Chapter Text
Hanahaki disease. A sickness caused by unrequited love, where the one afflicted with such feelings suffers from flowers blooming in their heart and lungs which are then coughed out, gradually worsening and eventually resulting in death. This disease is naturally cured by their beloved returning their feelings, however, there also exists a surgical procedure in which the victim’s emotions are removed, thus saving them.
Wednesday was the day the two of you broke up.
At least, that’s what you believed it to be. It only made sense—after all, that’s the day he stopped replying to you.
It had started as insidious as a lack of a ‘good morning’ text, which you found to be abnormal, but simply shrugged off as him being busy. While you took no part in it, you knew what he did for work and you knew that alongside it can come some odd hours and unexpected events. Still, you couldn’t help but fret, and it wasn’t just that he wasn’t replying. It was more so the fact that deep in your gut, you could feel an uncomfortable twist, hinting that there was something truly and unsettlingly wrong.
You weren’t usually one for superstitious beliefs, but you trusted your gut feeling more than anything else in the world. Each time something had gone wrong in your life, you had first felt it. A heavy sense of dread that settled inside the depths of your stomach, a feeling that instantly set off alarms in your head warning you of impeding misfortune.
And so, this time, when this bothersome nagging feeling tugged at your intestines, causing them to knot, you knew something bad would soon happen. When lunchtime rolled around and Jack still didn’t reply, it only confirmed your suspicions; you knew you were right.
You hated it. You hated that your gut feeling was always right, because each and every time you had prayed that it would be wrong. Each and every time, your prayers would go unheard, and calamity would strike where it would always hurt most.
This time, it was Jack.
Dinnertime came and went with no answer from Jack. You had sent him a myriad of texts by now and called him numerous times, all to no avail.
Your first thought was that something terrible must’ve happened to him, the mere prospect of that happening sending your heart into a harrowing acceleration. With shaking hands and brewing anxiety, you turned on the TV, only to see that there was no news of anyone missing. You weren’t sure if that was good or bad news, and so you proceeded to message your mutual friends in a panic, asking if they had any idea where Jack was.
Some of them answered with confusion. Some of them said they were sorry. The rest asked if you were okay. The combination of the three responses gave you an idea of what was occurring, but you desperately wanted it to not be true.
After all, how could he just leave you like that? Without a word? Without even a goodbye?
You felt sick to your stomach. You could feel an overwhelming nausea, bile threatening to rise up, tickling at your esophagus. You swallowed hard, trying to hold back from throwing up as you sank to the ground, knees clattering against the floor the same time the air was stolen from your lungs. Your heart was racing, its beats shuddering rapidly in your chest as you gasped and choked on an apparent lack of air, the room suddenly growing cold. You clutched your chest, which was threatening to explode, each beat sending waves of agony through your bloodstream. The oxygen in the room had either dissipated, or was refusing to be inhaled, rejecting you and leaving your lungs desolate and deprived of air.
You couldn’t breathe. Your heart was throbbing with pain. You felt like a fish out of water, desperately struggling and flailing before your imminent death.
Tears, warm and salty, cascaded from the corners of your eyes, splashing upon the ground as you choked on another sob. With each blink and attempt to clear the clouding vision from your eyes, you could feel the liquid dripping down your cheeks, causing you to wipe rashly at your face with your hand. You could feel the wetness on the back of your hand as you hiccuped, wailing with forlorn cries.
Just like that, you continued to sob, crying and crying until your heart emptied itself inside out and you laid on the floor, sniffling. You continued until you were exhausted, peeling yourself off of the floor and absentmindedly stumbling into your bedroom, where you flopped down, shutting your eyes and waiting to be relieved of your pain through the escape of sleep.
But not even then could you avoid the reality of your situation.
You woke up in the middle of the night, just a quarter past three, with a fresh wound opened in your chest.
You had dreamt of him. You had dreamt of Jack, in all his lifelike beauty, and the dream had been so vivid, so visceral that it had absorbed every ounce of pain that you felt, reflecting it back towards you tenfold.
That was when it started. You felt something scratch at your lungs, and so you reflexively coughed, before noticing that you could feel something lodged in your throat. Tentatively, you coughed again, and then again, before eventually the feeling evaporated at the same time as something fell out past your lips, landing in the palm of your hand.
With the room shrouded by darkness, your vision was limited, but you didn’t need to see it to know what it was. With the tiny, still wet object clutched in your hand, you got out of bed.
