Archive of Our Own ^beta

Caution; Beware; Danger. The words stand in contrast to the delicate-looking blossom they represent: the Begonia, viewed in low resolution on Mika's relatively ancient phone. The crack in the screen splits the flower's flourishing form down the middle. Without warning, Mika feels a tightness in his throat that is quickly becoming all too familiar. The phone clacks against the hard flooring of his apartment. He can only hope for a second that it hasn't broken further before his attention is arrested by the solid mass making its way upwards like an unwanted meal that refused to be digested. Hands clutch his neck, cutting off his airflow, and all he can do is heave open-mouthed as he waits for the parasite to finish its journey.

He coughs, wetness dampening his lips and his rib cage sore from the effort. The small, somehow-intact bouquet of pink and orange lands gently next to its own portrait displayed on the phone's screen. He lets his forehead fall against the desk with a thud and glowers at the flowers as if he just witnessed them commit murder. Whaddya even mean, "danger"? I'm already in danger every day! What the heck's that gotta do with this... this sickness? When he expelled his first flower—just a harmless bud—and determined that he did not accidentally eat it beforehand, memories resurfaced of a time in high school where a boy died of heartbreak. Not literally of heartbreak, but rather by thorns representing his despair that tightened harder, and harder, and harder around his weakened core until it punctured and collapsed all at once.

He didn't know the boy personally, but he became accustomed to seeing his face plastered everywhere as a cautionary tale to teens of the small town. What a tragedy that a youth was lost because he was more obsessed with winning hearts than with securing his own future. It's not like he was holding on because he thought there was any chance of returned affections—the girl whom he directed his adoration wholeheartedly rejected him long before the first flower made its appearance. He knew the girl didn't love him, but the simple act of loving her made continuing on worth it. He died with the assurance that his devotion never wavered. The girl moved away soon after.

For Mika's part, he doesn't believe the boy was as foolish as everyone else made him out to be. He had a clearly-defined purpose in life as well as the blessing that is loving another person unconditionally—a constant that will never change. That's not to say Mika agrees with his decision, but the boy must have died without regret. Of that much, Mika is certain.

When you start spewing flowers, it's because you're hopelessly infatuated with someone who you believe will never love you back. The only cure is to have the source of the blossoms surgically removed at the expense of losing your feelings of love. It may even have the consequence of dampening your emotions irreversibly and causing you to associate even the slightest romantic interest with the pain of illness.

All the information that he's gathered on the topic is why he's so bewildered. He's coughing up flowers of unrequited love, but he's not in love with anyone. The last time he felt anything for someone was in high school—they kissed, but it clearly didn't do much for either of them, considering they stopped talking the following day. He must have mistakenly caught the disease by touching an inconspicuous flower someone left behind, and it'll clear up on its own once his system figures out that there's no sort of love in his life to agonize over.

His gaze wanders over his desk: a mug with dried coffee grounds coating the bottom; another mug with a single sip remaining—Mika finishes it off, not letting it go to waste, and the lukewarm bitterness feels like embers on his throat. There is a tipped-over bag of hard candies that Mika plucks one from, dropping it in his mouth and savoring the restorative sweetness, and a massive pile of papers that would look like an unsalvageable mess to anyone else, though he can't deny it sometimes appears that way to him too. He picks up the most recent case file to re-examine it, thumbing through the pages until he finds the crime's culprit.

Kenji Dennis Wabiru has been a constant pain in the force's side since before Mika was even qualified to join it. He's a callous, ruthless man who will do anything—kill anyone—to achieve his ambitions. His motivations are flimsy at best in Mika's opinion—"purifying the world" sounds more like a cartoon villain's pipe dream than something a renowned criminal would care about. He's convinced it's a front for some deeper objective he doesn't want people finding out about. Probably money.

Though there's no need to (given that Wabiru's visage is long since burned into Mika's memory) he still inspects the photos attached to the file. There's some taken at the scene of the crime that may provide valuable insight. He flips through images of broken windows and trashed storefronts before arriving at what he expected but is no less conflicted to see: Wabiru intentionally posing with a sardonic grin for whoever thought it would be a better idea to line him in the sights of a camera than of a gun. He feels his stomach twist and blames it on the day-old coffee. I shoulda been there, he thinks. I coulda done somethin'... probably. Now he's got who-knows-what and is plannin' something none of us know anythin' about.

