than last time, making him gag in the process.
He covered his mouth using the fabric of his cape in indignance, and winced back against the wood stick.
Doctor merely hummed at his reaction, and went to pry at the old book he made notes about whenever he visited.
Silence filled the room in tension, Harlequin intrigued at the lack of diagnostic of Doctor and his strange shift in demeanor. Albeit subtle, yet present.
The reaction was strange.
He continued on his pondering, seeing as the other went to fish out another book out of a bag under the table. It was a carnet with vegetation sample drawn on each page, adorned with numerous paragraphs that encircled each of them.
Several minutes passed again before Doctor came face to face with him, holding one of the pages of his carnet. He waited again for a while, the awaited announcement began.
“From what I gather…” Doctor trailed a bit off, which was out of character for him, only further unsettling Harlequin. “A new flower will soon make way. One that won’t compare to any other you’ve regurgitated in terms of size…”
Dread filled him at the announcement. He knew his end was near; his lungs didn’t even respond correctly anymore, and his heartbeat was barely perceptible.
“Even the Hydrangeas?”
“Even the Hydrangeas,” he confirmed.
Silence returned.
“There’s still hope for a surgery i—“
“Don’t you ever suggest it,” he snarled.
No, it shouldn’t even be considered an option. What point was there to life if one couldn’t feel it flow between his fingers? He had to bear the pain to avoid that kind of fate.
If Doctor had thought about it, why would Harlequin have struggled for so long if he ever fathomed the idea of going with that option in the first place?
He knew very well what were his options, he wasn’t to be taken for a fool regarding his condition. He wasn’t unconscious either.
The price to pay to get rid of the flowers in an “unnatural” way was too high in his eyes.
Harlequin scoffed, his tone deprived of humor.
His life was truly pitiful to the end.
Bad Ending:
Unbeknownst to him, Harlequin wasn’t in the power to realize how little choice he had regarding the rapid escalation of the disease.
The roots are too deep, sinking into the flesh of any tissue surface they could find, and lose themselves in the mesh of blood vessels, threatening to burst important ones. If Hanahaki wasn’t so fixated on flowers and the beauty of tragedy, he would have surely succumbed to a lacerated arteria.
But of course it couldn’t be this simple. Hanahaki also had to have to flair for dramatics.
The flowers are too entwined with his heart and lungs. Their stems growing in volume and squeezing the pumping muscle, moving alongside it to mimic its purpose. The situation could be taken in a light of irony: a stem enveloping a beating heart. One the very origin and reason for life, the other may come from something along those lines, yet proves to be a serious threat.
One could mend his heart in such misery, vines with an eviscerating purpose, threatening to end one’s life on a whim at any given moment. They mimicked the beating of the heart by settling on its surface, providing with familiar images of unknown poetry.
A beating heart,
Where life remains.
A chasing breath,
Where a vine chains.
The chest locked in wonder,
Missing every beat,
Doesn’t chase for its flower.
By refusing his only “reasonable” option, Harlequin didn’t have to face the impossibility of dying. The disease’s progression has gone too far, and remained unable of any definitive care.
Only antalgic medicine would have been left if he had tried to get rid of the feeling roots, and would be face to face to a dead end. A hopelessness one couldn’t surmount with ease.
Hours passed with difficulty. That was, at least, how Harlequin felt about the ticking clock. Maybe it felt that way due to it being his last remaining instances of life, a long agonising countdown to his death.
He could understand why his body wasn’t responding any better, yet his mental wasn’t faltering as much as when he was isolated.
Tonight had been the only night he didn’t attend dinner with the others. Doctor had said he’d vouch for him, claiming he had a bad fever and was too frustrated to come out of his bed. While that last bit had been unnecessary, he didn’t have much of a say in the matter since he couldn’t come counter that part himself.
The excuse hadn’t been a lie in its entirety, he did have a painful fever, but a white lie was still a lie.
He couldn’t sleep. His hair felt heavy on top of his head, horns not helping in the slightest with the feeling of pressure on his neck, sweat culminating under his garments. He had changed clothes when MC went to work last afternoon, his performing ones being too heavy and itchy against his skin; they overwhelmed his senses with a combination of different textures and irritating friction.
It was with shaking limbs that he achieved any minor task, bigger ones too much for him to handle. And for addressing the latter, bigger task mainly consisted of sitting up without help or hold a bowl using only one hand.
This was the sad reality of his weakened state.
Harlequin had insisted on being left alone for a while, roughly ten hours, for him to figure out his thoughts.
