Chapter Text
Having Victor in his life was an unforeseen blessing, but one that Yuuri didn’t expect to last. He had always known that eventually, his Russian boyfriend would get bored of him and move on to something better. Someone better – someone more outgoing than Yuuri could manage, even on the best of days. Someone more confident, better looking, more worthy of Victor’s attention and love.
That was why he wasn’t surprised, when he woke up one day to a horrible itch in his throat, and spent nearly ten minutes coughing up flowers. It was more of a surprise it hadn’t happened sooner. He had been suffering from a prolonged cough for a few weeks now, something he had written off as an after effect of the cold he’d gone through soon after moving to Russia. The cold, dry weather certainly hadn’t been doing him or his throat any favours.
He had read about this, of course – everyone knew the stories, even if the actual illness was surprisingly rare. There were cases, now and then, mostly kept out of the spotlight and quietly resolved with a simple surgery without anyone having to know. There was an actual procedure to the whole thing, from discrete clinics and cover stories readily provided by doctors to non-disclosure agreements and laws against revealing any details, written or spoken.
The surgery was fairly quick and easy, as well, with very high levels of success and minimal chances of complications. Recovery would take less than a week, in most cases – it was rather like having a very strong case of flu, easily forgotten and dismissed.
Yuuri knew that wasn’t an option for him.
Even if Victor had fallen out of love with him, no longer saw Yuuri the same way Yuuri saw him, having a surgery to remove both the root of the illness and the emotions that went along with it wasn’t something he could do. There was simply no way he could give up his feelings for Victor, no matter what their cost – even if he passed on, knowing his love was unreturned and one-sided, it would be enough to have had the time they got. It would be enough, to have experienced that all-encompassing love that he never knew even existed, until Victor barged into his life like 180 pounds of over-excited, adoring athlete.
Falling in love with Victor had been easy. His adoration and idolization hadn’t taken long at all to transform into something deeper, truer; something he felt in the very depths of his soul. Victor was his first love; it seemed he would also be the last.
He knew Victor had loved him, at some point – otherwise he would’ve been coughing up flowers well before now. He had to wonder when that love had finally withered, allowing for a different flower to bloom in its stead.
“I’m okay, Makkachin,” Yuuri rasped at the worried canine, who was pawing at his leg and whining in concern.
He took slow, shallow breaths, trying to avoid falling into another coughing fit. The petals spread over the sheets were pale purple and small, so thin and fragile they seemed wholly unfitting for the role of his would-be killer. He didn’t recognize them, but then he’d never been the expert on flowers. He’d look them up later, perhaps, or maybe ask a florist.
The petals, half crushed by his earlier thrashing, were filling the room with an odd, almost vanilla-like scent. It felt cloying and uncomfortable, too heady for the usually fresh, airy room. Their room – his and Victor’s, though who knew for how much longer.
There was no way he could let Victor see the flowers. He’d feel guilty, Yuuri knew, even if he couldn’t control his feelings and everyone knew there was no one to blame for the rare surfacing of this particular illness.
“Hanahaki,” Yuuri whispered, saying the word aloud, filling the room with the echoes of it. It intermingled with the oppressive smell of vanilla, making him feel nauseous – though that might have been just the flowers filling his lungs and slowly strangling them to death.
“I’m going to die,” he confessed quietly to Makkachin, holding the poodle’s face between his hands. “Will you look after Victor for me?”
Makkachin woofed, attempting to lick one of his hands, managing a few sloppy brushes of tongue across his wrist. Yuuri smiled.
“Let’s clean this up before your dad gets home, shall we?”
He sighed – stifling the urge to cough – and started tidying up the bed, gathering all the flowers and petals, making sure none were left behind. He knew he couldn’t hide his condition forever, but perhaps he could do so just long enough to come up with some excuse to either be away for a while – maybe he should visit home, in Hasetsu – or for Victor to fly off for World’s.
There was little chance of Yuuri making it to the event, now.
The flowers were easily taken care of, bundled into a trash bag and taken out. An open window would take care of the smell soon enough.
“What do you say, Makkachin, shall we go meet Victor half-way?” he asked the dog, her ears perking up at the word “go” and the mention of Victor’s name. He took the furiously wagging tail as an agreement, clipping the leash onto her collar and heading out into the cold.
