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The first petal came in the middle of a quiet morning.
Isagi Yoichi sat on the edge of his bed, light seeping through his curtains in long, lazy streaks. The world was still waking, and for a second, everything felt normal. Then he coughed, sharp and sudden, into his palm. A faint metallic taste lingered on his tongue, and when he looked down, he found it—
A single blue petal. Soft. Damp. Beautiful.
He stared at it for a long time.
It didn’t take long to understand what it meant. Hanahaki. A disease born from unreturned love. The heart blooms where it is most wounded. The lungs cradle flowers instead of air.
He didn’t tell anyone.
Not Reo, not Bachira. Especially not Rin.
Isagi went on with training. He played. He scored. He passed Rin the ball like he always did—instinctively, reflexively. He watched Rin walk past him without a glance, that usual cold focus in his eyes, like nothing existed beyond the goal.
It was fine. Isagi had gotten used to it.
He smiled when he needed to. Answered questions when reporters asked. Trained until the ache in his lungs turned sharp. Until another petal came up, crumpled in tissue, hidden in his pocket.
Nights were the worst.
Alone in his room, with the city humming faintly beyond his window, Isagi would lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. The petals came more often now. Some blue like the sky, others edged with white. Always delicate. Always his.
He wondered if Rin would care.
No. He didn’t need to. Rin wasn’t cruel—he was just distant. Indifferent. Focused on being the best. Love had no place in Rin’s world.
Isagi loved him anyway.
One evening, Rin found him after practice, still on the field long after the others had left. Isagi sat on the grass, legs curled up, his breathing shallow.
“You didn’t go home,” Rin said. His voice was quiet, not accusing—just an observation.
Isagi didn’t look up. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Rin stood there for a moment, then sat beside him.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It never had been. It was just quiet. Soft.
“Are you sick?” Rin asked, suddenly. His eyes weren’t on Isagi, but on the faint red stain on the sleeve of Isagi’s jersey.
Isagi smiled, gently. “A little.”
“You’re coughing blood.”
“It’s nothing serious.”
Rin frowned, barely noticeable—but Isagi caught it. He always noticed the small things about Rin. The way his eyes softened when watching a perfect goal. The way his hands tightened in his sleeves when nervous.
“Don’t lie,” Rin said.
Isagi looked at the field in front of them, eyes glassy. “Even if I told you the truth, it wouldn’t change anything.”
Rin’s jaw clenched.
Isagi reached into his pocket and pulled out a petal. It was pale blue. He let the wind take it.
Rin watched it float away.
He never confessed. Never planned to. There was no point in making Rin carry guilt that didn’t belong to him.
Love wasn’t something Isagi expected to be returned. It just was. Quiet. Simple. A soft ache that bloomed inside his chest, turning his breaths into gardens.
The flowers grew. His body weakened. But his heart stayed full.
When Isagi was finally taken to the hospital, his room filled with flowers that looked just like the ones he'd been coughing up for weeks. No one knew the truth.
Except Rin.
Rin came one day. Sat by the bed without saying anything. Just watched Isagi sleep, pale and peaceful, an oxygen tube trailing from his nose. The monitor beeped softly.
Isagi stirred, cracked a smile. “You came.”
Rin didn’t smile back. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“But you’re dying.”
Isagi looked at him, gently. “I know.”
Silence. Then:
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Isagi exhaled, slow and weak. “Because I didn’t want you to love me out of pity.”
Rin closed his eyes.
The petals didn’t stop. Surgery was the only option left—removal of the infected love, the flowers inside. It would leave Isagi numb, empty of that emotion.
He agreed.
Rin sat outside the operating room the whole time.
When it was over, Isagi lived.
He no longer coughed up petals. No longer ached when he saw Rin. The part of him that had loved was gone—cut away for survival.
They still played soccer. Still passed the ball. Still stood side by side.
But something had changed. Something quiet.
Rin would glance at him now and then, like he wanted to say something.
But Isagi wouldn’t notice.
He had already forgotten what it felt like to love him.