He drops his head onto the desk again, rattling the empty mugs. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, but the air gets caught on something, triggering another coughing fit. After pounding his fist into his chest a few times, only a scant few petals fall from his lips for the exertion it took to release them. One is caught in the corner of his mouth. He yanks it out before slamming it onto the desk, causing papers to scatter in the ensuing gust. One of the petals landed atop picture-Wabiru's hair, and Mika notes with vague interest that they're almost the exact same shade of pink—or hue? All of the terminology that they tried to teach him in art class seemed to dissipate in the murky paint water. He doesn't have a great memory, or even a passable one at times, but he tries his best to study the cases under his care for the good of the city. And yet, he never gets any closer to solving Wabiru.

The man has one-hundred-and-one tricks up his sleeve and only shows his full hand when it benefits him. Often, that benefit seems to be as inconsequential as gaining amusement from luring Mika into a trap only to release him shortly after—like he's some cat toy to be tossed around rather than a professional detective actively attempting to capture a wanted criminal. The thought of actually succeeding in his goal, though, makes his ears ring and his head fill with uncomfortable fuzz, so he stops thinking.

'M tired... Mika's eyes begin to droop and blur over, and he gazes longingly at his plushie-conquered futon. It's only noon. Maybe my unrequited love is my bed... His chest heaves with a short laugh, but when it's transformed into yet another cough a moment later, he can't say he's surprised. It almost confirms his suspicions that maybe he just needs 24 hours or so of sleep, and then he'll be completely healed. He moves to stand up, ready to test the theory out, when his phone causes the floor its lain on to vibrate, scaring him into banging his knee against the desk.

"Ow ow owie... Nnagh..." He massages the pulsations radiating from his knee and sighs at the already-deepening bruise marring it. Glancing down and seeing his boss' face on the call screen makes him forget about the pain, though, as he scrambles to answer before it goes to voice-mail—he fails and almost calls two random coworkers before finally hitting the correct contact of his boss, who thankfully answers after a single ring.

"Kagehira!" The commanding voice of his superior fills his ear, and Mika struggles to keep a grip on his phone. I'm in real trouble...

"Y-yes?"

"How's that cold of yours looking? Feeling any better?"

Oh, so that was it.

"Yeah, I think I'm—" He suppresses a cough. "—ready t' start workin' in the field again. I've been lookin' over those case files ya sent me, but it's hard t' do much with just photos."

If Mika's boss was in the room with him right now, he's certain that the man would be giving him a firm ruffle of the hair and pat on the shoulder as he says his next words. "Good to hear it! Something new came up that I want you on the team for. It's tomorrow; I'll send you the details."

"Got it!" Mika hopes the forced energy in his voice doesn't make it sound even more scratchy. "Um, does it have anything to do with...?"

"With Kenji Dennis Wabiru? Yes. He's making moves, and we're trying to intercept him. God knows if it'll work, but we're trying everything we can."

Somehow, "everything" never seems t' really be "everything" when it comes to Wabiru-san, though...

"I'll be there."

"Good. Get some rest today. You sound horrible."

Mika winces as the call ends. He wonders if he has any tea left.

∗ ∗ ∗

Mika is beginning to think that maybe lying about his health in order to return to work was a bad idea. Despite pinning all his hopes on sleep being a miracle cure, he woke up that morning feeling worse than he ever has in his life. Logically, he should have told his boss about how moving his limbs felt like his joints were rusted together. About how he couldn't take two steps without doubling over to spit out a slimy mess of petals, and how the nauseating blend of greenery and iron brewing on his tongue wouldn't dissipate no matter how much toothpaste he slathered on it. But the thought of sitting uselessly at home while the others are doing their best in such an important mission makes him feel even more like his guts are going to turn themselves inside out. So he downed the painkillers he probably shouldn't be allowed to have and donned his uniform, remembering his all-too-important sunglasses at the last minute.

They all knew that they were going to be walking into a trap. Any leads gained on Wabiru are almost certainly set up by the man himself. They knew that, and yet Mika still feels as if he blindly walked into a snare, lured by the scent of honey. He's alone, separated from his colleagues after foolishly deciding to inspect something that turned out to be of no interest at all. An explosion shook the air shortly after, and now he's surrounded by rubble, smoke, and an unknown number of soon-to-be-assailants. Adrenaline is doing little to soothe the illness coursing through his veins, so he smacks the hand not holding his gun over his mouth in an effort to keep the black smoke out and the colorful blossoms in. He might die. He has to hold himself together by force.

