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On a cold day in November, Kominato Ryousuke wakes up, turns on his bed and stars coughing up pink, smooth flower petals.
They spring from his throat non-stop for maybe three minutes. His roommate, hearing the choked up noises of Ryousuke’s dry coughs, comes into his room.
“Are you alright, Kominato?” he asks, frowning, but stops when he sees Ryousuke’s pillow covered in small petals, the floor bellow the bed dotted with pink here and there. “Shit,” he says.
When Ryousuke finally stops coughing, his roommate brings him a glass of water.
“You gotta go see a doctor, man,” he says, looking at the petals. He has not dared touch one, and neither has Ryousuke. “Yours don’t look so bad, but you never know. My sister—” and here he stops, his mouth closing with a sharp click of his teeth.
“Thanks,” Ryousuke says. “I’ll see what the doctor has to say.”
What the doctor has to say is:
“Anemone,” he hums, alternating his glances between the x-ray of Ryousuke’s throat and a handful of the small, pink petals. “Quite rare this time of the year. But you’re lucky, they’re not poisonous or dangerous. I had a woman come in yesterday with white roses, thorns and all—”
“I don’t care,” Ryousuke interrupts, clutching his bag tighter in his lap. He had coughed again, on the way to the hospital, and the people on the bus had looked at him with sympathy, with pity; he had felt like throwing the petals at their faces and telling them to go die. “How do I get rid of it?”
The doctor adjusts his glasses.
“You see,” he starts. “What’s happening is not necessarily bad—”
“How do I get rid of it?” Ryousuke repeats, stronger, louder.
“Have you tried talking to her?” the doctor asks softly, and it flashes before Ryousuke’s eyes: the long curve of Kuramochi’s neck, his mouth open in laughter, his arms thrown around Miyuki, around Sawamura.
“That’s not happening,” Ryousuke says, final, resolute.
The doctor sighs.
“There’s the surgery,” he says. “But we only recommend that on extreme cases.”
“I want it,” Ryousuke says. “How much?”
The doctor tells him the price, a three in the front with a lot of zeros after.
“I can’t afford that much,” Ryousuke says. “Fuck.”
“If you talk to her—”
“I already told you, not happening,” Ryousuke says. The doctor shifts under his glare. “What else can I do?”
“There’s really not much you can do,” he says. “You have to cough them out, always. If you try to keep them in, you might suffocate. If you won’t talk to her, then the only option is to wait for the feelings to fade on their own.”
Last night, Ryousuke went to sleep with Kuramochi’s smile painted inside his eyelids. This morning, he woke up with the sound of Kuramochi’s voice ringing loud in his ears.
Ryousuke almost laughs in the doctor’s face.
*
A week later, it starts to snow in Kyoto.
Ryousuke coughs on campus sometimes, adds pink to the collection of petals that color the snow yellow, red, purple, blue. He never touches them, steps around other people’s petals too, now, out of disgust, maybe out of respect, because the thought of someone stepping on the petals he leaves behind sit wrong and heavy in his mind.
He goes to his classes, but other than that he stays in his apartment, where nobody looks at him like he’s dying, where nobody whispers “you poor thing.”
He Googles it when his roommate is out, hanahaki disease, reads Wikipedia articles and medical journals and forums.
He coughs up the petals at least twice a day, and always right after he wakes up. They scratch at his throat, annoying, but there really is nothing he can do except expel them and daydream about Kuramochi’s bright eyes and loud laugh.
He checks out a library book about flower meanings two weeks after he starts coughing, tucks it safely under his pillow for when he’s brave enough.
*
He meets Isashiki Jun at a café and tells him, casually, about the flowers.
“You were fine last time I saw you. When did this start?” Isashiki asks, frowning.
“A month ago,” Ryousuke says.
“After Miyuki’s birthday party?”
Ryousuke stirs his tea and drinks it, buying time.
“The day after Miyuki’s party, actually,” he finally says.
He tightens his fingers around the teacup as Isashiki’s eyes widen.
“Shit,” he says, a hand on his forehead. “Kuramochi.”
It isn’t a question. The corners of Ryousuke’s lips turn down in a frown, but he nods.
“Yuuki,” he replies.
The explosion Ryousuke expected doesn’t come; Isashiki doesn’t look offended or starts shouting and throwing punches. Instead he just sighs, leaning back on his chair.
“I guess we’re pretty obvious, hm?” Isashiki goes, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Not really,” Ryousuke shrugs, because not many people had noticed the way Isashiki followed Yuuki with his eyes back in their second year of high school, or how his smile was brighter and his voice louder when Yuuki was around.
But that was before lilies of the valley started sprouting from his mouth, poisoning his body because of unwanted affection. That was before his surgery.
“Did they remove all of your feelings for him?” Ryousuke asks, softly.
“Nah,” Isashiki shrugs. “I still respect him and like him as a friend. They just cut out the romantic feelings.”
Ryousuke says nothing. Isashiki fidgets with his napkin.