The walk was calming, allowing him to gradually process the idea of dying and the variety of half-formed thoughts and plans within his mind. He would have to talk to some of his friends, eventually, to prepare them for the inevitable – it wouldn’t be fair to just spring it on them at the last moment. Victor, too, deserved to know; just… not yet. He wasn’t ready to see the pain in the eyes he adored, or the inevitable guilt, misplaced as it would be.
By the time they reached the intersection where Yuuri would sometimes wait for Victor or vice versa, he was almost relaxed. His breaths were coming easier once more, the cold, fresh air having cleared up his lungs some. Makkachin seemed happy to be outside, snuffling at the ground eagerly and trying to follow all the enticing scents from opposing directions.
“Yuuri!” a familiar voice called out, snapping Yuuri out of his thoughts and the quiet observation of Makkachin, bringing an instinctive smile to his face. He turned to scan the street with his eyes, easily spotting Victor’s jogging form and waving hand, lifting his own arm to return the wave.
“Yuuri!” Victor said, leaping to hug him as soon as he reached the two of them, Makkachin jumping up against their legs to pant at the both of them happily. The Russian man buried his face in Yuuri’s neck and hair, rubbing against him as if trying to cover the smaller man in his scent.
“What are you doing?” Yuuri laughed, bringing up his arms to return the almost-hug.
“I missed you,” Victor said, simply. “Are you sure you should be out and walking? How’s the cough?”
“I’m fine,” Yuuri said, smiling to emphasize the words.
Victor pulled back to search his face, before beaming back at him. “I’m glad! Maybe you can finally come back to training, you have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Ah,” Yuuri hesitated. “About that – I don’t think I’m that well, yet.”
Victor instantly gripped his face, turning it this way and that as if trying to see whatever illness was plaguing him in his features, or perhaps spelled out on his cheeks. “Why did you say you were fine? This cold air can’t be good for you! Let’s hurry back home, you need to stay warm. Why did you come meet me – you need to take better care of yourself, Yuuri!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Yuuri half laughed. “I’m alright, it’s just a cough. I don’t think I’ll make it in time for World’s, though. I’ve already missed so much practice.”
“Don’t worry about that, now,” Victor scolded him, frowning as he steered them back towards their flat with a hand on his back, Makkachin trailing behind them and sniffing at the ground. “You need to get better, first. Skating can wait.”
“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Yuuri said, amused.
“You’ll always come first,” Victor insisted, checking left and right before they crossed the road.
“Of course,” Yuuri agreed, unable to hide the wistfulness in his voice.
If only.
Thankfully, Victor was too focused on getting them home to notice, still muttering about ridiculous stubbornness and the idiocy of going out when sick.
“When we get home,” he declared, “you’re going straight back to bed and I’ll make you some soup.”
Yuuri tried to control his alarmed expression but apparently failed, since Victor pouted at him and affected a wounded countenance.
“I can make some simple soup!” he claimed, pressing the button to summon the elevator. “Or at least warm up some. Even I can use a microwave – how do you think I survived all these years?”
“With pure luck,” Yuuri answered, not even having to think about it. “And some divine interference, I imagine.”
“How rude,” Victor said to no one in particular. “My Yuuri is so cruel to me.”
Makkachin huffed comfortingly, but abandoned them as soon as the leash was unclipped in favour of finding one of her squeaky toys.
“Can I stay on the couch, at least?” Yuuri asked as he took off his coat, watching Victor move towards the kitchen without removing his. “I wanted to watch some television.”
“Alright,” Victor called back from the kitchen, accompanied by the opening and closing of cupboards and the fridge. “But you better be bundled up under some blankets by the time I get back there.”
“I will,” Yuuri called back, coughing a little at the strain and hurriedly crushing the few ensuing petals in his fist, throwing them out the open bedroom window as he gathered the blankets from the bed. At least the flowers were small – it could’ve been much worse. Something like full sized roses would have been much more difficult to hide.
By the time Victor came back with a mugful of soup – because he’d apparently read online somewhere that it would be easier for a sick person to drink from a mug – Yuuri was back and settled on the couch in a cocoon of blankets, Makkachin happily chewing on one of her toys on the floor at his feet, eliciting periodic squeaks.