His willpower doesn't make the tremors wracking his body any less composure-shattering, though. His eyes sting from water and heat, and he struggles to see anything beyond the shade provided by his sunglasses. What sounds like footsteps come from his left, and he backs away in turn, pointing his weapon outwards in what he hopes is an intimidating gesture. But his heels hit an unexpected ledge beneath him. He tumbles backwards, releasing his mouth and gun to instead try and catch himself. He lands hard with a grunt on a pile of rocks sticking their sharp edges into the fabric of his gloves and coat.

His body suddenly feels overly sensitive, shivering and sweating simultaneously, and he notices with dread the sensation of blooming within him, soft petals pushing against the even softer flesh of his lungs. His breaths come up short, and he knows attempting to deny the flowers their hard-fought exit would only serve to make his own condition worse.

Mika pushes himself up against the wall at his back, curling around his legs in a futile attempt to turn invisible. The blossoms grow larger and more violent, forcing his airways to mold around them as they seek freedom. He can't breathe or swallow, rivulets of liquid forming at the corners of his lips as he brushes his fingers over the bulging form of his throat currently asphyxiating itself. He squeezes his eyes shut when dark fuzziness begins to steal his vision and tries to will the blooms into moving faster. Time only seems to slow down more as he fixates on the pain assaulting his body.

Finally, right when he thinks he might pass out and spell his own doom, he feels the mass step onto the back of his tongue. He coughs out weakly what little oxygen he has left and faces downwards towards his lap in the hope of allowing gravity to assist. The bouquet fills the entirety of his mouth, some stray buds poking out and detaching from the rest, falling down prematurely. After some retching and desperate, tear-filled hammering at his chest, the clump of flowers spews forth all at once, forming a wet and bloody amalgamation of color on his lap. With distant focus, he realizes that the shape of the flowers is different from the Begonias from before. Red and white—though the white is stained with blood—and a similar shape to the Poppy, but with a larger and almost completely black center. "Anemone," Mika's addled brain supplies from past research.

Vaguely, he recognizes that he's in an immensely vulnerable position and should move to protect himself. But his limbs won't respond even when he commands them to stand or at least crawl. He thinks his eyes closed on their own, but it was already dark enough that he can't tell for sure. He leans back against the wall again and breathes deeply, savoring the feeling of vacant lungs even as the air feels especially raw against his torn throat. He thinks he might fall asleep, but once again, reality subverts his expectations.

He feels his sunglasses being taken off, but it's not himself doing it. So there must be a person in front of him, if not a disembodied hand. His eyes aren't listening to his orders to open. The hand doesn't seem to be hostile at the moment so he decides not to worry about it. Its touch is gentle when it draws a path up his cheek and tucks sweat-matted hair behind his ear—it's almost soothing. Actually, it's quite soothing. If Mika thought he would succumb to sleep before, he's nothing if not certain of it now. His head is cotton and his breathing is slow. Muffled sounds that might be a voice pass through his ears without comprehension, and it becomes background noise to his quickly-encroaching slumber.

"Long time no see, Mika."

∗ ∗ ∗

The world is blurry and time moves without moving as if in a dreamscape. He's floating on a cloud, drifting along the seafloor of a bottomless trench where the light cannot reach. It's not peaceful nor is it terrifying—he only acknowledges his current circumstances in the way someone might observe an ant trekking across a mountain of pebbles. It could have been one second or one millennium since he last had a cognizant thought, and it would make no difference. This is the meaning of perpetuity.

Abstract actuality.

Omniscient of oblivion.

Continuation despite cessation.

A waterfall engulfing his entirety, inviting him to join it on its vagrant journey—

"NNAGH?!"

—The waterfall is a shower head, and he is its target. The clock resumes.

Sat in a tub with nothing but a towel secured around his waist, Mika makes an honest effort to regain his bearings after awakening from what must have been some kind of fever dream. But he finds it hard to focus on anything except the spray of warm water shooting down from above. A light chuckle sounds from somewhere to his left, so he looks over and uses the noise as an anchor to ground himself.