“It’s weird,” he says. “I know I loved him, I remember the fact that I loved him, but when I try to remember how it felt, I just can’t. I try looking for the feelings but they’re just— not there. Like they never were.”
“Why would you try to look for the feelings?” Ryousuke asks, horrified. “They almost killed you.”
Isashiki shrugs again.
“But they also made me happy at some point,” the corners of his lips turn up the tiniest bit. “They must have been worth something.”
Outside the café, before they go their separate ways, Isashiki puts his hand on Ryousuke’s shoulder and squeezes.
“There’s another guy we know you can talk to,” he says, voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his neck and the lower half of his face.
“Who?” asks Ryousuke, already shivering with the cold.
“Harada Masatoshi.”
“What,” goes Ryousuke, shocked. “Inashiro’s catcher?”
“Yeah,” Isashiki fumbles his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll give you his number.”
So, a couple of weeks later, Ryousuke sees himself drinking at a bar with Isashiki and Inashiro’s former catcher and captain.
“Red amaryllis,” Masatoshi says, smiling small and sad.
“Beautiful flowers,” Isashiki slurs, nodding, his fourth beer held loosely in his right hand.
“How did it go away?” Ryousuke asks. The light makes Masatoshi’s features soft and warm, makes his eyes glow a beautiful dark brown.
“She got married,” he says. “I moved on.”
He says it easily, shrugging, like it wasn’t the most difficult thing he’s ever done, will ever do.
Ryousuke wonders if he’ll have to wait until Kuramochi gets married, counts at least seven more years of living like this.
*
When winter break comes around, Ryousuke calls his mother to tell her he can’t go home for the holidays.
“Sorry,” he says. “I have a lot of studying to catch up on.”
His midterms are over and he’s very far ahead on his readings for next term, but he can’t go home with petals popping out of his mouth, because his mother will ask, or, worse, Haruichi won’t.
So he upsets his mother, but he stays in Kyoto. His roommate is gone and so is Isashiki, but on December 27th his phone buzzes with a text from Masatoshi.
Hey, it says. Wanna grab some dinner?
Ryousuke says yes. They eat yakiniku and walk to Masatoshi’s apartment, where they drink a couple of beers and settle down to watch a movie on the TV.
It’s an interesting movie, even, but twenty minutes into it Ryousuke tugs at Masatoshi’s shirt collar, pulls him down and kisses him.
Masatoshi opens up for him, lets Ryousuke kiss him deep for several minutes.
“Bed,” Ryousuke pants.
Masatoshi has his hands in Ryousuke’s hair. He looks at Ryousuke like he can see right through him.
“Now,” Ryousuke says.
They move to the bed. Masatoshi looms over Ryousuke, his naked shoulders broad and his chest wide.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
Ryousuke nods. Masatoshi’s hands are gentle, his mouth gentler still, but he doesn’t treat Ryousuke like Ryousuke might break. Instead he grunts in Ryousuke’s ear, thrusts into him with desire.
Ryousuke brings his arms around Masatoshi and closes his eyes, gets lost in the feeling of Masatoshi’s hand around him, Masatoshi in him.
Ryousuke gasps when he comes, a name flashing across his brain, taking root around his heart and staying.
Later, Ryousuke closes the door to his apartment, leans against it and slides down until he’s sitting on the floor. His throat hurts badly; he coughs and coughs and coughs, his whole body shaking, dozens of small pink petals forming a pool around his feet.
But it doesn’t stop with the petals this time: tiny white seeds come out of his mouth, sparkling among the flowers.
“Ah,” he says to himself. “Ah.”
lol man seeds mean you got it bad, an anon had written on an internet forum. tough luck
He gets up, steps over the petals and seeds, goes to his bedroom.
In his mind, Ryousuke sees Kuramochi running on a baseball field, stealing second base, so fast and so loud and so bright. He smiles at the memory.
He grabs the book under his pillow.
*
Winter turns into spring, somehow. Ryousuke studies, calls his mother, gets a good internship. He hangs out with Isashiki and Masatoshi. They have sex a couple more times, until Masatoshi meets a girl with fluffy hair and a quiet laugh.
He still coughs up flowers after he wakes up. Sometimes there are seeds, too, and when his roommate sees them he smiles sadly at Ryousuke and shakes his head.
In March, he gets a text from Sawamura Eijun that says good morning, oni-sama!!! please talk to haruichi!!! and kuramochi-senpai!!!
That night, when Haruichi calls, Ryousuke doesn’t pick up. When Haruichi texts four times, Ryousuke replies once, a short message he spends fifteen minutes crafting, placing the words and punctuation in a way that won’t catch Haruichi’s sharp eyes.
Kuramochi also calls and calls, sends Ryousuke texts inviting him to the graduation ceremony.
Ryousuke doesn’t answer, but he circles the date on his calendar in red pen twice.
*
Haruichi sees him first.
“Aniki!” he smiles, waving.