It was with a clenched fist and gritted teeth that he felt it.
An enormous mass hitting the back of his throat. A wheeze forced its way out of already ragged tissue, a familiar sighting making another comeback. This time, the stuffing felt incredibly worse, the feeling of a near shaped heart making way out of his ribcage.
Leaves caressed the inside of his oesophagus, trailing their smooth surface on the tight walls, a tickling feeling that opposed the harsh one from where it germinated.
For the first time since he discovered about Hanahaki, Harlequin realised how out of hand it had gotten. The useless feelings he categorised as merely bothersome, came to bite him back and reclaim their importance. It was like a revenge of burning feelings, at the physical reaction of violent vomiting.
Harlequin gagged on the first part that managed to sit in his mouth. A metallic taste stuck to the roof of his mouth, coating his teeth and invading the damp smell in the tent. The dread that sank to the bottom of his stomach was like no other, the cold invading his whole body at once, making him shiver uncontrollably.
The emotional agony of realising what was happening, the final twist to the disease, the lack of climax to its development, was so intense that the roots of the flower finally proceed to strangle his heart for good.
A dramatic, cascading, deep-crimson flower breached the fortress of Harlequin’s teeth.
His heart started to slow down its beating, until it finally stopped as if the situation called for a calming end.
It served to prolong his suffering.
His heart not giving in until he fainted from the lack of oxygen, making him feel every ounce of the bloom cascade up to reveal itself to the morning air.
This time, the petals are unlike any other he’d gotten.
His last breath was now coated with long, blood-red, drooping strands that looked like dripping wounds. One that would represent the others inflicted internally.
The image is visually grotesque yet stunning in a breath-taking way, whether it be in the literal sense or figuratively.
His body had convulsed, a violent spasm overtaking his expression like the sudden burst of red out of his dark mouth.
Amaranths.
Or as its other name refers to as Love-Lies-Bleeding.
A symbol of tragic, unrequited, or hopeless love. The drooping velvety tassels meant something along the lines of emotional release and soul surrender.
Harlequin had never wilted to his love during his life, only surrounding himself to the truth after succumbing to his incessant repressing. Only death made him admit the truth.
He had been so consumed by his self-loathing and undirected hatred that the disease had taken another meaning. It wasn’t just about unrequited love anymore—the whole ordeal was about a refusal to accept himself.
The very thought he trusted to save him became the tide that drowned him.
----
Somewhere else, yet not that far from a recent tragedy, someone coughed a foreign object. One dry, strange, and out of place.
Pierrot scrutinised the item in his hand with lost confusion.
The newly coughed petal sat alone in the pretence of his lone palm, too dry to keep still and got carried away by the fright breeze of a setting morning, carrying its sad message through unvisited places and acting as a reminder of the cruel strings of fate.
----
The morning held a faint bitter taste, lingering in the breeze, wandering in the early atmosphere, almost like a presage. Something was held in the fresh breeze, something even stuck in the morning rosé’s, settling on the cold vegetation. Leaves, flowers, trees, they all held the same feeling, passing it to one another, like a warning to be wary of.
The sky was grey, an air of nostalgia in the air, like an execution day. The light wind made Harlequin shiver violently, his spine getting triggered by the wrong feeling, a tremor that travelled and got passed through his bones. That would have been the case if he wasn’t currently lethargic, held by the fatigue on the mattress, unmoving, his chest no longer painful.
The numbness of his rage was now muffled for good, the flames exited the prison that was his ribcage, a liberation of some sort, yet hollow in its wake.
His feelings born in innocent attachment, grew into raging denial, a self-prohibition of great cost as its price laid down on plush covers, died into full blooming flowers. Their original sarcophagus burst open, vulnerable to the outside it always was protected from, in full disposition yet hidden from prying eyes as the flowers still grew from the corpse. They consumed their holder, insignificant feelings taking revenge on their imprisoner, covering him like he did to them.
Somewhere else, yet not that far away, someone nearly choked in surprise at white tiny petals. Those were cradled in their hands, softly looking at them, they held such a deep meaning though. White Chrysanthemums gazed now at Pierrot, slightly enveloped in a transparent membrane, glistening at the natural lightening. A great symbol of deep sorrow, directly tied to funerals, but also a painful breakup. Its new recipient was ignorant of its curse, the deceptive appearance entrancing the recipient with magnificence.
In the end, fate painted a cruel portrait, one of misleading suffering, doomed to no fruition. Two bouquets in the center of canvas, opposing each other in meanings and contrasting colours.