At the sight, he somehow slips on nothing and lands on his already-sore backside with a thud.

"W-Wabiru-san?!" His voice comes out weak and faint despite the sheer shock powering it. He shouldn't be as surprised as he is, though, considering the number of times scenarios very similar to this one have happened before.

Wabiru seems to read his mind. "No matter how many times we see one another, you never fail to act like you've just met me for the first time. It's quite endearing to know I have such an effect on you." He smiles, pleased with himself.

Mika grimaces. "Ya don't—" He tries to place his hands underneath him to sit up, but they won't budge. "—Nnah..." Cold metal encircles his wrists behind him—his own handcuffs. It's numbing where they dig into his skin.

Wabiru reaches out to grasp his shoulders and gently lift him up. "The last time I let you be around me unfettered, you tried to sedate me," he says bluntly. "Where did you learn such a dirty trick?"

Mika feels an indignation bubble in his core at the accusation. "Ya can't be sayin' stuff like that when yer always doin' way worse! Ya prob'ly knocked me out an' put me here in the first place!"

His stomach churns again, and he wonders if there's more than simply feelings of righteousness in there. He remembers the unfortunate situation his body is in and thinks Wabiru really couldn't have found him at a worse time. He doesn't acknowledge the itch in the base of his throat begging him to cough; he knows it won't alleviate, but exacerbate it. And he can't let Wabiru know of his weakened state. Though it's likely he already does, if the man's history of seemingly divining Mika's most intimate secrets from thin air is anything to go by.

Wabiru wears a disappointed frown that is almost certainly feigned. "Do you truly think so little of me? If I didn't save you, you might have died, you know. I care about you, so clearly I couldn't let that happen. Furthermore, you were covered in grime and sweat and blood, so I took it upon myself to give you a much-needed bath. You should be grateful."

Mika matches his frown. "I didn't ask ya t' do none of that... 'S yer fault we were out there anyway!" An' 's yer fault I'm...

Wabiru's smile carrying thinly-veiled conceit returns. "You are the one who took the job, though, are you not? Or rather, it was your superiors who assigned it to you in spite of the obvious risks. I wish you would see that I desire to protect you, unlike those who only view you as a pawn to be used and thrown away."

Unwanted buds tickle the inside of his chest like the beating of an extra organ.

"Yer a lyin' bastard. Yer tryna use me t' get at the rest'a the force. All 'cause... 'cause ya already knew how I felt about ya. 'S not fair."

"I don't need you for that. I already have hands in every sector of this country. And if I'm candid, my dear Mika, you are simply not important to them. You will only end up corrupt or dead. I want to... save you. Like I did before, however incidental it may have been. There are some things this world hasn't fully defiled, and you are one of them." His expression seems almost soft as he looks down at Mika.

He's evil. He hurts people. I can't trust 'im no matter what, an' the guys at the station 'ave always been kind t' me... usually. They're a whole lot better than most people out there, at least.

"Ya think I don't know how the world is? 'Course I do, an' don't act like yer not a part'a that. Bein' nice t' me doesn't change that."

...Yer different, though, aren't ya... Or do I just want ya t' be?

Wabiru hums, "Perhaps you're right. Regardless—" He stands and leans down to help Mika out of the tub. "—you must be cold by now. Let's get you dressed."

Even with all of Mika's personal feelings towards the man, he can't help but sigh into Wabiru's warmth.

"Where're my clothes?" He doesn't see them in the bathroom or in the bedroom they exit into.

"I disposed of your old ones. They were unsalvageable."

"Nnah... I don't got anythin' else t' wear, though," Mika whines, convinced this is another one of Wabiru's deceptions.

The man smiles. "Don't worry, I have a backup pair—even of those glasses you adore so much."

Mika sputters, "S-since when?!"

Wabiru replies with a wink.

∗ ∗ ∗

Wabiru assists the still-handcuffed Mika in getting dressed before sitting him down next to him on the sofa. Mika is then forced to listen to him spew concerns as he attempts with varying degrees of success to conceal the very thing the man is worried about.

"You can't expect me to believe those flowers weren't yours." He doesn't even try to hide his incredulity. "I know you're not that dim-witted, little detective."

