Work Text:
The waiting room is beige with a dark brown carpet, the kind that has either always been that color or is that color as a result of years of use. There are paintings (ironically) of flowers on the walls, and potted plants stationed randomly between the chairs. A receptionist sits behind a counter, typing on a computer and answering the phone when it rings. Aside from her, there are seven people scattered about the room.
You’re tucked into a corner by an end table that displays brochures for Hanahaki removal surgery alongside magazines with photoshopped celebrities on the cover. The ads for the surgery, as well as the photoshopped celebrities (one of which is Yoongi, actually), leave a bitter taste in your mouth.
Both the boy in the fetal position and the girl running to and from the bathroom get called before you. By the time the emo kid blasting Linkin Park (how is he not deaf by now?) is called, you feel like you’re going to vomit.
The noticeable lack of texts doesn’t help things.
The nurse only gets out the first syllable of your name before you rush toward her. You’re standing directly in front of her, possibly too close, by the time she gets the full thing out.
“That’s me,” you mutter, tapping your foot anxiously as you wait for her to take you back.
The exam room is beige, too. There are more ironic flower paintings (in pastels, of course, disgustingly) alongside truly awful paintings of sunsets. Sunrises? Sunsets? Doesn’t matter. You answer the nurses’ questions before she can ask them and you can tell that you’re irritating her. Doesn’t. Matter.
Right as the door clicks behind her (“The doctor will be in—” “Soon, yeah, I got it. Would be sooner if you left.”) your phone buzzes in your pocket.
It’s a news alert. A picture of Yoongi, well, August D actually and a girl. It looks like Jennie. Another rapper from his label. They’re both wearing shades and casual clothing. He has his hand on her back. They’re lost in a sea of paparazzi.
You’re surprised when a teardrop hits the screen. “Fuck.” You drag your hand across your cheek. It’s not even a big deal. It doesn’t mean anything. Jennie is dating Kai, you know that. Yoongi wouldn’t cheat, you know that, too.
But logic doesn’t stop the intense pain as another rose blooms in your lung.
“Fuck,” you say again. You drop your phone to clutch at your chest, the device clattering to the floor.
Just then the door opens to reveal a very put-together doctor; he’s a bit short but clean-shaven. When he smiles his teeth are very white and if you squint you can see the cakey-muddiness from his fake tan.
You immediately dislike him.
The doctor picks up your phone, very obviously glances at the screen, and then clucks his tongue at you. “Pining over a celebrity, huh?” He shakes his head in disapproval.
You want to spit in his eye. Instead, you lock your phone and tuck it into your pocket.
“Where Dr. Park?"
"Rushed to surgery, emergency patient. I’m Doctor Choi.” He offers his hand for a shake but you refuse to take it.
“I need more pills,” you say.
“Excuse me?"
"Anti-growth pills. I’m out."
"I have to assess your case.” He clicks his tongue again like a parent at a misbehaving child.
“I have roses in my lungs. I refuse to have the surgery. I didn’t sleep last night and I haven’t had solid food in days. I need anti-growth pills. I am currently out of them. Case. Assessed.” You glare at him hard. You are not in the mood to mess around.
The doctor crosses his arms over his lap and looks at you like you’re stupid. You are so close to slapping him; the only thing stopping you is your desperation for the prescription.
“And Dr. Park explained that your tolerance was going to build up? That at some point they wouldn’t work anymore?” He says each word slowly as if you won’t understand otherwise.
You mimic his tone, “And that I will eventually die. Yes. She. Did.” You crack your knuckles anxiously, “But they still work and I still need them."
"Have you considered the surgery…"
"No,” you nearly scream. You feel like a rubber band pulled so tight it will snap. “I have not. And I never will. I have discussed all of this with Dr. Park, my primary physician, I do not need a lecture from you. I have chosen my treatment plan and am well-informed that it will ultimately lead to my death. But I am very much alive right now and I need those damn pills."
The doctor sighs and you can see the image of himself he’s crafted in his mind: the martyr, the self-sacrificing doctor. He writes the prescription. You snatch it and walk away before you have to hear any more of his diatribe.
The Linkin Park guy is at the pharmacy. He’s three spots ahead of you and his eyes are glazed over in thought. He must have it, too. You hope his situation is better than your own, but you know it’s not.
