Chapter Text
Blossomed For You
“Do you know how excruciating the pain from this disease can get? When a man can’t die but he can never know whether his feelings for someone are reciprocated?”
…
1, The bud and the petals.
It first appeared around the 1500s. Which year, Hob couldn’t recall exactly. It was just a tiny, barely visible bud on the left side of his hip, coloured with a swirl of cornflower blue and lilac violet. Hob paid no mind to it after a few weeks, when it didn’t seem to grow or disappear. He had other pressing matters to care about, for example, continuing his business in printing, or living to the fullest after being sure that his immortality wasn’t a part of a deal with the devil. He had lived in wariness for almost a century, now it was time to enjoy life and the wonders it could offer.
Hob once babbled with his comrades that one of the things that made him want to live forever was to swive women, but he didn’t have any serious relationships in the first one hundred years of being immortal. He made a mental note to fix it in this century, and soon after, he met Eleanor and fell in love.
Hob already knew he was a Stamen, but still, watching the red carnation blossom on Eleanor’s smooth skin after the first time they made love was one of the most satisfying feelings he has ever experienced. His fingers slowly traced along the flower, which was still warm and exuded a faint scent of freshly bloomed carnations.
“It felt amazing,” she said, a little bit breathlessly when the effect of the blossoming slowly wore off. Her eyes wandered on his naked torso, and then her gaze fell on his hip. “What’s that?”
Hob looked down and realised the existence of the bud. It didn’t seem to change even just a tiny bit, and he shrugged at her. “I’m not sure. Probably just a birthmark or something.”
“Hmm,” she didn’t seem thoroughly convinced but chose to not press the matter further. “How do I look? With your flower, I mean.”
“You’re beautiful,” He said, with all earnestness.
“You too,” she chuckled, her slender arms reaching toward him, wrapping around his broad shoulders. “I love you.”
He kissed her as a reply to her sweet whisper.
.
Hob shared his marriage with his Stranger with all the enthusiasm of a newlywed despite they had been together for nearly a decade and already had a son. He didn’t mention the strange mark on his hip, but even that probably wouldn’t be able to gain his Stranger’s attention when he focused on that skinny wobbly Will Shaxberd.
He briefly wondered whether his Stranger was a Pistil or a Stamen.
.
His Eleanor died before the flower withered for a completely irrelevant reason with their love. He lost her with their unborn child, and the devastating feeling was so excruciating that it made Hob swear to stay away from future romantic relationships. If she died of old age or even fell out of love with him, that would still be easier to accept. How could he be so foolish to expect that he could have a normal life with a happy family as an immortal? Sooner or later, his loved ones would die before him, leaving him alone to grieve their deaths. Hob wasn’t sure how many losses he could endure before his heart completely shattered, and he’d rather not try to find out.
…
The 1600s passed excruciatingly slowly. Hob hated that time of his life with a passion. He was too busy trying to get through each day that he didn’t have any spare time and strength left to care about frivolous things. The image of the red carnation on Eleanor’s skin faded away with time, as did other bittersweet memories. The only anchor that kept Hob grounded during the hardship of his life was a promise of his centennial meetings with the Stranger. Finally, after eight decades of waiting, that day came.
His Stranger looked like a vampire with his long hair, pale skin, dark clothes, and the elegance that he possessed. Hob babbled about his life, about Eleanor and Robyn’s deaths, and then his hunger became the biggest problem that he could focus on.
His Stranger was generous enough to order a table full of food for him. He ate with utmost gratefulness, and he promised to himself that he would never let his Stranger see him in such a pitiful state again.
…
The 1700s were a blur. Hob didn’t remember most of it, considering he was too busy gaining back his wealth but more careful this time to not be mistaken and drowned as a witch again. He booked a private room for them this time when the day they met came, and happily shared the new brighter chapter of his life with his Stranger.
The first time his Stranger gave him advice, Hob knew that he would follow it without thinking too much. After all, his Stranger always struck Hob as someone wiser and older than he could ever imagine.
Their meeting was interrupted by Lady Johanna Constantine and her hired smugglers. After his Stranger refused to give her what she demanded, she left the two hitmen to deal with them. Those weren’t big problems for Hob as he thought, though, since he had years of fighting experience under his sleeve. He quickly rendered them useless, and then Lady Johanna pointed a knife at his throat. Disarming her wouldn’t be hard but the Stranger chose that moment to speak up, and Hob watched in both awe and wariness as the other blew some dust into her face. The woman dropped her knife with a dry clank and slowly fell down on her knees, her eyes turned white as shaky whispers escaped her lips.
“She has old ghosts that I’ve shown to her.”
He didn’t elaborate on how, and Hob didn’t inquire further. When he spoke again, there was a gentle, almost mirthful gaze in his eyes. “You need not have come to my defense.”
“Clearly,” Hod admitted with a soft smile as he looked away. “Still, I didn’t want to be drinking alone here in 100 years’ time,” he paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose you care to find another pub tonight?”
“She may have told others about our meeting. It will not be safe for you.”
That put a grin on Hob’s face. “I’m perfectly safe. I can’t die, remember?”
“Aye. But you can be hurt or captured. We must be cautious.”
“Always,” he nodded, taking a big exhale. “A hundred years, then?”
“A hundred years.”
.
That night, after taking a shower, Hob discovered that the bud on his hip just grew a little bit bigger.
He wondered if this tiny thing related to his Stranger, but the fleeting thought went away as quickly as how it came in.
…
Their 1889 meeting was a disaster. Hob wanted to forget but the scene kept replaying in his mind to remind him what a foolish thickhead he was. He tried to keep himself busy with work and acquiring the pub so he could maintain a meeting place for them. Hob even moved to the second floor of the new pub he built so he could be there basically all day long, ready to meet his Stranger if he decides to show up after the dispute. Whether he considered them friends or not, Hob would still be glad to see him again.
.
There were other things that bothered him, though. Managing a pub turned out to be harder than he thought. Waiting without ever knowing the result is tedious and tiring and mentally exhausting. And, the suspicion that he’s got a strange disease took a toll on his mentality, too.
That was one normal morning that spiralled into something bizarre beyond words. Hob woke up with a sore throat as if something got stuck in his windpipe. He went to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth with salt water but the discomfort didn’t go away. The uncanny unpleasantness continued to bother him till noon when Hob abandoned his lunch and went to the WC to cough his lungs out.
In the middle of bodily fluid and the half-eaten food, there was something else, too. Hob coughed up some small pinkish petals of a flower that he couldn’t recognise. He stared at it, bewildered. Has he eaten something strange before and his body refused to digest it? He couldn’t recall eating anything related to flowers, though.
For research purposes, Hob decided to keep the petals.
.
He found out those petals were Camellia, a kind of pretty flower that had various meanings depending on the colour of it. Pink camellia meant longing for someone distant.
Hob didn’t want to dive further into the hidden meaning of this.
…
The cough got neither better nor worse. Once in a few months, Hob would wake up with the distinctive discomfort that was getting more and more familiar, and he would spend that whole day coughing up flower petals. The colour seemed to get darker each time, too, and he was more than relieved when he found out that it wasn’t his blood that dyed the flowers.
Hob also found a name for the thing he thought he had: Hanahaki. A strange, bizarre disease that made someone cough up flowers as a result of their unrequited feelings.
Hob had a lot of things that he would want to say to his Stranger once they met again.
…