Mika pouts in a display of childish obstinance. He's running out of ways to get his (admittedly flimsy) point across. "Either ya believe me or ya don't. The truth's the same either way! I had a cold an' today was my first day back in the field. Those flowers fell on me when I hit that wall. An' then—" He pointedly glares at Wabiru. "—you decided t' kidnap me fer no reason."

The man clutches his heart and acts wounded. "You consider me to be so senseless as to do things without reason? You know me better than that. I brought you here for your own good, because that dingy box you call home would likely end up giving you another disease before you're even rid of the first."

"Shut up! Y'got no clue what yer talkin' about!" he shouts, leaning in to appear larger.

Wabiru places a finger over Mika's lips and he barely resists the urge to bite it. He doesn't particularly want the other man comparing him to a dog.

"Behave yourself. Or do I need to muzzle you like a disobedient puppy?" he chastises while moving his hand to grip Mika's chin.

He should've bitten him.

Mika shakes him off and shuffles the small distance to the far end of the couch. "'M not sick," he reaffirms.

That's what he says, but he can tell that the temporary relief granted by the warm bath is waning. There's something inside of him demanding and clawing at his gut to be let out, and he needs to leave this place before he can no longer hold it back.

"Then why don't you stay a while anyway? You must be exhausted after such a long day." He sidles close to Mika again, draping an arm over his shoulder like they're nothing more than casual friends.

Mika's frown deepens. "I got work t' do. 'Sides, yer the enemy. I can't trust ya."

"'The enemy'... is that what you consider our relationship to be? That of enemies?" he asks, sounding genuinely intrigued.

Mika doesn't know what he's getting at. "Yeah...? It's my job t' arrest ya."

"Then why haven't you?"

"Ya say that like I haven't tried." Mika's fists tighten their grip behind him.

"You've tried, but you haven't succeeded, have you? If you truly despise me, why aren't you fighting to get away at this very moment? Why are you entertaining this conversation with me? What conclusion am I meant to come to except that you hold some fondness for my company?"

Wabiru withdraws his arm and faces Mika directly.

"Answer me honestly. Are you hopelessly in love with me, my darling Mika?"

He shouldn't deign to give a response.

"...Lemme go first. Then I'll answer."

Wabiru huffs out a laugh. "I suppose I can grant your wish. I know you don't have anything dangerous on your person."

He fishes a small key out of Mika's chest pocket—"Nnah?!"—and unlocks the handcuffs before taking Mika's reddened wrists and rubbing them tenderly. Mika flinches at the sharp soreness.

"My apologies. I didn't realize they were so tight." He brings Mika's wrists up to kiss them. "You should have said something."

"...'S fine. I can barely feel it," he mumbles.

Wabiru gives him a disbelieving glance but drops the line of inquiry for another.

"Now then, I believe you promised to answer my question. I'll say it again: do you love me?"

Mika turns the question around. "What about you? D'ya love anyone?" he asks despite the fear gripping his heart.

The other man strokes his thumb over Mika's cheek. "You should be capable of deducing that without my assistance."

Mika studies Wabiru's expression for a moment.

"...D'ya really?" Mika whispers, looking down and letting his bangs fall over his eyes.

"Hm?"

Mika sits still like a statue and doesn't make a sound. The lining of his lungs may as well be a flower bed.

"As much as it may seem like it at times, I can't read your mind, Mika."

Liar.

"Love me."

Wabiru smiles. "It's unfair to expect an answer to your question when you haven't answered mine."

Mika looks up. "...An' what if I say I do? Love ya."

"Then I would graciously reward you by kissing your illness away."

A heavy weight settles somewhere inside him, making it difficult to breathe.

"...Well, I don't. If ya ever catch flowers, yer done for." He looks away again.

"I should lock you up in an isolated room and toss away the key then, shouldn't I? Yet here I am, nursing you back to health." Wabiru cups the side of Mika's face and turns it back towards him.

Mika takes advantage of his newfound freedom to shove the other man's arm away. "'S not my fault ya went an' dropped yer common sense somewhere. If this 's how I can finally catch ya, it's on you."

"I don't think you'll be capturing anyone in that state. Would you rather I leave you be in that mold-infested apartment of yours? At least a dog house would be clean, and it would only be a few centimeters smaller."