Hanahaki is universally shitty.
And anyway, at least you have Yoongi. Technically.
"Hey, feeling better?” the pharmacist asks when you finally reach the counter.
You stare hard at him. “If I were better, would I be here?"
The pharmacist rolls his eyes. You know that this pharmacist (Kihyun) is capable of customer service; you just stood in line for ten minutes and watched him be nauseatingly polite to every customer. He has given up being anything but authentically annoyed with you.
"Why are you such a bitch?” he asks, keying in the prescription.
You shrug and lean against the counter. Why are you such a bitch? You don’t think anyone has ever asked you that before. “It’s easier, I guess."
Kihyun looks away from the computer, "Isn’t it exhausting?"
"Yes."
"Ten minutes,” he says and you move out of the way.
Linkin Park guy is looking at snack food, then at toys, then at wireless speakers. He holds one up to inspect before frowning in distaste. You watch him walk the length of every aisle (twice) before his name is called. Jeongguk.
He still has that far away look on his face and you silently hope he’ll be okay. Tears prick your eyes at the thought and you furrow your brow.
You glance at your phone. Still nothing.
When Kihyun calls your name he holds the white prescription bag just out of your reach. “You’re dying, right?"
"Yes,” you say, holding your hand out impatiently.
“How long?” he asks. His face is still cool and impassive but his voice is soft. For a moment he reminds you of Yoongi when you first met him, before the stylists and the publicists and the massive record label. Soft at the edges and warm.
“Couple months maybe.” You look away from him. But even when you’re looking at the spinner rack of reading glasses…your vision gets blurry.
“Don’t you think…it’s a waste to spend your last few months so angry?"
You snatch the bag from him forcefully, nearly crumpling it in your hand. "Yes,” you spit. You don’t look back as you leave.
You shouldn’t be driving. That was clear two weeks ago when you splattered the inside of your windshield with blood and white petals. But you like driving because you don’t have to think about anything but driving. You just have to focus on what you’re doing. You’re almost relaxed by the time you get home.
You click the garage door fob and suck in a breath, all of your tension coming back with it. Yoongi’s sleek black sports car is tucked neatly into the left side.
You pull in beside it and sit with the garage door open and the car on, your knuckles turning white against the steering wheel. You know when you go inside that it’s more than likely he’ll be in his studio. He’ll have on headphones and a cold cup of coffee on his desk, his eyes will be bloodshot and strained from staring at the screen. You know that if you don’t duck your head in and say something it will probably be hours before you see him.
It’s been two days since he’s been home. Which isn’t unusual—he keeps a cot and toothpaste at his office—but usually, if he stays at the office for that long, it builds. He’s either gone from nine-to-five or for a week at a time. Two days is an in-between number that you can’t wrap your head around.
Your anxiety traps you in the car for nearly twenty minutes before your chest pain finally pushes you out. You stuff the pharmacy bag into your pocket and climb out. You hesitate at the door into the house and listen for him; once in a while you’ll come home to him making dinner or cleaning the apartment or watching TV. You crack open the door and breathe a sigh of relief when you hear the shower running at the end of the hall. Tiptoeing into the kitchen you swallow three pills with a gulp of water and stash the rest on top of the fridge.
You relax slightly now that the pills are hidden. You lean against the counter and can feel them begin to work. It’s a weird sensation, the odd tingle that comes when the flowers wilt and the buds dissolve in your lungs. You asked once, when you weren’t so angry, what was in the pills and how they worked.
“It's…” Dr. Park was reluctant to tell you, but you’re nothing if not persistent, “Essentially it’s acid. Like a pesticide that burns the flowers."
Talk about hardcore.
Yoongi emerges from the shower with a towel around his waist at the same time you turn the corner into the hallway. You tense up when you first see him, lean and toned and freshly showered. You have to remind yourself to decompress.
"Baby,” Yoongi says softly, dragging his warm fingers across your neck and cheek and pressing his lips there softly.
“You’re home,” you smile. His hand moves down your back and you wonder if he can feel how rigid you are.
“Finally, huh?” he chuckles. Yoongi presses his forehead to your left temple and presses his nose into your cheek; a nuzzle. He smells like lavender soap and black coffee. His hand finds yours and he intertwines your fingers.
It’s almost enough to convince you.