The first one consisted of an analogous colour scheme. Blue, purple and red, met in the combination of a forget-me-not, a lilac and a red rose. An unforgettable and passionate love, a nostalgic one and a plea to remember the passion of beginnings and to not let its appeal fade. Feelings born from nostalgia and deepness, sometimes those are held so dearly that you cannot distinguish them from friendship, resulting in entanglements and a tragedy that didn’t have to end where it did.
The second one was fiercer, combining colours from classic triadic colour scheme in traditional paintings. A bouquet conveying an obsessive possessiveness, deep feelings and deep denial. In this order, you find a black Dahlia, a red Tulip and a yellow Hyacinth. The possessiveness likely led too deep denial of feeling, one fully entranced in his theatric, while the other confused.
The feelings weren’t compatible, yet were still returned, albeit in a strange manner. They coexisted for years, together, held one another, but one of them suffered before another. You may ask the cause; the consequence speaks for itself though. Someone punished in the belief of utter isolation, while the other only succumbed to it after the connection broke. Feelings no longer returned. The contrast told the story of opposing feelings, tragic ones told through choked flowers, only tied to each other through the name of “love”.
Bittersweet + Hopeful Ending:
It had been a couple of days since a certain habit appeared in MC’s behavior.
Boss noted a rather peculiar habit they had adopted, one that summoned a lot of rushing and spacing out.
Each day, they’d wrap up with what was expected of them that day, including serving customers—even the insufferable ones, help him find a new recruit after Carol’s strange disappearance and other habitual things. All in all, it was supposed to be the usual.
That was until he had noticed their detached gaze while serving a particularly difficult customer. It could have been interpreted as daydreaming or Boss could have brushed it off labelling its motive as tiredness, but the spacing out reoccurred profusely all day long.
They looked visibly tired and always tried to finish shifts earlier than programmed.
When everything was closed, they’d rush out of the café, sometimes forgetting their bag, their phones or even their keys which was to be classified as more than just airhead behavior. The abrupt change of pace in their usual rhythm appeared to be broken, making him worry for his habitually passive barista.
And so, he decided to act on it.
They wouldn’t act like that if something bad didn’t happen to a person they must care about. A perfectly reasonable conclusion to him. After all, why would MC be so pressed to leave work each evening to head out in a rush without a reason?
He decided to confront them tonight.
The streets were bustling all day long, with the occasional honking of cars passing by, a cacophony of every week day considering their neighborhood. The traffic subsided by the afternoon, leaving behind a less crowded melody in the streets.
MC kept looking outside the clear windows they had cleaned prior before settling with wiping the counter. Customers left crumbs everywhere, whether voluntarily or not, considering the lack of control one could have with those. Sometimes the drink they ordered left smudges on the tables, and MC was deeply thankful that the tables weren’t in wood or their workload would have increased drastically.
They sighed and went back to check on the utensils, making sure they had emptied the sink of dirtied dishes before the night shift.
MC was kind of lucky considering they didn’t have to spend a whole half of the night dealing with late customers. With how weird the clientele whanged between the shifts, the afternoon one held first place in their heart with vigor.
Mornings were quiet but the customers were workers, still not fully awake and occasionally late so they always had to prepare everything faster than what was expected, leading to awkward situations. Lunch was literally a rush hour. Expecting it to go smoothly was beyond imagination. And the two of them were the same shift so it was a living nightmare most of the time. Afternoon was, in comparison, pretty tame overall. Customers here and there, less crowded than 12:00 and more awake customers.
They should name them golden hours or something with how smooth everything goes from 14:00 to 18:00.
Now where it gets tricky is that the café prolongs its shifts when summer arrives. After all, evenings were largely cooler than during the day so people preferred to enjoy this timestamp better. They were in a strategic placement in the city at that, therefore they always had unfamiliar faces coming for tourist attractions.
A new shift made its appearance since June and it was between 18:00 to midnight. Four whole hours of luck in clientele. MC could end up with tourists or weird lurking people at the hour. How creepy the streets looked like after the circus’ poster infestation in every corner also added to the creepiness of their evening.
Another unlucky strike was how coincidentally impractical was the end of that shift with their visit to Harlequin. The circus closed at midnight on regular days, sometimes an hour later but not that common to be an expected variable to their schedule. With that in mind, it was more than difficult to approach personal tents when finishing early so when you add the closing of attractions, odds of getting caught skyrocketed significantly.
The green inconvenience’s state deteriorated at sight and he wouldn’t spill anything that could compromise his superficial act. A frown slowly creased their feature, stuck in a state of worry.