Mika stiffens, poised to leap off the couch and sprint to where he thinks the exit is.

"Don't make that face... It's not as if I would actually put you in a dog house."

Wabiru pauses.

"Well, not when you're like this," he amends.

"'M not... I-I don't–" His voice wavers and he's overtaken by a wet bout of coughing, unable to ignore the irritation in his throat. He covers his mouth with both hands as his abdomen achingly contracts with exertion. Wabiru strokes his back reassuringly, and he finds it comforting with no little amount of shame. When it eases up, he thankfully doesn't feel anything solid in his mouth. But his bare palms have spots of blood on them. He wipes them on his dark pants before Wabiru can notice.

"It's normal t' keep coughin' fer a while after bein' sick..." He justifies before the other man has the chance to say anything.

Wabiru continues his ministrations and speaks softly, "I know. Perhaps I should trust you if you're so certain that you're not ill. But Mika..."

He moves to hold Mika's hands in his own.

"If I admit to having produced a sprig of cherry blossoms, would you believe me?"

Mika imagines the sight of delicate pink petals glued with blood to Wabiru's lips. It suits him.

"No way. If ya were tellin' the truth, you'd prob'ly be spittin' out Venus flytraps or thorns without roses."

The man giggles. "At least those wouldn't be deceptively beautiful, would they? Although, I suppose it depends on your perspective. Personally I find danger rather alluring. Just look at yourself. You would let me succumb to illness if only to finally capture me. And yet, I still keep you around because I'm quite fond of you. You may very well be the only person capable of killing me, Detective. So will you at the very least allow me the mercy of spending one final day with you?"

Mika barely hears Wabiru's plea through the ringing assaulting his ears. He has to be lying. Because the alternative would mean Mika's feelings have space to grow outside of the dusty, forgotten corners of his mind. Those feelings seem to know this, because they are very suddenly pushing all together to be let out. Mika gasps as if breaking out of a wave attempting to pull him under.

His voice trembles with uncertainty as he speaks, "Wabiru-san... I'm... I don't want ya to..."

I don't want ya t' die 'cause I love ya.

If he said as much aloud, would Wabiru be saved? And would he be able to excuse it as a morally justifiable act rather than him selfishly wanting to keep the man for himself? He doesn't know what would happen if he were to actually succeed in his mission of capturing him. It seems impossible for Wabiru to lose control of his own fate. It's a scary thought. But what fills him with even more dread is the thought of never being able to see him again—or worse, watching him be taken somewhere he can't follow.

He sniffles at his suddenly runny nose and realizes too late that tears have begun to trickle down from the corners of his eyes. The tips of his fingers tingle in Wabiru's hold. He doesn't have the energy to move them to wipe his face, so he falls forward and buries himself in the other man's blood-hued coat. The fabric he's pressed against becomes wet as tremors wrack his thin frame.

Wabiru releases his hands and embraces him, caressing the back of his head. He combs through his hair with deft fingers.

"Shh..." he coos. "You don't need to say a word."

He pulls back and looks down at Mika with the fondest expression he's ever seen directed at him. Mika doesn't care if it's fake. It feels real enough to him.

"I love you too, my most precious treasure." The words sound like sweet nectar, but they poison his heart.

Mika can't hold himself together anymore. Panic rises through his system from the storm brewing in his core and it falls out in a sob. He shoves away from Wabiru, hitting the back cushions, and curls up on himself. He takes short, gasping breaths around what he knows is an inevitable bouquet. He didn't escape in time, and now Wabiru will discover his poorly-kept secret.

The hand that brushes against his shoulder feels like an electric shock. He jerks away, curling up tighter. If the other man is saying something he doesn't hear it.

The flowers feel much larger than before. His heart beats wildly against his rapidly-expanding lungs—there's not enough room for both the flowers and the air he desperately needs. He tenses around the numbness of his extremities and feels light-headed. He doesn't know if he'll survive this time and he shakes with terror.

He wishes Wabiru was still holding him.

Petals are like a million tiny daggers against his sore insides, cutting and slicing as they advance. His inhales are cut short by hacking out blood into his arms. From the base of his throat to the back of his mouth, all available space is taken over and he suffocates. He coughs and wheezes weakly but the giant, sticky mass won't budge. He heaves out a dry, desperate sob.

