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"Alright, Kurusu," says Tae, and kicks the door shut as soon as she ushers Kurusu out of the waiting room and into the private medical ward. Not that there's anyone in the waiting room on such a god-awful December day, but privacy is important. "Not an experiment call? What's this all about?"
Kurusu doesn't sit. Doesn't hesitate, even, before he says, "I need help with my hanahaki."
Both of Tae's eyebrows raise. Dear god, if this conversation ends with Kurusu confessing he's in love with Tae—"That's an issue between you and your lady friend," Tae says dryly.
"I just want some pills to keep it under control."
Alright, Tae knows she's dealt him some shady substances before, but jumping straight to prescriptions to control hanahaki seems to be missing more than a few steps, in Tae's opinion. "The pills only suppress symptoms. You do know that the source is beyond the scope of medical science, right? They taught you that in sex ed?"
"I know."
"God's sake," Tae sighs, and leans back in her office chair. "Just ask her out."
"No," says Kurusu.
"Oh, please. It's like ripping off a bandaid. I can't give you a prescription to solve a lack of spine. Just confess. She'll either reciprocate or she'll reject you, and then either you'll have requited feelings or you'll have a cry and then get over it."
Kurusu ducks his head further. "He... can't."
Tae raises her eyebrow at the pronoun. She could have sworn that Kurusu was dating that blonde model girl. Before Tae can even think twice about it, Kurusu says with his usual bluntness: "He died."
Tae tries very, very hard not to freeze. "It was an accident," Kurusu says, somewhat apologetically, so apparently Tae didn't hide it well enough.
What do you say to that? Finding out that someone died is hard enough. Finding out that someone you loved—someone you loved enough to grow flowers out your throat, someone who grows irrefutable proof of your feelings in your body, someone who holds your life in their hands—finding out they've died...
I'm sorry for your loss? That sounds hard? I understand?
It'd be like spitting in someone's face.
Tae leans back in her chair. Kurusu, usually always relaxed and game for anything she throws at him, is beginning to have the stiff and uncomfortable look of a patient who has been left standing in the middle of the room with nothing to do long enough to realize how closely they're being examined.
"That's difficult," says Tae at last.
Kurusu nods.
Tae sits up and briskly yanks out a file cabinet. "Not an unheard-of situation," she says, all business and no sympathy, "but not one that usually happens to teenagers. That's unfair and unlucky."
Kurusu nods again. Tae hates it when teenagers do the sullen, silent nodding routine.
"Now, I have a few contacts—you should sit down, by the way, this might take a while—I have a few contacts in bereavement counseling who focus on this sort of thing, because it's a bit of a delicate and time-based operation to prevent the continued growth. They'll help you sort out your grief, let go of any unrequited feelings, and you'll be right as rain—barring potential relapses in the future, but let's not get ahead of ourselves." With one hand, she hands him a pre-printed list of numbers to call; with her other hand, she flips to a fresh page on her clipboard and starts taking notes. "Plant type?"
Kurusu doesn't miss a beat. "Lilies."
"More specifically, guinea pig."
"White stargazer lilies."
The flower people bring for funerals? Tae gives him a look. "You're really on the nose with that, aren't you?"
For half a second, Tae sees Kurusu's lip turn upward.
"Get me a sample within twenty-four hours," says Tae, not really because she needs it that fast, but she likes it when people don't fuck off and get back to her next month with an email that starts with 'Apologies for the late response.' "I'll run a test to make sure there's nothing unusual or abnormal. When did it first occur?"
"October."
Good—recent. There can't have been a lot of time to grow, then. "Have you experienced nausea, blood in your throat or saliva, the taste or iron, vomiting, diarrhea, or fainting?"
"Nausea. Some vomiting."
What an nice, obedient boy. "Frequency?"
Kurusu thinks on it. "Nausea at night," he says eventually. "Sometimes vomiting when I go to places... where we spent a lot of time together."
"Then it's time to stop going to those places," says Tae briskly. "Are you fine with pills, or do you want injections?"
"I'm okay with pills."
Tae holds the package out, but then remembers herself and snatches it away. "Are you capable of swallowing it and then not hacking it up with the rest of the foliage?"
"Yes," says Kurusu dryly.
"Are you sure?"
"It's only nausea."
Tae holds the package back out before she remembers something else and snatches it away. Now Kurusu looks mildly irritated. "Ah-ah-ah. Side effects are numbness, loss of taste, loss of appetite, blah, blah, there's instructions on the back. Read them."
She does not re-extend the package in offering. The paper of recommended grief counselors is still in his hand, and she nods to it significantly. "The pills only slow the rate of the growth. It treats symptoms. Left unchecked, this only adds another two years to your lifespan."
Kurusu's hand tightens on the sheet of paper. Then he nods again.
"The real cause of the disease needs to be treated. Do you understand me?"
Kurusu nods.
He's a quiet boy on a good day, but this is too much. Tae leans towards him. "You need to see those people, Kurusu. You need to call those numbers. I can only do so much for you with pills. You're in a remarkably difficult situation, and we're incredibly lucky that requited love is not the only cure. Hanahaki also abates when the afflicted overcome their romantic feelings and let go of their beloved. There is more than one way to solve this."
Kurusu nods. Back to the silent, sullen teen act. Tae hates it when she has to talk to herself. "Look at me," she says, and grudgingly, Kurusu lifts his head.
He looks—broken. But not the sort of broken of someone crushed and destroyed—the sort of broken of a wine glass in jagged pieces, just waiting for someone to push him too far. The sort of broken that sharp enough to hurt.
Whatever. If Kurusu lashes out at her in grief, then so be it. Occupational hazard. She grabs him by the chin and makes him look her in the eye, and he lets her, too.
"With time and help," Tae says, "you can, and will, let go of him."
Kurusu's eyes glint. She's said the wrong thing. Tae does not let go.
"This is not a hopeless situation," she says clearly. "Do you understand me, guinea pig?"
Kurusu looks like he doesn't appreciate her acrylic nails digging into his cheek. "I never said it was."
She smirks. Lets him go. "Keep that attitude up. Call them," she says pointedly, tapping her nail hard on the paper in his hand. "And don't forget that sample."
"I won't." Kurusu, obediently, folds the paper into fours and slides it into his winter jacket. Only then does Tae hand him the package of pills, which also disappears into the same pocket. "Thanks, doc."
She waves him a lazy, absent-minded goodbye and turns back to her computer, like she would on any other day on which Kurusu is not grieving the death of someone he loves. Behind her, Kurusu's soft footsteps move to the door; the door opens, begins to close, and Tae skids back on her rolling chair to catch it just a second before the lock clicks shut. She watches from the crack in the doorway as her favorite guinea pig stands in the middle of the waiting room and digs through his jacket pocket and pulls out a the package of pills, a single glove, and the sheet full of numbers. He pops two pills in his mouth, swallows them dry, and tosses the paper in the trash on his way out.
Tae hangs her head and rubs at her temples.
Then she sighs, stands up, kicks the door back open, and fishes the paper out of the trash bin with two delicate fingers. God, she wishes she could smoke inside. "Rude little child," Tae mutters aloud, and pins the paper to her corkboard with aggressive force, so she won't forget to make him call the next time he dared step foot in her clinic.