Another sigh escaped the barista’s lips, a faint tune following with soft murmurs when they felt a faint tap to their shoulder.
Being caught out of guard, they flinched before lifting their eyes to meet the boss’.
“You can go early today, I’m free tonight so I can handle the rest from now.”
The request pended in their head, seemingly not properly processed in MC’s brain because no response followed.
Boss raised an eyebrow at the lack of response, a sort of realization dawned on MC making them arrange their posture.
“Are you sure?” a hint of faint regret slipping in the question.
MC was aware of their agitated manners these past few days. They couldn’t control the fidgeting nor the spacing out at random intervals. They suspected box was aware of that and thus decided to give them a break. Complicated emotions passed through their face, MC sure was a bit overwhelmed with the back and forth between the circus and work but they couldn’t just dump all of it on the boss.
Not any boss would be this lenient.
Not any boss would be this comprehensible of their employee’s personal situation.
They bit the inside of their cheek in indecisiveness.
Should they just accept the proposal? It would be practical to sneak in Harlequin’s tent during opening hours…
“I can feel the gears turning in your mind from there,” he placed a warm hand on their shoulder “You should rest for a while, I don’t really mind.”
After a small pause, MC nodded and headed out of the café in a hurry. They had a bad feeling that something different would occur compared to the grim state they left Harlequin and Doctor the previous evening.
----
The streetlamps shined brightly, illuminating the rocky sidewalk in MC’s way. Each step they took brought them closer to the bad feeling they felt earlier. A small tickle at the bottom of their stomach, accompanied by a matching faint nausea. Their breath puffed in the cold air of the summer night, sweat trickling down their forehead and neck. They were out of breath already.
When they finally arrived at the illuminated entrance of the circus, they met the Ticket Taker for the umpteenth time this month as he punches it with a wary look. At least, that’s what they could tell from the menacing atmosphere that settled between them.
They managed to slip past the stares of the Jester by pretending to go meet with Pierrot. It appeared like the rest of the circus cast was aware of the affection Pierrot held for them and deemed it as an acceptable but suspicious alibi of constant visit. Pierrot visited them nearly daily on their working hours, and they spent some time together when they neither had anything to do on their side.
His company was quite comforting if you asked them and Pierrot was really sweet to begin with.
Aside the partial invasion of privacy at times, he was a great company to spend time with.
Which didn’t help Harlequin’s case…
Mc mentally slapped themselves to regain a semblance of senses and directly headed to the green tent, somewhere near the main one. They detached from the secret whispering session with no suspicion whatsoever. No denying it, they definitely did a great job at ending the conversation.
As they arrived at the desired destination, they came to halt at hearing voices coming out of the tent. A conversation already started though it seemed like they were a bit too late to grasp the context.
“Even the Hydrangeas?”
‘Oh, so it was that kind of conversation.’
More like a confrontation but hey, they didn’t have a say in that either.
“Even the Hydrangeas,” he confirmed.
A tense silence returned to the exchange.
MC did notice the tension between the two. Every time they visited, Doctor and Harlequin were either silent or exchanging double sided figurative speech. Cold sweat trickled down their back.
“There’s still hope for a surgery i—“
“Don’t you ever suggest it,” he snarled.
Wait.
What?
All this time, there was a solution?
Why wasn’t it ever brought up when they were there!
With a firm grip, they pushed the tent’s material aside to enter and confront the recipient of their ignorance. How dare Harlequin keep them in the dark of a possible solution? After all the worry they went through at that.
A turmoil of emotions tangled fast, leading to—their steps faltered at making contact with the others’ eyes.
They froze as their mind started to take in the new variable.
It’s be selfish to get ahead of themselves. There definitely was a reason as to why the solution was never mentioned in conversations including MC.
It’d be better to not get swept up in unnecessary misunderstandings.
“Go with it.”
Their declaration seemed to stop time after being uttered.
The night’s cold breeze pushed a delicate petal through the small opening of the tent, a small nagging sign of the situation.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, go with the surgery,” they repeated firmer than before. “You’re in everything but great condition. At this pace, you’ll literally die tomorrow!”
Their little outburst at the end didn’t go unnoticed by the Doctor, his eyes flashing faintly in warning.
“And who are you to make that call, huh? Aren’t you getting a bit too pretentious?”
Another warning. This time from Harlequin.
“I believe it to be better than rot in a bed waiting for some reaper to claim your death.”
A heavy silence followed again.
“Do you know the risk of such measure before claiming it to be the better alternative?”