In your bedroom, when he lets the towel drop from his waist, your heart skips at the idea that something might happen. You haven’t slept with him in…weeks? You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your distance since the disease began progressing.
You’re relieved when he pulls on a pair of sweats. “How are you?” you ask and your voice is choked.
He catches sight of you in the mirror, his expression concerned at the tone of your voice. You smile at him, not very convincingly, and he lets it go.
“Exhausted,” he sighs. He turns and presses his lips to the side of your mouth, “I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin.
“It’s okay,” you peck his cheek. “Get some rest; I have some work."
You flee from the room like it’s on fire. Your chest aches with the absent words and lost touches. Yoongi watches you go and he aches, but he’s not sure what for.
You sit at the kitchen counter staring at a blank page on your laptop. Your eyes go in and out of focus and you concentrate on your breathing.
"What’s the point,” you whisper, closing the laptop without working. You’ll be dead in a month anyway. You hear the door to Yoongi’s in-home studio click shut and it sounds like nothing more or less than the nail in your coffin.
You thought, after you were first diagnosed, that time would move slower. That somehow, with flowers infesting your lungs, everything would take longer. But it’s all just the same.
You go to sleep at 10:30 and shift into consciousness when Yoongi’s side of the bed dips around 3 or 4 AM. You wake up alone at 8:30. If he thinks of it, there will be a note from Yoongi on his pillow or the bathroom mirror or the fridge (Gone to work. Love you). You shower, brush your teeth, make some eggs and take your pills. Depending on how you’re feeling you’ll work or watch TV or scroll through August D fan sites. If you don’t reach out first, you won’t hear from him until the evening.
He always texts you by 7 if he’s not coming home, 9 if he’s going to be late, not at all if he plans on being home.
This is not a note-morning. You hadn’t expected it to be. His album is weeks from being released; his brain is full to the brim with more important matters.
But your chest still hurts.
Your shower is cold and you’re out of eggs. You gulp down three pills with the quarter pot of coffee Yoongi left for you and sit at the kitchen counter again. You spend too much of the day scrolling through celebrity Twitter, and you cough up bloody flower petals twice.
Yoongi texts you at 7:01 PM.
Min Genius: Still working on the album
Min Genius: Almost done just need another all-nighter
“And another and another and another,” you whisper. Your lungs feel like fertilizer.
Okay - drink lots of water and remember to eat! :)
He sends you a black heart emoji and it’s like your floating but for the tether attached to your lungs.
You climb into bed at 7:30 because you can’t stop crying. Everything is so fucked up. When you told Dr. Park that you have Hanahaki and your unrequited love is your boyfriend…The memory sends a stab of pain through your chest and a fresh set of tears fall onto your pillow.
You’re so angry and afraid and anxious. You feel broken and unfixable like a shattered vase on the kitchen floor. You feel stupid for not telling him and for suffering in silence and for not knowing what to do. You feel trapped, caged in by your disease and your mental incapacity to believe that he loves you.
You pass out two hours after you first lay down and you don’t wake up when Yoongi slips into bed at 5 AM.
You wake up the next morning thinking the thermostat must be broken; it’s like a sauna. You blink away the overnight crust from your eyes, wincing because they’re puffy from all the crying. Your chest heaves but you can’t get a full breath.
You flinch when you feel something sticky on your pillow, pulling away when you see that its blood. You gasp and then cough because your mouth is full of blood, splattering the sheets and the end table and the wall. You scramble away from the mess and find yourself practically sitting in Yoongi’s lap.
“Fuck,” you whisper and there’s already blood and rose petals sitting at the back of your throat.
His voice is rough with sleep and he wraps an arm awkwardly, eyes still closed, around your torso. “Baby?"
You stiffen.
Yoongi squeezes your side gently and you can hear the smile in his voice, "Good morning."
Shit, shit, shit.
You cough violently and a spray of blood and white rose petals paints the wall. It looks like a violent slasher movie. You clamber out of his embrace, still choking and coughing and sputtering. You run out of the room and into the bathroom, crouched with your hands cupped around your mouth. You keep trying to swallow but it feels like your throat is blocked.
You fall to your knees harshly and you know they will be bruised. You grip the toilet bowl like a life preserver, you heave and cover the inside in red. Your lungs burn with the strain and you feel painfully lightheaded.