You staggered into the washroom, turning on the light, filling a glass of water and taking a few sips from it, soothing the burning sensation in your throat before setting it back down. It was then that you unfurled your hand, fingers splaying out and displaying a singular, glistening red petal. Even though you had already known what it was, you were once again hoping that you would be wrong, but you were unfortunately correct in knowing that you had developed the very first stage of the disease.
The first time you met was on a Friday evening, three and a half years ago. It was only by sheer chance you had come across him, and looking back, you wondered just how much would be different had the circumstances not aligned so perfectly, like it had.
It was wintertime, the sky setting relatively early compared to how it did a mere week ago. You had just finished your study session at the library and were about to make your way home.
It just so happened that that day marked the first snowfall of the coming year. Although the winter season had just started, the snowstorm that came was violent—within an hour of the first snowflakes falling, the entire ground was covered with a solid foot of snow. You only noticed it when you left. The second you opened the heavy front door of the library, you could feel a gust of freezing wind scrape against your skin.
You thought then, to text a friend and ask for a ride. To your misfortune, they were occupied at an evening class when this occurred. You grit your teeth and grimaced. You knew the only way for you to get home was to walk there yourself.
You weren’t too far from home, just a fifteen minute walk. But fifteen minutes in this blizzard that you were facing was no small feat. At that moment, you remembered that there was a shortcut to your home. It required walking through a few unsavoury alleyways; you had always avoided taking that route, preferring to just walk an extra ten minutes instead. However, today was different. You just wanted to get home as fast as possible and escape the harsh weather.
Plus, there likely wouldn’t be anyone else outside in this weather. You didn’t have to worry about potentially getting kidnapped and having your organs sold on the black market.
At least, that’s what you told yourself as you trudged through the snow, leaving the library grounds and making your way towards the alleys. You quickly noticed that your shoes weren’t fit for the weather, and quickly it felt as if your lower legs had gone numb, the cold seeping through the clearly not waterproof shoes. Not that the shoes really mattered much, because your ankles were also exposed and left to the mercy of the snow that had your extremities so painfully frozen.
You had been so focused on the freezing hellfire that your feet were subjected to that you didn’t hear him when he first called out to you.
“Hey!” the man shouted. You snapped your head towards the source of the sound, seeing an older man, middle-aged, walking towards you. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing out alone in this weather?”
As soon as he spoke, you felt an instant wave of discomfort go through you, and you forgot about the throbbing cold in your legs as your senses were heightened to full alert. Your gut instinct was telling you that this man was bad news, but knowing that information, you weren’t sure what to do with it.
“I’m going home,” you stated, voice as firm as you could make it.
“Really now? It’s too cold out here, why don’t you come back with me and I’ll take good care of you?” he questioned, a smirk on his face. You felt an overwhelming sense of disgust at his words, unable to hold back the glare you shot at him, your mouth curled down in a frown.
“I’m good, thanks,” you spoke curtly, before turning your back to him and trying to walk away.
You felt a hand on your shoulder, immediately sending shivers crawling down your spine as you turned around again to face him.
“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” he persisted. “You know you want to.”
You forcibly yanked his hand off of your shoulder with a scowl, backing away from him tentatively.
“Piss off.”
Suddenly, his expression went from vulgarly menacing to downright furious, and you gulped at his next words, wondering just how the hell you would get yourself out of this mess.
“You fucking bitch,” he raised his voice to a shout, “you think you can talk to me like that?”
His eyes were blazing with rage, a sharp contrast to the cold surrounding the two of you. Your heartbeat was racing as if it was running for its life, and you could feel your palms get clammy as panic rose up within you.
Shit, you thought. Shit. Just what had you gotten yourself into? Maybe you should’ve played nice; gently let him down. Or maybe you should’ve just ignored him from the start. You should’ve done something differently and it wouldn’t have ended up like this.
No. There was no time to think about that now. You had to deal with your present situation.
Your eyes darted around the area in search of an escape. You had only two ways to go. Back towards the library, or run your way home. Flight was probably your best option here—fighting didn’t seem like it’d work in your favour.
You were seconds away from turning on your heels and running off when the man grabbed you by the collar of your shirt.
“Don’t you fucking ignore me!” he roared, and you grimaced as you felt a speck of spit land on your face. As you curled your lip in disgust, your hands instinctively grabbed onto his wrist, attempting to pry his hand away from you, but he only tightened his grip around the fabric of your clothing, pulling you closer to him.
“Fuck you,” you snarled at him, your heart pounding away in fear, adrenaline rushing through you as you struggled against him. You were past the point of thinking rationally, only reacting to what was happening. With his hold on your clothes, he suddenly flung his arm forward, throwing you back and onto the ground.