Yuuri lifted the edge of a blanket as an invitation that Victor eagerly took advantage of, crawling into the opened space and settling against Yuuri with a deep sigh. He laid his head on the younger man’s shoulder, watching quietly as Yuuri sipped slowly on the heated-up soup, cradling the mug in his hands.
“Victor,” Yuuri spoke after a long silence filled only by the occasional sip and the muted sound of the television, “what would you do if I died?”
Victor’s expression froze, revealing nothing. His eyes were wide and his face turned completely blank, as if the question had cut all of the strings that made his muscles work, rendering him incapable of the slightest of movements.
“…why do you ask?” he said, carefully, slowly, as if fearing both the answer and the question, itself.
“I don’t know,” Yuuri deflected, turning his eyes back towards the television to avoid meeting Victor’s gaze. “I just wondered.”
Victor remained silent for a long while, staring pensively at the television. Yuuri wondered if he was even seeing it, the way his eyes were glazed over in thought.
“I don’t know,” Victor said eventually, repeating Yuuri’s own words. “I can’t even imagine it. I don’t think I would do anything, really. Let’s not talk about this.”
“Okay,” Yuuri agreed softly, curling one of his hands around the cold, slender fingers of the older man, tilting his head to press his cheek against silver locks when he felt them tighten in return.
They didn’t speak again before heading to bed.
In the morning, Victor greeted Yuuri with a cup of coffee and the words: “I think you should see a doctor.”
Yuuri struggled to bring his brain back online, or at least to an acceptable level for comprehensible, non-compromising conversation.
“What? Why?” he asked blearily, accepting the coffee with an appreciative sniff of the heavenly-smelling substance.
“Your cough has been holding for a long while now and you don’t seem to be getting any better,” Victor explained, his face uncharacteristically serious. There was a small furrow in his brows, and his eyes appeared to be pleading with Yuuri to just go along with it. “I’m worried.”
“Is this because of what I said yesterday?” Yuuri asked, stalling for time and still trying to gather his scattered thoughts.
“No,” Victor said, then quickly amended. “Yes. Both?”
“Which is it,” Yuuri muttered, but smiled a little into his cup, before frowning in thought.
He could see a doctor, he supposed. The patient confidentiality should extend to this, especially with the special laws governing information security when it came to cases of hanahaki. They wouldn’t be able to tell Victor anything, as long as he could convince the man not to accompany him for his appointment.
Which should be easy enough, really, considering the training schedule Victor was under, in order to bring him up to the level expected of someone participating in the World Championship of any sport. Though he had never stopped exercising or skating, Victor’s absence from the competitive scene had cost him some of his usual discipline and muscles, something he and Yakov were working hard on remedying.
“Alright,” Yuuri said, hiding a small cough in his palm, capturing the few expelled petals within it. “If you’re so worried, I’ll make an appointment.”
Victor looked visibly relieved for a second, before bouncing on Yuuri and hugging him, heedless of the still half-full cup of coffee that was almost sent flying. The sheets were saved a new decorative pattern only by Yuuri’s quick reflexes and his familiarity with Victor’s enthusiasm-driven actions.
Makkachin seemed to take that as an invitation to join them on the bed, jumping up and bouncing around while barking happily, her tail wagging furiously behind her.
Yuuri couldn’t help laughing, despite the bouts of coughing it caused, careful to catch any ensuing flowers and keep his fist closed around them.
“You don’t have to make an appointment,” Victor informed him, nuzzling into his throat. “I already made you one. It’s this afternoon, after practice. I was going to make sure you said yes.”
Oh.
“Shouldn’t I go while you’re at practice?” Yuuri tried to reason. “It would save time.”
“I want to go with you,” Victor demanded, turning his puppy-dog eyes on full power. “You shouldn’t be going around on your own, anyway. What if you got lost or feel sick?”
“There’s these things called taxis, Victor,” Yuuri reminded him, gently disentangling Victor so he could get up from the bed. “Besides, how will I ever learn if I don’t even try?”
Yuuri could tell from the way Victor’s mouth was tugging downwards and the furrow of his brow that there would be no changing the man’s mind on this; Victor would be coming with him for his appointment. Ah, well. At least he should be able to see the doctor by himself – patient confidentiality and all.