Hands enter his blurred vision and he blinks, clearing it slightly. As they draw closer to his face Mika shuts his mouth defiantly. But they grab his jaw, dig their fingers in, and force it open—not that Mika has much strength left. They enter his mouth, reaching for the entrance of his throat. The silky material of the gloves they wear presses against his tongue. When they find their destination, Mika gags and instinctively tries to snap his mouth closed. The hand's grip remains firm.

He feels the garland of flowers shift, scraping harsh lines against his throat—those fingers are tugging it. His eyes blur with tears again and he shuts them, focusing on inhaling what little oxygen he can through his nose. As the flowers are pulled, he tastes dirt and blood. It's like there's a long, sentient clump worming its way up his airways and getting caught on his teeth on the way out. The hand dragging it is doing so slowly—presumably so as not to harm him—but it feels endless with his lungs simply replacing what is removed.

Eventually he feels the sting of air against an empty patch of his throat. It burns, but it means there's only a finite amount left to extract. He's at his limit and would have collapsed minutes ago if he wasn't being held up. Softened and slimy roots drag across his tongue, tasting of earth. The only thing in his body left to eject now is—

Mika coughs violently, blood painting his lips and splattering everywhere within reach. There's a warmth attached to his side, supporting his shoulders. The world is fuzzy and spinning and disorienting to look at, so Mika slumps into that warmth and slips his eyes shut.

He falls asleep to the dulcet tones of humming.

∗ ∗ ∗

Mika is in a dream again, but this time it's not dark. He lies on the sun's surface, engulfed by its trailing wisps of starlight that chill his flushed skin. A protective veil covers the entirety of his body, shielding him from that which would do him harm. It's soft and fluffy. He dares to open his eyes and is greeted by a sight that should not be as familiar as it is: evening light framing Wabiru in deep orange as he lounges on the bed beside him while reading a book Mika has never heard of.

"Wabiru-san..." Mika murmurs.

The other man deliberately and noisily flips to the next page. Mika huffs.

"Wabiru-san," he says louder.

The man continues to ignore him for several seconds, before he inserts a bookmark with cherry blossom embroidery into the novel's pages and carefully sets it aside. He shifts to face Mika and looks down at him with softened eyes.

"Welcome back, my love," he says while brushing back Mika's bangs to feel his forehead. "Your temperature is normal now. Are you feeling any better? You scared me quite a bit, you know."

Ya don't get scared, Mika wants to argue.

He nods. The tightness that's been present in his chest since the arrival of his first petals has vanished. There's another form of constriction plaguing his heart now, but it's not deadly. Probably.

Wabiru is still petting his head. Mika rolls away from him, but the hand follows like an annoying fruit fly. He tries batting it away to no avail.

The man giggles. "You're so cute that you make me want to tie you up in a big bow and never let you out of my sight. You're like an adorable little kitten that's too sleepy to move. You can start purring for me, can't you?"

Mika wishes he could attribute the uncomfortable stirring in his stomach at those words to mere illness, but even when he searches for them he finds no seeds planted within him anymore. He shoots up and scrambles towards the edge of the mattress, but Wabiru catches him from behind and he lets out a strangled shriek. "'M all better now! So ya can lemme go!!"

"But we're having so much fun together, aren't we?" he breathes into his ear.

"Yer definition of 'fun' is weird! Way too weird!"

As Mika is attempting to pry the other man's arms off of him, he glimpses a cloud of color floating above the dresser. He freezes. Arranged neatly inside an ornate, forest green vase is a bouquet of flowers. It consists of drooping columbines and sweet daisies standing together amidst a field of blue and yellow baby's breath. In a planter next to it is a small cherry bonsai tree. And above both of them is a mirror attached to the wall.

"...Am I wearin' yer pajamas?" They're silky, falling off his shoulders, and the same blood red as Wabiru's regular ensemble.

Wabiru bursts out laughing. "Very observant of you, Detective. Good job." He pats Mika on the head. "Now, have you suffered some bout of blindness, or are you simply choosing to ignore my gift for you? The flowers your body chose to create fit you well, don't you think?"

"Yer callin' the stuff that tried t’ kill me a gift?" He's not particularly shocked at anything the other man says or does, but he has to express his incredulity somehow.

