Chapter Text
Marshall remembers walking along the gravel path of the cemetery, scrawny fingers wrapped around his mom’s, on an overcast day in winter. Back when holding her hand didn’t feel embarrassing, when he was hardly a teenager, signs of a growth spurt and a blotchy face showing across his gangly frame.
It was an ordinary Thursday. Except people weren’t usually cladded in black with a torn up expression on Thursdays.
The funeral was simple, a couple of attendees formed a circle around the gravestone, surrounded by white bouquets and white candles, strikingly juxtaposed to their mourning attires. Marshall distinctly recalled the cheap suit mom had rented out for him, sticking to his body uncomfortably. She had misread his measurements and the suit ended up two sizes too small.
People stood and prayed—some out loud, some silently clasped their hands together—faces contorted in pain. Marshall’s mom urged him to do the same, so he did, despite being atheists.
Even if he was feeling a storm underneath, he pushed it down to pay respect. After all, a person close to him had just been buried six feet under, when she should’ve been soaring.
Memories from the period before Marshall turned eighteen and grew brain cells were blurry, partially because they weren’t significant in any way, and he was a dumb kid who took everything for granted. However, that winter day, as he listened to chanting and prayers, he couldn’t not remember his mom’s words.
“I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemies,” she said, holding back tears.
Marshall was far too young to understand the full meaning of her sorrows.
And when he does, later down the line, he wishes he paid more attention when they lowered the casket. The only person who could remotely understand what he’s going through right now is dead. Gone with the wind, never to return.
Marshall wonders if that’s where he will end up next.
───〃★
The first time it happens—as opposed to most things in Marshall’s life—is unremarkable.
He’s grinding deathmatch in the Sen office as usual, when he feels a pinprick in his throat. It builds up small, almost unnoticeable, a tickling sensation not unlike an annoying hiccup that won’t go away. Marshall genuinely doesn’t react at first, chalking it up to his dry throat from neglecting the can of Red Bull Sean brought him earlier.
But then the coughing starts.
It’s not even severe, he coughs a few times absentmindedly, hands never leaving the keyboard and mouse. Until something travels up his throat which forces him to cover his mouth, as if to vomit it out.
He doesn’t vomit, but something comes out anyway.
In his hand is a tiny red-looking object, coated in clear spits. Marshall doesn’t try to identify what it is, only wipes his mouth with tissues, crumples everything into a ball and trashes it.
It is the first sign, but for various reasons he couldn’t care less.
Firstly, he ate a big bowl of chili for lunch (would not recommend, fuck Zach and his Asian spice tolerance) and his mouth is still red and numb from it, coupled with a diarrea-inducing stomach ache that still hasn’t subsided. He had a coughing fit with Sean who was also subjected to chili hell, that was hours ago though it’s normal for him to continue coughing.
So naturally Marshall brushes it off, just a piece of food that regurgitated.
In hindsight he should’ve been more concerned, but he’s stopped coughing already. Soon after, Sean returns from his errands run, whisking Marshall’s attention away.
Sean is a strange person, Marshall hasn’t a clue what to make of the guy in the beginning. While the camaraderie was fresh, they somehow gravitated toward each other, probably because they were both new to the team and couldn’t fit in with the “core” three—Jordan, Zach, Amine.
Marshall has his own nostalgia for KC to live with, Sean is the same with 100T. But in due time, Marshall finds Sean genuinely charming. His dry humor, his sparkling eyes whenever he hits a crisp shot, their shared interest in everything anime and manga, so on and so forth.
Months have passed and they’re no longer newbies, Marshall now confidently lists Sean as one of his closest friends whom he was able to relax around. If someone asks him he could even say Sean is his best friend, but don’t tell Sean that.
Sean offers Marshall another Red Bull. “You look pale, are you alright?”
“Yeah man, just recovering from that monstrosity of a lunch.” Marshall nods. “Remind me to never accept a food challenge from Zach again.”
“You’re such a pussy, that was nothing.”
“You and I remember things very differently.” Marshall grins. “Because who was red faced crying throwing up again?”
“Not me, I ain’t do shit.” Sean sticks out his tongue, the tip of his ears turning a dusty pink. Marshall’s heart skips a beat.
Sean flops down on the gaming chair next to Marshall, booting the PC up. Technically he’s in Amine’s spot, but they’re the only two people around in the office, it’d look awkward if they small-talk three PCs apart. Amine wouldn’t take offense.
Marshall exits deathmatch and pulls out his phone, waiting for Sean to finish warming up so they can queue ranked together. The afternoon queue is usually chill, adults are working and children are in school, the most they’d meet in a lobby are unemployed people and small-time streamers.
The sun is near the horizon, behind their backs the golden twilight hue filters through the blinds, leaving streaks of orange on Sean’s head.
The AC is running at full blast, but Marshall still feels hot all over for reasons unbeknownst to him, face turning a color akin to a peach. He can’t tear his eyes from Sean’s hair which looks even softer than normal. Bouncy and fluffy, a warm shade of brown like a pinecone.