You fell backwards into the snow, which thankfully padded your landing with a puff of snowflakes that exploded around you. As you struggled to catch your breath, you tried to get back to your feet when he came up to you, towering above you.
You saw him reach down towards you, and you scrambled to get away from him but ultimately failed as he grabbed you by the ankle, forcefully tugging you back towards him as you miserably fought for your life. You flailed in his grasp before resorting to throwing closed fists at his face, but your punches did little to hinder him, your last chances at surviving slipping away before your very eyes.
In a desperate attempt to hold on to your life, you started screaming at the top of your lungs, your vocal cords painfully protesting as you shrieked with every last bit of force you had. You saw the look on his face, one of panic and fear, and right then and there you knew you had fucked up irreparably.
He was going to kill you. You knew that for a fact when he got down on top of you, his burly hands wrapping around your throat, strangling the last of any noise out of you, effectively silencing your screaming. Your fingers were on his, pulling them to no avail when specks of coal began clouding your vision.
You kept fighting, your hands on his face, pushing and scratching and doing anything you could to possibly save yourself from your imminent death. You kept fighting, even as your head started spinning, your body tingling with a foreign, fuzzy feeling as you felt your body go numb. You kept fighting, even as your vision blacked out, your body suspended in space, as your consciousness slipped out through your bones.
But then, slowly, there was light, and your vision was fuzzy, but you could see again. Much to your surprise and confusion, the man was no longer on top of you, but instead he was on the ground beside you, limp in a puddle of a red so rich it melted and seeped through the snow, what once was pure white now stained with an unrelenting crimson fluid.
The same fluid coated your skin and clothes as well, soaking into the fabric where it covered you and glistening over your skin where it didn’t. Mind still hazy, you gently touched your hand to your face, pulling it away to see sanguine, sticky, and warm, a stark contrast to the frozen climate surrounding you.
And then you saw him.
Above, and hovering over the man’s inanimate corpse, stood a figure clad in black, their face covered with a deep blue mask. Its eyes were empty, twin abysses that seemingly led to nowhere. But what stood out the most was the scalpel in its gloved hand, a sharp metal coated in the same liquid that was plastered over your surroundings.
You let out a soft gasp, and the man—you assumed it to be a man, at least—tilted his head down in response, the empty husks of his mask boring into you with intensity.
After a long minute of staring at each other, you finally spoke. Or at least, tried to. What came out instead was a hoarse, rasping sound, so small and muffled that you barely even heard it yourself. You coughed to clear your throat and then tried again. This time, you could speak, though your voice was quieter than usual and far raspier.
“Hello?” you spoke in a questioning tone. “What’s going on?” The man didn’t reply. You didn’t really care; your head was still fuzzy. You groaned as you sat up, the task far more difficult than you had originally imagined. Your limbs were frozen solid, completely numb, and you struggled as you got up to your feet, standing uncomfortably stiff and knee-deep in scarlet snow.
“Thanks, I guess?” you let out a small and awkward laugh, not really sure of what to do. They didn’t teach you this in school. The man didn’t react to that either, his expression unreadable behind his navy blue mask. You were just about to turn away and leave, thinking that this interaction was over, when he finally spoke up.
“Come with me,” his voice was deep, velvety smooth, but with a darker undertone. You didn’t move, merely glanced at him with a confused expression. He seemed to read what you were thinking, at least that’s what you assumed, judging by his response.
“You don’t want to be guilty for murder, do you? Come with me,” he repeated himself.
“But I didn’t kill him,” you mumbled.
“You’re covered in his blood,” the stranger explained. “What do you think the police will believe?”
“Even if I did, wouldn’t it be self defence?” you asked. Despite how hazy your mind was, you were still hesitant about following a stranger somewhere, regardless of if he might’ve saved your life or not.
“I slit his throat with a scalpel,” he scoffed. “Just come with me.” That was enough to convince you, and so you nodded in agreement. He turned his back to you and started walking in a direction unknown to you. You followed closely behind him, shuffling forwards with cold feet.
You had barely walked for a minute when he suddenly paused. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at you.
“It’s too cold,” he stated. “Get on my back. It’ll be faster, and you won’t have to walk in the snow.” You gave him a wary look, causing him to sigh audibly.
“If I wanted to do something bad to you, I would have done so already. Just come.” You nodded again, thinking that he had a point. He bent down—you only noticed how tall he was, then—and you climbed onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck.
Then he ran.
Your eyes were wide with shock. You had never had anyone really run while carrying you, much less at this speed. He was fully sprinting, dashing through the snow with impressive speed and even more impressive stamina as he continued to do so for the entire way. Through the alleys, then through a few barren streets, devoid of anyone to see you being possibly kidnapped, then into and through a heavily forested area in the neighbourhood. You recognized it as uphill from where you lived, which was on the outskirts of town, on the lower half of a small mountain.
