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Luka remembered reading fairy tales as a kid. He'd propped the heavy books packed full of stories on the floor where he laid on his stomach, kicking his feet in the air, reading about kind maidens who were blessed with gems and roses falling from their lips with every word. He’d always wondered where the gems had appeared; on their tongue, as the words were formed? In their cheek? In the back of their throat, rising with a cough? Had they hurt? He’d assumed gems were sharp, scratching at the inside of their mouth and leaving scrapes and scars. But the stories had never mentioned the gems coming out bloody, so he’d just assumed that the magic protected their mouth as the precious rocks and soft petals were formed.
How he wished he had magic protecting him now.
The flowers tore at his throat, ironically delicate blooms coming up dripping in his red blood. Eating was hard, talking was hard, swallowing felt like he was trying to choke down knives. He didn’t miss Juleka’s increasingly worried looks as he slowly made his way through each meal, giving his mother a careful smile whenever she looked his way.
A week after the flowers appeared, his twin cornered him in their shared room. Her melody had been growing increasingly discordant, twanging sharply every time she’d spotted him, and he’d known this was coming. Still, her worriedly determined eyes sent a twinge of dread through him.
“Luka,” she’d mumbled, standing between him and the doorway. “Somethings up with you.”
He’d coughed, holding a fist to his mouth as if that would stop the flowers he knew were moments away from forcing their way up. “I’m fine, Jules, I promise,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t need to worry.”
She shook her head, bangs swishing back and forth. “Something’s wrong, Luka. Come on, don’t you trust me? You can tell me anything, you know.”
His throat burned, screaming the need to hack up petals until his lungs came up with them. He was afraid if he opened his mouth the flowers would spill out, filling his mouth and his throat and his lungs, coating his tongue with the taste of blood. “There’s nothing,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to get going. Dad’s expecting-”
“Luka,” Juleka interrupted, and her pained voice made him pause. “Please?”
But before he could answer his body made the choice for him, coughing so violently he fell to his knees. His throat burned, flowers forcing their way up and out of his throat and if his mouth wasn’t full of the delicate petals he would’ve screamed in pain.
“Luka!” Juleka shouted, as loud as he’d heard her in years, and she dropped down beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “What's- no. No, no no no no no-”
Dozens of delicate cherry blossoms landed on the floor beneath him, pink petals tinged red with his blood. Tears stung the corner of his eyes as the flowers scattered, his wheezy coughing sending them flying.
As his hacking abated, Juleka’s careful hands pushed him into a seating position. “Here,” she said, quickly, rushed, like she was trying to avoid looking at the flowers on the floor. She pushed her water bottle into his hand. “Drink this, it should help, and- and breathe, and-”
He looked up at the tremble in her voice. She was crying. He swallowed his gulp of water, setting the bottle on the floor. “Hey. Hey, Jules, I’m okay,” he said hoarsely, pulling his sister into a hug. “I’ll be fine.”
“Stupid,” she huffed, but she curled into his side, burying her face in his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell any of us?”
He swallowed, wincing as the action ripped at his torn throat. “I didn’t want you guys to worry,” he said carefully. “And I knew Mom would make a big deal out of it.”
Juleka sniffed. “Yeah, she would,” she mumbled. Luka was almost relieved that her voice was back to its usual, muttery self. “Still doesn’t mean you weren’t being an idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said softly. He rested his chin on her head. “Sorry.”
After a moment of silence, she shifted slightly, pressing herself closer to him. “It’s Marinette, isn’t it.”
Luka’s heart twinged with pain. “Yeah.”
Juleka sighed. “How long have the flowers been… coming?”
“About a week.”
She stilled. “Marinette’s party.”
“... yeah.”
Luka remembered the moment like it’d been yesterday. Marinette had been glowing, cheeks flushed with happiness as they celebrated her 21st birthday. The party had been bursting with people who loved her.
He’d been standing in the back of the room, sipping a glass of punch, watching as her eyes sparkled. Her melody had been clear even from all the way across the room, bursting with joy. Radiant notes danced around each other in a beautiful symphony. Lost in the crowd, watching her face light up, he’d been able to pretend it was just the two of them, that she was his and he was hers and this happiness belonged to them and them alone.
That was, until he finally noticed what she was looking at.
Adrien.
On one knee.
His whole world had shattered.
And the coughing had started.
Juleka mumbled something he didn’t catch, burying herself further into his side.
He choked back the wave of flowers that threatened to come up at the memory. “It’s fine. I’ll- I’ll get over it- her- eventually.”
She looked up, giving him a flat stare. “You’ve been in love with Marinette since, like, the first time you locked eyes or whatever. I doubt you’re gonna get over her anytime soon.”
Luka sighed. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Probably not.”
“You should get out of Paris,” Juleka mumbled, reaching up to brush at her bang so both her eyes were visible. “Maybe you could join Dad on tour like he wants you to.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
It wouldn’t help. He already knew that. He’d tried leaving, years ago, but everything reminded him of home- of her.
Because she was home.
But he wasn’t hers. Her home was Adrien, was sweet kisses and playful banter and green eyes, mirroring that same love and devotion back to her.
Juleka’s face fell. “You’re not going to leave, are you.”
“Sorry, Jules,” Luka said. He sighed, rubbing her shoulder with his thumb. “I’ll be fine.”
“You just coughed up bloody flowers.”
“... mostly fine.”
She snorted softly. “Stupid.”
“Love you too, Jules.”
The siblings fell silent. Luka swallowed back a cough, fighting a wince as his throat burned yet again.
No, he wasn’t fine. But as long as he got to see her, hear her, be a part of the symphony of her life, he’d be okay.
He’d have to be.