“Alright,” Yuuri agreed without attempting any further arguments, and Victor’s face immediately settled back into the relieved expression from earlier.
“Good,” the Russian skater nodded firmly. “I’ll come home straight after practice, so don’t go anywhere in the meanwhile. Stay in bed and rest like a good patient for once, won’t you?”
Unable to deny the pleading note in Victor’s voice, Yuuri acquiesced quickly.
While Victor was away at practice, Yuuri dug out his rarely used laptop and googled flowers. It was easy enough to find a full blossom in his small pile of coughed up flora, so he scratched Makkachin behind her ear as he scrolled through flower after flower, trying to find something that matched. The small, purple petals weren’t overly distinctive, but after some careful comparison of images and what he had, the results indicated the family of flowers known as heliotropium; not a flower he was particularly familiar with.
Hanahaki flowers were supposed to have a specific meaning in flower language, so the next thing he googled was the meaning of heliotrope, not expecting anything useful and thus unsurprised with the results. In 花言葉 or hanakotoba, the familiar language of flowers traditional to his own homeland, heliotropes symbolised devotion. According to Russian flower language, they meant eternal love.
Neither of the meanings was particularly notable or surprising, and devotion was fairly close to eternal love as far as concepts went. The ideas behind them were similar, at least. And they did fit, to an extent – he did love Victor, was going to keep loving him as long as he could, but in this case it was hardly eternal, unless one considered the possibility of life after death. At least he could claim the devotion part, he supposed.
“What do you think, Makkachin?” Yuuri asked the poodle, offering one of the blossoms to her curious sniffs. “Do you like them?”
The dog panted happily, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as she reacted to the words with a thump of her tail.
“Yeah,” Yuuri nodded in understanding. “They are rather pretty, aren’t they.”
It wasn’t like it was the flowers’ fault he couldn’t keep his emotions in check. Objectively, the blossoms were fairly beautiful, in that fragile way some things were – as if the miniature size and delicacy made them somehow all the more precious. Perhaps it was similar to the way people appreciated fleeting things more for their shortness – as if trying to cram feelings into a small space or time made up for the size or duration of it.
Makkachin barked.
“I know,” Yuuri told the dog, smooching her cheeks gently. “I don’t want to leave you either. But sometimes we don’t get to choose these things.”
Makkachin whined as if understanding the words. Yuuri offered her a pat, then had to laugh when the dog tried bouncing up to reach his face for some appreciative licks. The laughter quickly turned into a coughing fit, reminding him why it was currently a bad idea to give into the impulse.
It was his worst coughing fit yet, seeming to restart every time he almost managed to control the reflex, sending him back into harsh, rattling convulsions. In the midst of his fit, he never heard the front door open or the worried voice calling for him, only noticing Victor’s presence when the Russian man dropped to his knees next to him, long arms suddenly cradling him close and rubbing at his back.
Yuuri blanched mentally, but kept on coughing, trying to bring the hacking back under control. So much for keeping it a secret. He distantly heard Makkachin’s distressed whining and made a mental note to buy her something nice to make up for the worry he’d caused the poor dog.
It took several minutes and plenty of expelled flowers before the fit subsided, leaving him red faced and panting for breath, exhausted and limp halfway into Victor’s lap.
Victor wasn’t speaking. Yuuri could feel his nerves increasing with every second that passed without a word from the other man.
“How long?” Victor asked, finally.
How long had this been going on, Yuuri thought, or how long until he dies? Probably the former.
“Just a day or two,” he rasped out in a rough voice, surprised by the brittleness of it.
“Who?” was the next word out of Victor’s mouth, sounding pained and oddly blank.
Yuuri pulled back in alarm. “What? No, Victor – no. There’s only ever been you. It’s always you.”
Yuuri saw the confusion on Victor’s face, could see the procession of thoughts that followed. If there wasn’t anyone new, if Yuuri hadn’t fallen in love with someone else, that meant the flowers were for Victor. Yuuri saw the way his breath caught, the way his eyes widened in horror and despair, the way his shoulders stiffened in disbelief.
“But – I don’t,” Victor stuttered, his face an open canvas of raw fear and incomprehension. “I love you, Yuuri. I love you – I swear.”