The house the two of you eventually stopped at was much higher up from where you lived, and you knew that for certain since you could feel the incline as he was running up. You hadn’t even begun to process what was happening, the situation so surreal to you when he bent back down, slowly letting you back onto the ground, just in front of the large, elegant gate to the home.
“We’re here,” he said, rummaging through his pocket to pull out a cluster of keys, putting one through the lock and swinging the large door open.
You followed behind him as he led you through his snow covered garden, all the way to the front door of the rather majestic house he resided in. He unlocked the front door, pushing it open and holding it for you to enter. You waddled in, bending down uncomfortably to take off your very much soaked shoes.
You heard the door close behind you, the lock following suit, and you gulped anxiously, still hesitant about being in a house alone in somewhere you weren’t familiar with, with someone you didn’t really know.
“Follow me, I’ll take you to the washroom,” he spoke as he took his own shoes off, walking inside with you on his heels. “You can take a hot shower there, warm yourself up and clean off the blood.”
You nodded, following him into the washroom, where he stood outside as you closed the door.
You noticed instantly how grand the washroom was. It was completely made of marble, polished and clean, complete with an enormous bathtub and shower.
He must be very wealthy, you thought.
You peeled your bloodstained clothes off; the blood had begun to coagulate and stick to the surface of your skin, which was awfully unsettling for you. You tried your best to ignore it as you left your dirtied clothes in a pile on one of the counters, feeling somewhat guilty for getting blood everywhere in this pristine home.
You stepped into the shower. The room temperature water felt as if it was scalding as it touched your skin, and you gasped, quickly pulling yourself away to turn the temperature down even further. You let the water run over your skin, clearing the caked garnet fluid off of your skin, layer by layer, watching a deep shade of rust run down through the drain.
You stayed in the shower for quite some time. Every once in a while, you took to turning the temperature higher, slowly removing the cold from your body, returning it to normal. While adjusting to the gradually increasing temperature, you took to washing yourself, using some of the shower gel that was already there. You found that you rather enjoyed the scent; it was too masculine for you but nonetheless the fresh, aquatic smell of the soap was pleasing to your senses. When you could comfortably have the temperature akin to what you usually showered with, you turned the water off, finally stepping out.
You saw a few dry folded towels sitting on the counter and figured that you could use them. It was only when you dried yourself off you realized you had nothing to change into. With a curse under your breath, you decided to wrap the towel around yourself as modestly as you could before exiting the room.
Your hands twisted the doorknob, and you opened the door just a crack, poking your head out to see if the stranger was there. To your surprise, there was nobody, but then you looked down at your feet and saw a pile of fluffy, folded fabric that surely had to be clothing.
Quickly, you snatched them up, closing the door to the washroom again before taking your towel off. When you unfolded the clothing, it was revealed to be a bathrobe, which made sense; he likely didn’t have any women’s clothing.
You put the bathrobe on, making sure it was tied firmly around your waist before you left the washroom. You weren’t too sure where to go from there, seeing as you didn’t recognize this place. Just as you were thinking about what to do, you heard the man speak.
“I hope this is fine. I didn’t have anything else for you to wear,” he explained. You turned around to look at him; he was still masked, his face concealed from you.
“No, it’s good, thank you.” You gave him a soft, reassuring smile. He merely nodded.
“What should I do with my clothes?” you questioned.
“I’ll dispose of them, don’t worry about that. Would you like some coffee or tea?” You thought about his question for a second, before answering with your drink of choice, making sure to thank him as well.
“I’ll be right back, then. Make yourself comfortable in the living room if you’d like, it’s just down the hallway.”
You followed his instructions and went to the living room, sitting down on the sofa. You felt a bit weird not wearing underwear, crossing your legs just to make sure you would not flash anyone. You hadn’t even had much time to think to yourself when he returned with a mug for you, handing it to you before sitting down beside you on the sofa. As much as you wanted to bombard him with questions, you waited patiently for him to speak first.
“I don’t usually get involved in other people’s affairs,” he stated, his eerily calm composure a surprise to you. Not that you were freaking out either, but you also weren’t the one who had just committed murder, and you were still processing everything.
“Well, I’m kind of glad that you did.” Your voice was softer than usual, still a bit dazed from what had just happened. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Now, I need you to listen to me carefully.”
You nodded.
“You were never there. You don’t know that man. You don’t know me.” He paused before following up with a question. “Do you live alone?”