“I suspected there was a downside but—I… I mean, look at you.”
A silent conversation was held between eyes and shift of facial features. Every furrow of eyebrow and crease of smile apparent on the other’s mask. Doctor, faithful to himself, and thanks to his unmoving mask, held the calmest expression in the room.
“…Just think about it.”
That night, the three of them were sat in complete silence, doing absolutely nothing. Not even a single word exchanged after the heated conversation that served as greetings.
Ambiguous Ending:
Following that day, even if Harlequin didn’t explicitly state his standing regarding MC’s proposition, the fact that Doctor asked them multiple questions each to add to his report was sufficient proof of it.
It turns out he finally yielded—not without countless brooding hours—and Doctor was actively searching for any scrap of information that would grace his hands.
He explained how the procedure would work, the necessary utensils and the aftereffects it’d probably cause Harlequin after.
MC understood two things from the various bits of information they actually got from Doctor’s reports.
- The operation could only be successful if the patient was completely consenting, which explained why Doctor didn’t intervene before.
If Harlequin had been of another standing opinion, and Doctor had managed to proceed with the surgery somehow, the consequences would be disastrous. To reiterate, in case of no consent concerning the patient, the flowers would either suffocate the victim to death by rooting deeper, or they would attach themselves to the limbic system. The latter would result in a loss or defective emotional regulation without any progress on the treating of Hanahaki, proving the risk to be pointless.
- If the surgery is successful, no emotion would remain in the patient.
From then onward, that would mean Harlequin wouldn’t feel much except constant numbness in terms of emotions. In the best case scenario, he’d process emotions with great difficulty making it unworthy of the effort. The resulting consequences weren’t better than doing the surgery without consent, but being freed from the vegetal stuffing was enough compensation as it was.
Doctor had been gathering information from everything he could find about the disease and its physical removal.
He had interrogated both Harlequin and MC. The questions prod to different aspects of variables, like physical modification, whether they were observable or not, or mental toll like significant change in behavior.
Harlequin proved to be rather difficult to interrogate, like initially expected. Reluctant to answer some bits of deeper questions. One could take for example his refusal to cooperate in the identification of his emotions regulation during physical intervention of the disease (flower vomit). The scale of pain was also vague but Doctor could deal with it knowing how Harlequin usually controlled information.
While this one refused to cooperate willingly, albeit for his wellbeing, MC spilled everything they knew with ease and fluidity. They testified and added small details they could remember and even gave vague impressions they felt when talking to Harlequin for the past three to four months. It was a rather large scale considering it went from mid-April to August; their cooperation was very much appreciated in comparison to the object of this whole masquerade.
The chosen date arrived, overwhelmed by a heavy atmosphere. What would happen today was to be unknown, yet necessary, and held a huge importance to the rest of what would happen.
MC wasn’t present, Doctor choosing an hour where they likely couldn’t make it to avoid any more interruptions or unwanted effects to the surgery.
Upon entering his tent, Harlequin appeared to be tense. He was entering his own tent, yet he only felt like his execution would prevail any sense of comfort from the chosen scene of action. The table on his beside, previously occupied by familiar furniture, was now presenting the tools of his execution. Knives, scalpels and other instruments he couldn’t recognize at first.
A clean platform on his bed, adorned by a clean cloth looked back at him. His usual place of rest would serve as an ironic opposite of its purpose.
Doctor was waiting for him, standing next to the white platform, inspecting the tools he laid near his operation table. He scrutinized a small syringe, tapping it lightly with the hand that wasn’t holding it, only to redirect it to the bed. A silent invitation to lie on the bed.
Harlequin commanded his legs to advance, they didn’t listen. Instead, he froze mid-step, a qualm taking over him.
A silent conversation was communicated at eye contact with each other, Harlequin settled on the bed just after.
The syringe shined in his peripheral vision. The liquid compact in the recipient, was injected not long after.
A sedative or anesthesia.
It was more likely to be anesthesia though as his eyes felt heavy before closing shut in an instant.
Feelings.
That was all he could feel.
A hum of static, a heavy fog encircling him from all directions. Unease seeped there and yet the warmth of these elements was undeniable.
The buzzing fog was annoying, agitating more accurately, but it was warm and addicting.
A subtle dread could be felt when advancing further through the exploration.
His mind responded as equally, a mutual understanding communicated through complicated means. Ones he didn’t want to dwell on, at the risk of losing sight of his objective.
He didn’t know why he was there, or why this place felt like that.