Wabiru sighs into his hair. "Think of it as a congratulations for overcoming your fear of expressing your love to me." Mika tries to speak up with a retort on his tongue but Wabiru shushes him. "And don't say you don't love me. We both know you would be lying."

The man turns Mika around so that he can cradle Mika's head to his chest and rest his chin atop soft, freshly-cleaned hair. Mika's heart palpitates like a newly-formed butterfly fluttering its wings for the first time.

Wabiru murmurs, "You poor thing. You've caused yourself a great deal of trouble, haven't you? And me, as well. You very nearly died in my arms."

Guilt washes over Mika like frozen sea foam. Even if he can't confidently tell himself that Wabiru is being genuine, he still doesn't want to truly hurt him.

"'M sorry..." Mika burrows deeper into Wabiru's shirt with the hope that its warmth will chase away the chill racing through his veins. He counts the man's steady heartbeats to ten. "I do..."

Wabiru uncharacteristically allows Mika to utilize silence without interjection.

Mika continues, "I do... love ya. But 's scary. I don't know what'll happen if we ever have'ta face each other for real." He sniffles. "I shouldn't even be here."

Wabiru kisses the top of his head. "You truly are too pure for this depraved world. You already know that you will always have a place by my side, so I won't waste time telling you that. If it were up to me, I would keep watch over you always to ensure no harm befalls you ever again. But you won't allow me that, will you?"

Mika lets out a string of incoherent noises muffled by fabric. Wabiru tilts Mika's head back gently.

"What was that, sweetheart?"

Mika regrettably flushes at the nickname. "Nnah..."

"Mhm, I understand. So you agree to be my pet?" Wabiru says with no small amount of enthusiasm.

"No–!" He's cut off by the sound of a phone ringing. It's the ringtone he assigned to his boss' contact. Any color that paints his face is drawn over by a whiteout marker. Crap...

With newly-regained strength, Mika pushes off of Wabiru and leaps over to where the sound is coming from—atop the dresser next to the vases of flowers. He picks up the call in time and can't even breathe a sigh of relief before his superior is yelling at him.

"Kagehira! Where the hell are you? Are you hurt? There was an ambush, and some of our men were injured. We failed to even get anything substantial out of the mission. Some report seeing Kenji Dennis Wabiru at the scene, but there's no evidence."

Mika gulps and tightens his shaky hold on his phone. He's never been a good liar (unlike someone he knows). "U-um... I'm okay! I'm not hurt. I, uh... I actually ended up gettin' separated from the others an' got myself lost... 'Could barely see anythin' through all the smoke. Guess I'm lucky that I didn't get caught in the thick of it?" He chuckles nervously.

If the other man suspects anything, it doesn't show in his voice. "I'm glad. That's one less person to worry about. We're all over the place at the moment, so I'm telling everyone to meet at the station as soon as possible. I'll see you there. Come quickly."

The call ends. He hears Wabiru snickering to himself and shoots him a glare. "I gotta go. Ya really made a mess of things, Wabiru-san. An' now I gotta clean it up 'cause of ya."

Wabiru grins smugly. "And yet, no one is forcing you to go, are they? Continue flitting back and forth between them and I for as long as you desire. It doesn't change anything." He rises from the bed and walks to stand in front of Mika. "Will you accept a parting gift from me?"

Mika studies his face intently. "Depends on what it is. Are ya gonna gimme a spiked piece'a candy that'll knock me out so ya can lock me up somewhere?"

The man chuckles. "The thought hadn't even crossed my mind, but what an ingenious idea! Are you sure that you're not all that different from me? Imagine the things we could do if we worked together."

"Just gimme the gift already," Mika grumbles.

Wabiru takes a step closer. "As you wish. Close your eyes."

Mika hesitantly acquiesces. A bead of sweat burns a line into the back of his flushed neck.

He didn't think he could be surprised by anything the eccentric man before him does anymore. He didn't know what to expect, exactly. Maybe a pinching of his cheeks that'll leave behind crescent moons, or a collar fastened around his neck that he'll have to lock pick his way out of.

It certainly wasn't the plush lips that met his. He parts them and tastes cherry.

Wabiru has never kissed him before.

There's hands on his back pulling him in. He follows like debris to an ocean current.

Somewhere behind him, a newly-bloomed cherry blossom falls into a sea of blue and yellow.