“Yeah,” you answered, glancing at his unwavering blue mask.
“Good. You returned home from wherever you were, and that’s all there is to it. Now, nobody should suspect you of having anything to do with this, but if anyone asks, do not speak to them. Ask for a lawyer.”
You nodded again to show your understanding.
“That’s all I need to do?” you meekly inquired.
“Yes,” he responded, his voice sounding confident enough to soothe your worries, at least in the meantime. But there was something else on your mind.
“Can I ask you something?” You knew curiosity killed the cat, but you couldn’t resist.
“Go on.”
“Have you done this before?” You were almost afraid of hearing the answer. The room fell silent for a moment, before he finally spoke, his answer unnerving.
“Yes.”
“I see,” was all you could think to reply. You were at a loss for words. Through the quietude, you could hear the ticking of a clock.
The man then stood up, walking towards the window. He pulled the velvet curtains aside, peeking through them to look outside. After a second, he let the fabric go, turning back around and returning to where he was seated.
“You can stay here until the storm dies down,” he offered, changing the topic.
“Thank you,” you thanked him again. “If there’s anything I could do to repay your kindness—”
“No, there’s no need for that,” he quickly refused. The two of you continued to sit in tranquillity before another question popped up in your head.
“Can I ask another question?” you queried.
“Go ahead.”
“Why do you wear a mask?” You hoped this question wasn’t too intrusive. The smarter part of your mind was telling you that you should stop asking, but you found it far too difficult to resist.
“I—” he started, but then changed what he was about to say. “It’s best if I go. I have some work to do, anyway.”
You felt a slight sting at the rejection.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, feeling ashamed for prying.
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he quickly explained. “I just— I don’t want to scare you.”
“You won’t.” You weren’t sure where the sudden confidence came from, but somehow you felt sure that you would not be afraid of whatever this man was hiding behind that sapphire mask of his.
“You sound oddly sure about that,” he observed, slightly chuckling.
“Because I am,” you replied. On second thoughts, perhaps you were coming on a bit too strong. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to—”
“What’s your name?” he questioned, cutting you off.
“Uh, Y/N,” you answered, unsure of what this had to do with anything.
“Y/N,” he repeated, almost as if he was talking to himself. “It’s a lovely name.”
“Thank you,” you mumbled, to your own surprise, blushing.
“Y/N,” the man started, “I’m not human.”
His words caught you off guard, not having expected it in the slightest.
“What?” you asked, not sure if you heard him right.
“I’m not human,” he stated again, the empty holes of his mask burrowing into you.
“What do you mean?” you inquired, not fully understanding what he was trying to tell you.
The man was still for a second, but then he lifted his hands up, slowly—either not to scare you or for dramatic effect, you couldn’t tell. He unhooked his mask from his ears, lifting it off of his face, lowering his hands and resting them on his lap.
You stared at him, stunned.
His skin was grey. You hadn’t noticed earlier because of the situation at hand, and also because he was wearing a thick coat outdoors and now just a turtleneck indoor, his ears mostly hidden behind his hair, but his skin was a pale shade of ash. The rest of his face was ‘normal,’ attractive even, with his chiseled cheekbones and sharp jawline.
But none of that was nearly as remarkable as his eyes. Or rather, lack of. His eye sockets were empty, not any less of a void than it had previously appeared to be. His eyelashes were a dark brown, full and fluttering when he blinked like the wings of a butterfly, serving as the edges of the small abysses.
“I told you I didn’t want to scare you,” he muttered, sighing at your evidently shocked reaction.
“No,” you rushed to speak, “I’m not scared. I’m just surprised.”
“You aren’t afraid?” It was his turn to be bewildered when he asked that question. You shook your head no to emphasize your point.
“No, not really.” You shrugged sheepishly. “You look good.”
Your words caught the both of you by surprise. Evidently so, since you saw the man’s eye sockets widen. And as for yourself, you did not know when you had become bold enough to say things like that; perhaps your near death experience had changed you in some way. You supposed it only made sense after all. You had looked death in the eyes. What more was there to be afraid of? Surely not just telling some man he was attractive.
“Thank you.” It was his turn to blush now, and it was odd, to you, to see the same rosy glow that would appear on you, to appear on him as well. It was surprisingly attractive.
“You never told me your name,” you observed, having just realized that you didn’t know what to call him.
“Jack,” he responded.
“Jack,” you mumbled to yourself. “It’s nice,” you commented, remembering what he had said about your name earlier. Your words were rewarded with a smile, one that you found to be so genuine, so beautiful.
“It’s nicer when you say it.”