Chapter Text
Sumeru City at dusk was a symphony of muted hues. The sun’s last rays painted the stone buildings in warm amber, casting elongated shadows that swayed with the bustling crowds below. The familiar scent of spiced incense from the market wafted through the air, mingling with the faint hum of scholarly debate spilling from Akademiya courtyards. To Alhaitham, it was a backdrop, a constant that neither irritated nor comforted him—a setting he barely acknowledged as he made his way home.
Alhaitham was a man of habit. His evenings were typically spent in measured solitude, either with a book in hand or notes sprawled across his desk. But tonight, as he approached the door to his shared home, a subtle unease gnawed at him. It wasn’t the creak of the hinges or the faint sound of Kaveh’s off-tune humming drifting from the kitchen that bothered him. It was the scratch in his throat, sharp and unrelenting.
He coughed into his fist as he pushed open the door, his brows furrowing at the sensation. Once inside, he removed his cloak and boots with methodical precision, ignoring the faint metallic taste lingering at the back of his mouth. He dismissed the irritation as a side effect of late nights and stale Akademiya air, the result of excessive time spent buried in ancient manuscripts.
“Finally home, are you?” Kaveh’s voice broke through his thoughts, light and teasing, though tinged with exasperation. The architect was perched on a stool in the kitchen, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of blueprints sprawled before him. His red eyes darted up from his work, narrowing slightly as they caught Alhaitham’s blank expression. “Didn’t even bother to say hello. Typical.”
Alhaitham didn’t bother replying. He set the paperwork he brought from the office down and crossed to the corner of the living room, where the shelves stood, pulling a tome from the shelf with practiced ease.
“You know, a little acknowledgment wouldn’t kill you,” Kaveh continued, his voice following Alhaitham like a persistent echo.
“Noted,” Alhaitham muttered without looking up. He turned a page, but the words swam before his eyes, his attention snagged by the growing discomfort in his chest.
Kaveh sighed audibly. “Sometimes I wonder if you even hear yourself. If I weren’t here, this place would be nothing but silence and dust.”
“Exactly,” Alhaitham murmured, his voice absent-minded.
The irritation in his throat persisted through the night. It was a triffle at first, a tickle that he tried to ignore. But by the second hour of reading, it had grown into a dull ache. He stood, crossing to the window and pushing it open to let in the crisp night air.
The moon hung low over the city, casting its pale glow on the streets below. Alhaitham leaned against the sill, taking a slow breath. His chest felt heavy, as if something was taking root deep within.
The first cough came unexpectedly, doubling him over. He reached for the handkerchief in his pocket, pressing it to his mouth. When he pulled it away, the sight stopped him cold.
There, amidst the faint smear of red, was a single, delicate petal. Its edges were soft, curling inward like a flower just beginning to bloom. The color was vibrant—a deep, velvety crimson that seemed out of place against the stark white of the cloth.
Alhaitham stared at it, his analytical mind racing to dissect the anomaly. A thousand possibilities flitted through his thoughts, but only one that he’d once heard from a fleeting discussion among the Amurta students in the past stood out with chilling clarity: Hanahaki Disease.
Hanahaki was a cruel condition, its origins shrouded in mystery and myth, with roots tracing back to the distant land of Inazuma. Though it was first discovered among the youkais that roamed the forests and mountains, the disease had since found its way to humans, spreading its cruel grip far beyond its mystical origins. It struck without warning, manifesting as flowers growing within the lungs of those harboring unrequited love. The petals, a physical manifestation of emotions left unsaid, would eventually choke the afflicted unless the love was reciprocated—or removed surgically at the cost of those feelings forever.
Alhaitham’s fingers tightened around the handkerchief. He had always dismissed the disease as something borne of sentimentality, a condition that preyed on the weak-minded and emotionally indulgent. That he, of all people, might be its victim was almost laughable.
And yet, the evidence lay before him.
He coughed again, harsher this time, and more petals followed. They fluttered to the ground like crimson butterflies, stark against the dark wood floor. His breathing came in shallow gasps, the weight in his chest pressing harder.
For the first time in years, Alhaitham felt the prickling edge of panic.
The next morning, Alhaitham went about his routine with deliberate precision, masking his discomfort behind a veneer of normalcy. The petals had been carefully disposed of, and his coughing had subsided enough to escape notice.
Kaveh, as usual, was a whirlwind of energy. He bustled about the kitchen, a notebook tucked under one arm and a pencil behind his ear.
“You’re up early,” the blond remarked, glancing over his shoulder as Alhaitham poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I have work to finish,” Alhaitham replied curtly.
“Don’t we all?” Kaveh muttered, though his tone was more amused than annoyed. He set his notebook down and turned to face Alhaitham fully, his expression softening. “You look pale. Have you been getting enough sleep?”
“I’m fine,” Alhaitham said, avoiding his gaze.
Kaveh frowned but didn’t press further, though his eyes lingered on Alhaitham a moment longer than usual.
Days turned into weeks, and the disease progressed with cruel inevitability. Alhaitham’s nights were restless, his days punctuated by bouts of coughing that grew harder to conceal. He avoided Kaveh whenever possible, retreating to the solitude of his study under the pretense of work.
But Kaveh was not blind. He noticed the dark circles under Alhaitham’s eyes, the stiffness in his posture, the way his hand would drift toward his chest as if to ease an unseen burden. And though Kaveh had long grown accustomed to Alhaitham’s reticence, this silence felt heavier—like a wall being built brick by brick.
One evening, Kaveh found himself pacing outside Alhaitham’s room, the blueprint he had been reviewing forgotten in his hand. The muffled sound of coughing reached his ears, sharp and raw. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
When the sound subsided, he pushed the door open without knocking.
Alhaitham was seated at his desk, his head bowed over an open book. A handkerchief lay crumpled in his lap, faint stains of red peeking through the fabric.
“Alhaitham,” Kaveh said, his voice low but firm. “What’s going on?”
Alhaitham didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t give me that,” Kaveh snapped, stepping into the room. “You’ve been coughing up blood, haven’t you? That’s not something you just ignore.”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“The hell it isn’t!” Kaveh’s voice rose, his frustration spilling over. “You’re sick, Alhaitham. You can’t just pretend it’ll go away on its own.”
Alhaitham’s gaze finally lifted, his eyes locking with Kaveh’s. For a moment, the two stood in tense silence, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between them.
“You don’t understand,” Alhaitham said finally, his voice cold.
“Then make me understand,” Kaveh challenged, stepping closer. “Because right now, it feels like you’re trying to push me away, and I won’t let you.”
Alhaitham’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded. “It’s better this way.”
“For who?” Kaveh demanded, his voice cracking.
The question hung in the air, unanswered.