Only that breathing was still difficult, a heavy mass at the image of the fig plaguing his lungs and forcing his heart to slow down unnaturally.
As time went on, numbness replaced the overwhelming feeling.
A shift capturing the transition from vibrant emotions until then, to inner quiet and emptiness.
Something felt amiss.
Something was missing.
A subtle yet important part left behind coldness.
Outside of the foggy prison of his mind, Doctor was observing the progress of the flowers in Harlequin’s lungs.
The roots were too deeply attached to the flesh, gripping membrane like a lifeline and suffocating anything in their passage.
Complications arose, a significant risk at stake if the operation went on longer than the expected time and the anesthesia would wear off soon.
That was when he noticed a certain flower, one that stood out almost naturally with its vibrant colour. It was at the center and larger than the others just at sight.
The patient’s heartbeat finally regulated to a normal bpm.
At his wake, the first thing Harlequin felt was emptiness.
A numbed mind, just like his chest, almost like trading agitated static with dooming silence.
A hollowness so intense, the feeling was too unknown, to the point he kept a stunned silence for the rest of the day, a pure neutral state of dullness.
Harlequin’s behavior changed from that day. The surgery was perhaps successful but its scars seemingly would never heal.
An open wound gnashing at the air, numb from sterilization.
The others noticed. They didn’t show it outward, they knew something happened but decided not to broach the topic themselves.
If Harlequin decided to talk to them about it, then be it. It had to be his choice, that was all that mattered at the moment.
MC noticed the difference too, a too striking one. You had to be more that blindly idiotic to miss such a stark change of attitude and enthusiasm. They kept hanging out with Harlequin despite the hollow aftertaste of all their conversations, a tight smile on their lips. The measure could be considered to be extreme but so were the circumstances. Maybe one could say living with such restrictions wasn’t worth it, too underwhelming and deprived of common sense, it would still remain a personal choice, one Harlequin went with.
To take into account how Harlequin held his old speech habits after the surgery, his flirting didn’t cease nor were his attempts at deriving situation to annoyance out of boredom.
On his bedside table, a transparent vase sat atop. One with red trickling marks on its sides.
A fully bloomed Amaranth in its centre, looking like open wounds, its petals held the image of fresh trickling blood dripping from the edges.
The missing feelings were thriving in a glass prison.
Hopeful Ending:
MC prolonged the conversation later on after finding an opening to strike. Harlequin’s indecision concerning the surgery was mostly out of worry of the consequences. Which… MC could understand how demanding it’d be to force him to accept. Pushing him in taking a decision too soon would be like a death wish on their part and their life counted very much to them.
Silence became a custom whenever they visited. They would sit at the end of the bed and sometimes Harlequin would sit next to them in return if he had the energy to move.
A silent arrangement that benefitted the situation in some sort of truce. Last time they tried to engage the conversation towards the surgery, MC only received a glare and menacing warnings. A clear sign of backing off would be wiser.
Today, they wanted to approach the topic differently.
“Say, how are you feeling right now?” A slight hesitation in their words. A now accustomed glare made its way on Harlequin’s face in response.
“What does it look like, little one?”
“You know what I mean,” they grew a bit irritated. MC only tried to help him out and the thing they received in return was a wall.
Whenever they wanted to breach that barrier, they were violently pushed out. They did care about him; it was the whole reason they were acting like so pushy about the subject. They were willing to relentlessly chase after any other solution amidst complicated feelings if Harlequin wasn’t willing to go on with the surgery.
“And isn’t it supposed to be none of your business?”
“Whatever.”
MC stood up and headed out of the tent fuming but resolute.
----
They wandered around the circus aiming for something in particular, or rather someone to be more precise.
Harlequin was one of the first performers, so whenever his performance was awaited, he didn’t have to linger too long before he could rest in his tent. That was when they noticed a red figure aimlessly staring at the popcorn machine.
Pierrot’s performance was the next after his, they attended the spectacle which ended not long ago, a perfect timing for MC to strike. A small smile on their lips, they gently tapped on the performer’s shoulder.
“Pierrot! Your performance was really enjoyable tonight!”
The latter beamed at the praise, and extended a hand out to them. He took their hands in his, completely enveloping it which was still a strange sensation to MC but it wasn’t the objective of their mission. Pierrot dragged them at a secluded space behind the main tent as he leaned over to their face, a breath away from touching.
Their relationship improved a lot since their first encounter. The only problem they happened to stumble upon was Pierrot’s feelings toward MC. Feelings they couldn’t return unfortunately.