Ryousuke waves back and Haruichi comes running to him, but he tilts his head and frowns when he gets close.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
Ryousuke sighs.
“I’ll tell you later,” he says, surprised to discover he actually means it. “I need to talk to Kuramochi first.”
Haruichi is quiet for a moment, staring at his brother, but then he nods.
“He’s over there with Miyuki-senpai and the others,” Haruichi points to the left, where a group of boys is laughing loudly and happily.
Ryousuke goes there. Kuramochi has his back to him, but Kawakami pokes Kuramochi and points. Kuramochi turns around, sees Ryousuke and grins so wide it looks like his face might split in half.
“Ryou-san!” he exclaims, running to where Ryousuke is standing with his feet glued to the ground, his heart singing there you are, there you are. “You came!”
“Yeah,” Ryousuke says. Kuramochi is wearing his uniform, but his tie is crooked and his shoes are dirty and his hair is a mess, and he’s the best thing Ryousuke has ever seen. “Congratulations on graduating.”
Kuramochi beams.
“Thanks.”
“Can I talk to you for a second?” Ryousuke asks, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides.
“Sure,” Kuramochi says, still smiling.
“Not here,” Ryousuke says, and leads a frowning Kuramochi just outside the baseball field.
“Ryou-san?” Kuramochi asks, confusion clear in his voice, when Ryousuke doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes.
Ryousuke looks at Kuramochi. His fingers are shaking and he feels something climbing up his throat, but it’s not the petals; it’s bile. His heart hasn’t beat so fast and loud since Miyuki’s birthday party, when he looked at a lock of Kuramochi’s unruly hair and realized he wanted nothing more than to brush it behind Kuramochi’s ear for maybe the rest of his life.
At the time, he had reached out his hand and tugged hard at the lock instead, made a face at Kuramochi and excused himself from the party.
Now, he touches Kuramochi’s hair carefully with his fingertips.
“I like you,” he says, choosing to be honest for once, because he owes Kuramochi that, but, most of all, he owes himself. “I think I’ve always liked you. I think you’re beautiful and kind and fun,” he smiles sadly at Kuramochi’s shocked expression, drops his hand. “I know you don’t like me, and that’s okay. I just wanted to get this off my chest.”
Kuramochi says nothing, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Ryousuke gets close enough to kiss his jaw.
“Bye, then.”
He turns around and walks away. He finds his brother.
“Haruichi,” he chokes out. “Let’s talk.”
*
So life goes on. Ryousuke still studies, still calls his mother, still goes to his internship. He still hangs out with Isashiki and Masatoshi and his fluffy haired girl. He answers his brother’s calls and his texts, and Sawamura Eijun’s, and, on one memorable occasion, Furuya Satoru’s.
He still coughs up petals, but one week after the graduation ceremony, the fits only come once a day.
After two weeks, the quantity of petals drops by half.
After three weeks, the seeds are gone.
After one month, he wakes up on a Saturday and does not cough up any petals.
“What,” he says.
Last night he listened to a song on the radio and linked all the lyrics to Kuramochi. He had a dream where Kuramochi was sitting in a living room, their living room, wearing glasses and reading a book. They had a dog.
He’s not over Kuramochi at all, which means—
The doorbell rings.
Ryousuke, heart thundering inside his chest, gets out of bed, rubs his eyes, and opens the door.
Kuramochi is standing on the other side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Hi,” he says, raising his hand in an awkward wave.
“Hi,” Ryousuke says. “What are you doing here?”
“Ugh,” Kuramochi goes. “Can I come in?”
Kuramochi has already barged through the steel doors of Ryousuke’s heart like they were nothing, laughing all the way; might as well let him into his apartment.
“So,” Kuramochi says, once he’s inside, standing in the middle of Ryousuke’s living room. This is where you belong, here, with me, whispers Ryousuke’s heart. “I talked to Isashiki-senpai.”
“Ah.”
“He told me about the anemone,” Kuramochi has one hand on the back of his neck.
“Ah.”
“It means being forsaken, or being left behind,” Ryousuke clenches and unclenches his hands. Kuramochi looks him straight in the eyes when he says, next, “You haven’t been forsaken, Ryou-san.”
“What,” Ryousuke says, but before he can come up with anything else, Kuramochi crosses the distance between them, takes Ryousuke’s face in his hands and kisses him.
Kuramochi’s hands are sweaty, and he’s shaking. Ryousuke is still wearing pajamas, hasn’t brushed his teeth yet and he’s shaking, too.
It’s the best kiss of Ryousuke’s life. He puts his hands on Kuramochi’s waist and feels him shiver.
“Don’t decide all by yourself that I don’t like you,” Kuramochi whispers into Ryousuke’s mouth.
Ryousuke laughs, wet and hysterical. Kuramochi touches their foreheads.
“Did you know,” Ryousuke sniffs. Tears fall from his eyes, and he doesn’t bother to try to hide. “It also means undying love.”
Kuramochi smiles.
Ryousuke is home.