“Shh,” Yuuri tried to calm him, cupping the slackened face in his palm. “I know, Victor. Maybe it’s just – maybe it’s a different kind of love?”
“No,” Victor denied, shaking his head rapidly, like a dog trying to rid its fur of excess water. “No, no. I love you – you don’t understand, Yuuri, I love you more than anything. Anything.”
Yuuri smiled at him. “I know you think you love me,” he agreed. “But there’s so many kinds of love, you know that – you created programs for two of them.”
Victor mouthed ‘no’ again, then gripped Yuuri’s face tightly, almost painfully between his fingers. “No. I love you. I. Love. You. Do you understand? There’s nothing I love more in this world. Not skating. Not myself. Not life. I love you more than anything. More than I have ever loved anything. If my love isn’t strong enough, there is nothing in this world or beyond that could be – are you, are you sure you don’t… that you haven’t…”
Yuuri knew his own eyes were wide, but he shook his head no. There had never been anyone other than Victor. He knew Victor loved him in his own way, but clearly it had faded into something less over time, even if his coach was reluctant to see or admit to it.
“It’s alright,” he tried to soothe the older man, placing his hands on the ones still gripping at him, trying to convey his love through the touch and his eyes. “I love you, Victor, no matter what. Nothing will change that.”
Victor stared at him blankly, then shook his head.
“Doctor,” he said. “We need to see the doctor.”
“Oh,” Yuuri realized, wondering how long they had been huddled together on the floor. He hoped they weren’t late for the appointment – it always felt somehow rude to make doctors wait, as if their time was more precious than the average person’s.
“I’ll call a taxi,” Victor said, sounding like he was struggling to stay calm, eyes still too wide and bordering on manic. “Get your coat, dress up warmly. Leave – leave the flowers, I’ll clean them up when we get back.”
“Okay,” Yuuri agreed, keeping his own eyes trained on Victor, worried. This wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting – there was much less guilt and much more hysteria.
“Right,” Victor breathed out, then seemed to snap back into himself, scrabbling in his coat pockets for his phone, hurrying towards the bedroom, presumably to grab some supplies or to change clothes while making the call.
Yuuri sighed, glancing at Makkachin who seemed nonplussed by the whole affair, sharing a worried look with her. Then he did as he had been told to, and went to get his coat.
The ride to the hospital was strained with thoughts neither of them was willing to voice. Even the driver seemed to sense the tension in the air, not speaking up even to mention the weather or complain about the traffic the whole drive, looking relieved when they finally arrived. He drove away as soon as Victor passed him a few bills for the fee, not even pausing to check if it was enough. Victor didn’t seem to mind, didn’t seem to even notice, as he pulled Yuuri to his side and pushed him towards the hospital doors, his eyes unnervingly distant and his expression void of anything discernible.
Yuuri opened his mouth, then thought better of it and closed it again. He didn’t know what he would’ve said, anyway, and he felt loathe to disturb Victor, the way he was acting.
The doctor called for them soon after, and Victor leaped out of his stiff pose on one of the waiting room chairs as if pulled by strings suddenly snapped taut, tugging Yuuri along with him without once looking at him. The manic energy from earlier was still evident in the slight tremble of his limbs and the fingers gripping around Yuuri’s hand with enough force to leave bruises. Yuuri remained quiet and just followed.
“Yuri Ka- Kaw-tsu-ki?” the doctor stumbled over the unfamiliar name, mouthing the syllables with a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce this. I assume you want me to use English?”
“Um, yes,” Yuuri said, glancing at the rigid form of his boyfriend-slash-coach beside him. Victor was glaring at the floor as if it had insulted his mother and the whole sport of figure skating in the same sentence. “That’d be helpful. And it’s pronounced ‘Katsuki.’”
The doctor eyed Victor as well, lifting his eyebrows before looking back towards Yuuri. “Do you wish for your – for this man to stay? I can ask for someone to escort him out, if you’d rather talk privately.”
Victor snapped his head up in alarm, his eyes blown wide with panic and his mouth already open as if to argue or plead his case.