“Dear one, I’m glad you enjoyed the show!”
The conversation flowed gently, some takes exchanged here and there to make the interaction less awkward when they would ask about what they were here in the first place when arrived the hoped question.
“What made you come to me in particular tonight? Weren’t you planning on visiting the Doctor?”
The questions were well placed. MC had been alternating between the circus’ cast’s performance in order not to be found in Harlequin’s tent each evening. As it was a compromising time, it would also garner unwanted attention to Harlequin, attention that could endanger the “privacy” he was aiming for by dodging social interactions.
“I know it’s a bit strange but I have something to ask from you if it isn’t too much of a burden.”
The serious tone caused a subtle shift in Pierrot’s expression, one of worry.
“What may require such measure, dear?”
They didn’t outright answer the question.
Instead, MC stood up from the stair they were sitting on, taking Pierrot’s hand in theirs to prop him upright.
‘I don’t know how this will go but I’m desperate at this point. Fuck risks.’
They wandered together between the tents, stopping sometimes as MC looked around them, almost to make sure no one else was tagging along. They were currently headed to the green tent, something Pierrot suspected after some time, MC noticed. His expression changed to a more reserved one at some point.
Before them was the entrance to the tent. MC’s shoulder tensed, hesitating on whether to carry on their plan or just act like nothing happened with a bit of improvisation. They were too far though; no step back could be redeemed.
They pushed Pierrot inside, deciding not to interfere with the upcoming conversation.
----
Pierrot and MC were walking side by side through the circus’ numerous installations, a calming atmosphere enveloping their sort of promenade. However, one of them wasn’t aware of the other’s internal conflict.
Pierrot just couldn’t bring himself to take their hands in his. When he previously tried to initiate physical contact with them, they’d subtly derived from his trajectory, feigning a yawn or a stretch, a clear dodge when it repeated one too many times. It seemed like the human still wasn’t interested enough in him ad they didn’t make an effort either to initiate such contact.
How could he pressure them anymore after everything? They already got close and he was left out of his chase in one swift motion? Wasn’t that a bit harsh?
But no, they surely had something in mind for refusing his advances.
His train of thoughts came to a halt, interrupted by the sense of a presence. Someone was lurking behind one of the tents nearby, a bit too close to him and MC so he had to stay vigilante.
He could feel a deep jealousy emanating from the presence which prompted him to come to the realization that their audience was likely Harlequin tailing them. It was, surely, to keep an eye on MC’s relationship with him. Since the discovery and their first interaction, Harlequin wouldn’t leave MC alone, always tagging at their work and even spiting him every time he came back from a meeting.
What was strange though was the regret and anxiousness laced to the peculiar jealousy. He could understand the last emotion but couldn’t get behind the other two. It was rather strange to say the least. It was uncharacteristic to feel that from the green nuisance.
Something was maybe wrong, and Pierrot was perhaps clueless about the situation but willing to come to an understanding.
Something strange was happening since a few days ago, Pierrot had noticed it later on.
Following a certain interaction between Harlequin and MC at the café, Harlequin started to avoid MC altogether without any obvious motive. The sudden shift in behavior was begrudgingly out of character. MC wasn’t the only one he voided at that, Harlequin was actively avoiding everyone else, especially Pierrot. He escaped his peripheral sight like he had the plague.
He disappeared into the circus’ shadows, slipping away every time they threatened to get physically close.
MC’s mood grew visibly frustrated as days passed by.
“Every time I try to talk to him, he vanishes! It’s like he’s a ghost,” they had complained to him one time, which confirmed his earlier suspicions.
Pierrot noticed a lot of things from there.
His beloved searching for Harlequin, and something simmers beneath his usually controlled exterior with them. It’s true that he was true to his emotions with them, not wanting to hide any unnecessary truth from them, but this time was a bit different.
He doesn’t understand why MC was so persistent, and he doesn’t understand why Harlequin was running from everyone.
In the end, MC’s frustration rubbed on him and he found himself reflecting on the lack of annoyance his days were plagued by usually.
He observed from a distance as to not alarm the other when he was watching, strangely wondering what the latter was hiding.
He had seen Harlequin slip behind the big top just as MC rounded a corner. Harlequin’s back was always turned, shoulders hunched, moving faster than necessary.
It was not the confident swagger he harbored in his everyday stance, it was the gait of someone fleeing.
Pierrot’s fingers twitched at his side. Something was definitely wrong.
----
It felt like hours passed since MC pushed Pierrot inside Harlequin’s tent. They didn’t eavesdrop from the start; the temptation took over as they were slightly inclined at one of the tent’s side, ear open.