Once you can swallow again, you lean back and rest against the wall. You can hear Yoongi from the other room when he discovers the blood.
"What the fu—” he starts and then he’s shouting your name. He stumbles into the bathroom, all adrenaline and urgency. His hair is sticking up in the back and his face has gone ghostly white from shock.
There’s prickling in your chest and you know you have to move. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, flushing the toilet and standing.
You brush past him in the doorway and beeline for the kitchen with Yoongi at your heels. He’s cursing under his breath, rapid-fire like when he performs. You stand on your tiptoes and retrieve the pharmacy bag on top of the fridge.
You swallow a couple of pills with water, wincing at the taste of blood that goes down with it. When you look up, Yoongi is staring.
You watch him impassively, refusing to be moved, trying to summon the anger and frustration you felt at the doctor’s office or the pharmacy. You place the pill bottle on the counter. No need to hide it anymore.
“Are you,” he starts, swallowing a giant gulp of air and gathering his thoughts, “Are you sick?"
You frown. "Yes.” Duh. You wince; even in your head, disdainful sarcasm feels wrong when directed at Yoongi.
“How…” Yoongi yanks a hand through his hair in frustration. He looks the same as he does before the beat drops on a diss track.
Then, as you watch him trying to absorb this reality, it breaks through with a crash: the love you feel for him. It sends you to your knees and you can feel every thorn in the rose that blooms in your chest.
So much for impassivity, frustration, and anger.
Yoongi drops to his knees, too, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing. He tries to get you standing, but you resist. Your head hurts.
His fingers move up your arms and then your neck, cupping your face and making you look at him.
Your eyes meet for a long moment. You can see him searching your expression for answers. A frown cracks the perfect planes of his face. Yoongi’s thumb presses gently against the corner of your lips before pulling away.
There’s blood on his finger.
“What is going on?"
Your heartbeat is in your ears like drums echoing. You keep your eyes on the inside of his wrist. "I have Hanahaki disease."
Yoongi pulls away, sitting back on his legs. When you look up his eyes are closed and his frown seems permanently etched into his expression. His voice doesn’t waver: "Who?"
Your chest feels heavy but every other part of you feels lighter. You’re going to tell him and then he’ll know. You won’t have to keep it a secret.
Tears are spilling down your cheeks unbidden and you open your mouth to tell him, to relieve the pressure you’ve been feeling, but the words won’t come.
Yoongi’s eyes snap open. "Who is it?” he demands.
You’re choking. “You."
Silence.
And blood in your mouth, petals on your teeth. Standing in a quick movement, clenching your jaw to keep the everything in, you storm past him in a rush.
You clutch the toilet bowl like it’s salvation like if you just grip it hard enough you won’t vomit, you won’t die. The smell is awful, rancid and rusty and a layer of rose-scent that just makes it worse.
You press your cheek against the toilet seat and sigh because it’s cold and your skin is burning. You wonder absently if this is where you’ll die, hugging a toilet, suffocating on your own fucked-up-ness.
"I don’t understand."
You don’t move your head, can’t move your head. It’s exhausting and your body feels like dead weight. Is this what dying is like? You watch a drop of water plink into the bloody toilet water and realize that you’re crying again.
”I love you,“ Yoongi says. It soft and a whisper, like a secret. The third time he’s ever sad it out loud.
You frown because you don’t believe him.
You don’t think he’s lying, of course, you just don’t believe him. You don’t think he really knows. You think that he’s formed a habit of living with you and doesn’t know any better. You think he’s convinced himself that he loves you but it isn’t true. You think…you think…you think…
"You don’t think I love you?” he whispers from by your side. You don’t know how or when he got there, but his fingers are weaving through your hair to get it out of your face. You can see a couple of strands with blood and bile on them in the corner of your eye.
It takes a few moments for the pain in his voice to get through to you. When you try to make eye contact, your vision blurry and hazy, he looks like he might cry.
“I love you,” he whispers again, pressing his lips to the side of your mouth. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He kisses your whole face, rests his forehead against your shoulder, says it so many times you lose count. He squeezes your hand and it keeps you there with him, keeps you from drifting off, “Believe me."
Yoongi moves your head so that your forehead presses against his. You open your eyes tiredly and he whispers, "Say you’ll try."
There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him.
"Okay.” And you breathed a little easier.