“No, no,” Yuuri hurried to say, pinching the skin of Victor’s arm to stop him from saying something aggressive and getting himself thrown out regardless of their wishes. “He can stay. He’s my – um, he’s my… boyfriend.”
“Very good,” the doctor nodded, not batting an eye at the very oddly acting apparent-couple currently occupying his office. “So, what seems to be the problem? The notes say you’ve been having trouble with a cough?”
“That’s – mostly true,” Yuuri agreed hesitantly. “It’s–”
“Hanahaki,” Victor interrupted, his voice empty. “It’s hanahaki.”
The doctor’s eyebrows climbed upwards. “That’s a very rare condition. Are you sure–”
“Unless coughing up flowers has become a common symptom of other diseases,” Victor bit out, sounding almost vicious, “it’s definitely hanahaki.”
“I see,” the doctor frowned, ignoring the tone for the words. “I apologize if this sounds insensitive, but if you two are, as you said, boyfriends, have you perhaps… acquired new objects of affection, Mr. Katsuki?”
“No,” Yuuri said, keeping his voice firm. “There’s only Victor.”
The doctor glanced at the man in question, his eyes lingering on the clenched fists and the blank expression. “If it’s uncomfortable for you to speak about this in front of him, you can still change your mind about talking in private.”
Yuuri shook his head furiously. “I’m completely certain that for me, there’s only Victor. I’ve never loved anyone else the way I’ve loved him. The way I still love him.”
“Hmm,” the doctor nodded, turning his chair to jot something quickly down on an open notepad on his desk. “What about you, Mister – Victor, was it? Have your interests, perchance… changed?”
“No,” Victor stated, glaring. “I love Yuuri. He’s the love of my life.”
Yuuri flushed awkwardly at the declaration, even if he knew it couldn’t be true. He’d never gotten used to hearing Victor say things like that, especially in front of other people.
“This is a rather curious case, if what you’ve both said is true,” the doctor noted. “But I do have some ideas. I’d like to check something quickly, if the two of you don’t mind having a quick break here – I’ll have to visit the archives, but I’ll be back shortly. Feel free to walk around or get some coffee from the machine around the corner while you wait.”
Yuuri and Victor nodded in tandem, watching quietly as the doctor left the room, heading down the hall towards the elevator at the end. Yuuri found his gaze drawn back to Victor, taking a moment to observe his stiff profile with unconcealed worry.
“I’m sorry,” the Japanese skater said after a pause. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”
“Did you mean for me to find out at all?” Victor returned, not looking at him.
“Yes,” Yuuri said honestly. “I did, eventually. I just didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, I am worried,” Victor said, finally glancing at him. “I’m so worried I can hardly breathe. Hanahaki is fatal without a surgery. And if you have a surgery…”
He didn’t have to continue. Yuuri winced at the unspoken words.
“I’m not going to,” he said. “I don’t want a surgery.”
This time Victor turned to face him fully, the earlier blank canvas replaced by a collage of despair. “If it came down to it,” he breathed, “if it was either the surgery or – or – dying. If you have to decide between the two – I want you to have the surgery.”
Yuuri knew the expression he was probably wearing, having seen it enough times in the mirror. It was what Mari called his “stubborn mule” face; a clear indicator that he wasn’t going to change his mind about something. “No.”
“Yuuri,” Victor implored, searching his eyes with his own, his whole body trembling almost imperceptibly. “You have to. You can’t die. Do you remember when you asked me what I’d do if you… if you died?”
Yuuri nodded uncertainly.
“The truth is,” the older man continued, speaking harshly as if in a rush to get the words out, “I do know. I know what I’d do. I would follow you. There’s no life for me without you, Yuuri. I wasn’t alive before I met you, not really. I don’t want to go back to that ‘life.’” Victor made a sharp gesture, as if to reject even the idea of it. “I would follow you wherever you went. Even death.”
“Victor!” Yuuri couldn’t stop his voice from rising in both volume and register, horrified. “You can’t say that! Even if I die, that doesn’t mean you have to, as well – there’s going to be others, you’ll find someone else to love. You can’t give up just because of me!”
Victor shook his head stubbornly, turning his eyes away once more. “There is no one else for me, Yuuri. There never will be.”
“I’m glad to see you’re having a proper discussion,” a voice interrupted them, prompting them to jump slightly as they turned towards the door.