Not once were the words “I love you” uttered in the conversation. Only distressed intonations with anger in between.
Had MC’s plan failed?
No, that couldn’t be.
They were sure Pierrot somehow felt a sort of reciprocity towards Harlequin’s feelings, appreciation at minimum. However, the lack of the awaited words drew a pit in their stomach, a light dread toppling at the edge of their conscious.
The confrontation appeared to be a disaster and MC anxiously gnawed at their nails.
How would they explain to Harlequin their train of thoughts if it was a failure?
Nothing was there to back them up…
As the guilt started to submerge them in doubts and future possibility, they heard the firmest sentence since the start of the others’ conversation. The words were less slurred through the tent’s fabric and the voices were clearer.
“I don’t understand this…”
A bit passed.
“I don’t really know what to call this. But I know that if you died, it wouldn’t be a thing I’d strive for.”
A scoff followed the declaration.
‘Literally, what was going on in there?’
“And I know… This isn’t exactly what you’re looking for, but can’t that be enough? It would be enough of a start?”
MC froze in place. The tension in the air gradually changed from the proposition.
Maybe their plan wasn’t such a failure after all.
They went back to their flat, contentment in their heart appeased their early worries.
The flowers didn’t vanish instantly, but they recede. An immense amelioration of Harlequin’s condition. If he had gone through the surgery, it would have felt more like a handicap than a relief, and maybe he knew deep down how he didn’t want to get rid of anything.
He’ll live—not because Pierrot admitted to loving him, but because he’s finally stopped fighting against himself.
For the first time since the appearance of the first bloom, Harlequin had let go of his ill-oriented hatred. Feelings are messy and confusing, the fingers intertwined with his summarized that story.
Deleted Scene:
Context: If Doctor went back to his tent after MC’s excuse, which I deemed too out of character for him to trust a random human in Harlequin’s tent with the circumstances he found them in.
Harlequin stared at MC, somewhere between disapproval and disbelief. They looked away, a deliberate refusal of meeting his eyes.
"Why are you triggering it on purpose! Do you know how annoying it is to vomit every time some pesky human opens their mouth wro—"
"I thought it triggered when you're blushing or giddily thinking about your crush!" MC defended but could only look really panicked, waving their hands frantically in explanation and disorientation, "Not when you were jealous!"
“I’m not!”
“STOP DENYING-”
When the human said it out loud, reality caught up to Harlequin. He was far from understanding the flowers’ mechanism and Hanahaki still reserved multiple surprises for him. He could never be sure of its activation pattern, and jealousy wasn’t about to be placed on the list of possible triggers, shoot him.
It might be true that the flowers forced their way out when he thought about MC or Pierrot’s infatuation with them; years ago, he noticed the trigger too. It was when he found Pierrot laughing while in the company of Columbina or just light conversations he happened to share with others where he seemed to enjoy himself, something he wasn’t allowed to with their now clashing dynamics.
The last flowers he coughed were Stripped Carnations, a refusal of love in the Victorian Floriography.
He still settled for a disapproving sigh and decided to carry on the conversation with any movements that may have happened when he was unconscious.
“Did anyone come in there?”
At the question, the MC responded a bit too fast, laying some doubt in their response.
“Yeah, the doctor!”
Some panic made its way through his veins, the Doctor being one of the suitors he would have preferably not encountered as he likely would be the first one to catch on with his deteriorating state.
“What did you tell him?”
“He was curious because I was at the entrance so I just told him we were busy doing…” they avoided his eyes again, embarrassment making its way to their expression,” tedious activities?”
At first, he accepted the explanation. However, something didn’t add up to the equation, a plot hole in the human’s excuse.
“Why would I be the one out if we did it?” He narrowed his eyes at them in suspicion.
Their gaze lingered everywhere but near him, escaping from one wall to another, likely wishing the floor could swallow them whole right the instant, almost dejected at the question.
“Told him you were recovering ‘cause I topped?”
At least they had the decency to look embarrassed, MC kept fidgeting with the sleeves of their shirt, grasping at them in acceptance. Harlequin’s eyes widened at the admission, little to no excuse could have convinced the Doctor and this human had to choose an unrealistic one…
The excuse was more than ridiculous and they had to give an unreasonable aftermath too.
“I knew you weren’t listening to me that day. I’m strictly a top, remember?”
“You explored your preferences.”
“Fuck you”, he snapped back.
“More of the other way around but whatever works with you best.”