“They say good communication is the key to a successful relationship,” the doctor said, closing the door and striding across the room, taking his seat at the desk once more. “I may not be a therapist or an expert on relationships, but it does seem like a very sensible notion.”
Yuuri remained quiet, glancing at Victor who followed his example and didn’t speak up.
“Well, gentlemen,” the doctor continued on, unbothered, “I do think I might have an idea, though it truly depends on your honesty regarding the circumstances.”
“What do you mean?” Victor asked, for the first time since entering the office sounding like he was making the effort to remain neutral rather than hostile.
“I feel I need to ascertain once more that neither of you have, in any way, experienced a decrease in your levels of affection towards one another, nor discovered a new object for them.”
“I told you, I love him,” Victor said, gesturing towards Yuuri with one hand. “More than anything.”
Yuuri flushed but nodded in agreement. “There’s only ever been Victor.”
The doctor nodded as well, appearing satisfied by their replies. “It’s quite rare, but there have been a few cases like yours.”
“Really?” Victor asked sharply. “I’ve never heard of anything like this, before.”
“Hanahaki is fairly uncommon, and there are the laws regarding any publicity on it,” the doctor pointed out. “Most of the information on cases of hanahaki is confidential, only available to medical personnel or on special authorization.”
Yuuri placed his hand hesitantly over the Russian skater’s, hoping to calm him down but afraid of being rejected. Victor jerked a little at the gesture but before Yuuri could withdraw, he opened the clenched fist and turned his hand over to interlace their fingers together. Yuuri relaxed, turning his attention back towards the doctor observing them with keen eyes, flushing a little under the clinical look.
“I checked the records, and as I recalled, there have been some recorded instances where the relevant parties claimed to still love one another, yet one of them had a very clear case of hanahaki. In these, there was one common factor – the one to experience hanahaki had a history of anxiety, depression or low self-esteem.”
Yuuri blinked, confused. “I do have a diagnosed anxiety disorder, but… what does that have to do with it?”
To his relief, Victor appeared just as bewildered by the doctor’s words, clearly not seeing the connection either.
“I believe what you have, Mr. Katsuki, is a case of psychosomatic Hanahaki.”
“What does that mean?” Victor asked, his tone tinged with impatience and hope.
“It means that, perhaps in part due to your anxiety, you have convinced yourself – and your body – that you are not loved,” the doctor directed the words to Yuuri, though he nodded to the both of them. “Psychosomatic hanahaki is exceedingly rare. In general, there is little known about hanahaki and its workings or what causes it to activate and what renders it void. The best we can guess, in cases like yours, Mr. Katsuki, your mind has overridden the typical mechanism, triggering your body into producing symptoms like hanahaki.”
“But if it’s just in my mind,” Yuuri frowned, “why are there actually flowers?”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” the doctor explained. “Just because it’s caused by your mind, that doesn’t mean it’s any less an actual case of hanahaki. The mechanism and the cause may be different, but the result is the same.”
Victor looked stricken. “Does that mean that he’ll still die unless he has surgery?”
The doctor turned to regard him, his face adopting the grim appearance that often accompanied the delivery of bad news. “I’m afraid that that’s what it comes down to. What you have now is two options – or three, if you choose to consider death one of them: while we can advise you against it, you are free to opt to not receive treatment. The two preferred options, however, are to either have the surgery–” Yuuri shook his head furiously “–or to simply convince the patient that he is, in fact, loved in return.”
Victor’s face brightened, his relief obvious. “So I can just convince Yuuri that I still love him?”
“It may be much harder than you’d think,” the doctor cautioned, “to convince the mind of something that you believe to be untrue. In most of the recorded cases, the pair opted for the surgery after some deliberation. There were also a handful that chose to pass on rather than remove the flower and the emotions attached to it. The cases where the psychosomatic symptoms were alleviated by removing their source were the most uncommon, by a large percentage.”
Victor didn’t seem to be listening to the words of caution. “I’ll do it.”
Yuuri watched with trepidation as Victor turned towards him, his expression the one he wore before competitions, serious and determined. “Yuuri, I don’t know how you could ever think that I don’t love you, even more than you love me, but I’ll prove it to you if it’s the last thing I do.”