Sean is laser focused on his own warmup routine, moving the mouse around jaggedly, not noticing Marshall’s shameless staring. Sean’s thousand yard stare at the deathmatch game is… attractive, for lack of a better word. Which is insane, Marshall’s insane.
Marshall’s cheeks are heating up by the seconds so he forces himself to gaze away, fiddling with his phone. It’s not normal to look at his teammate like that, heck it’s not normal to look at a crush like that. Not that Marshall has a crush on Sean, nope, can’t be it.
After two deathmatches, Sean finishes warming up and Marshall invites him to the party. While queueing, Marshall spares inconspicuous glances to Sean who is scrolling TikTok with a bored attitude. Occasionally Sean would chuckle at something random then angles his phone over to share with Marshall too.
“That’s crazy,” Marshall comments at the TikTok short.
“I just sent it to you, text me back to keep our streak.”
“Shit I forgot about that, sorry.”
Sean elbows Marshall. “You’re the only person I have to remind everyday about our streak, is there anything in that thick head of yours beside anime and Valorant?”
There’s you, Marshall almost spits out. He jumps internally because why on Earth would he ever think that?
The tickling sensation resumes as soon as that thought pops up, scratching his throat. But the Match Found announcement snaps Marshall out of his trance, Sean whips back to the monitor, so Marshall ignores it, gulping every cough down. Even if it’s nagging at him.
Playing ranked next to your duo has its fun points, especially in a well lit office with a gorgeous backdrop. It’s miles better than being holed up in a stinky bedroom, with nothing but LED strip lights and scattered cans of energy drinks as companions.
Marshall has never been that out-going despite his extroverted tendencies, but he’s learned the joy of playing on LAN pretty much immediately after joining his first Valorant team. Never a dull moment, for he could watch his teammates clutch irl instead of screaming fake comms over the mic just to mess with their head.
Sean is no exception, though for some reason, messing with him in particular is extra fun. Marshall has just whiffed horribly and rather than tilting, he leans over, one hand gripping Sean’s shoulder, giving out unusually good dead comms.
“Hookah! He’s hookah I just saw his gun!” Marshall shouts.
Sean—ever so used to Marshall’s booming voice—doesn’t falter in the slightest. “Got it.”
“Nice wall bang bro, just one more.”
Sean falls quiet, as with Marshall, both holding their breath as if to sniff out the remaining enemy Viper lurking somewhere. At one point, Marshall gets so into it he nearly lowers his head onto Sean’s shoulder, his incessant scratchy throat rising up tenfold. He wills himself to ignore it even more, if he coughs now surely Sean would fail this clutch.
Marshall hears a tiny footstep, he squeezes Sean’s arm. “On the right! Your right!”
Sean is facing forward, expecting the Viper in a different direction. Upon hearing Marshall he flicks to the right so fast and hits a shot so clean it takes both of them aback. The spike drops, and Sean has just clutched a crucial round.
Marshall let out a breath of relief, tension withdrawing from him. Sean’s tense too, his shoulders sag underneath Marshall’s fingers as he slumps back in his seat and brofists Marshall. It’s only a ranked match, yet Sean’s mechanics and insane reflex still shine through. The fact that he trusts Marshall completely does funny things to Marshall’s stomach.
Marshall sits back down. “Nasty flick, you won us the round.”
“Thanks, couldn’t have done it without you though.” Sean blushes.
Marshall’s chest tightens involuntarily. Sean looks so fucking adorable, cheeks slightly pink and tousled hair. Marshall shivers, the chili peppers must’ve gotten to his head.
Marshall still needs to cough, but talking with Sean helps. They fool around for the rest of the match, sometimes Sean hits a botched Viper molly, sometimes Marshall misses a Fade lineup. Normally Marshall would be frustrated at his incompetence, however today there's only laughter.
“Where the fuck are you looking at!” Sean bellows. He’s been shot in the back with his knife out and apparently that was Marshall’s fault.
“Watching our flanks you idiot!”
“What flank? They’re both CT, our Brimstone died peeking earlier.” Sean raises his eyebrows.
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did! I can’t believe you’re both blind and deaf.”
Marshall coughs, once, into his elbow, and nudges Sean playfully. Sean shoves back, they turn it into a game of sorts while waiting the round out.
They finally win after throwing a few more rounds, Sean’s flushed and Marshall is laughing so hard his ribs hurt. They don’t really deserve this win but since their Raze suddenly installed aimbot, free rr was free rr.
By the time they wrap up three more games it’s pitch black outside. Marshall doesn’t usually queue ranked after a long day of scrims, but Sean insisted, and they won all three games. So even though Marshall is beyond exhausted and nurturing an empty stomach, his cheery mood doesn’t wane.
Sean checks his phone and turns off the PC with a hum. Marshall clicks his tongue in annoyance. “One more game wouldn’t hurt.”
Sean gives Marshall a look. “It’s literally 11 pm.”
“So? Oh, your wackass bedtime right?”
“It’s called having a healthy sleep schedule,” Sean claps back. He’s yawned twice in a span of two minutes, which prompts Marshall to yawn too despite his current disposition. “Anyways, you up for a late snack?”
Marshall shuts down his monitor. “Sounds good to me, I’m fucking starving. What are we having? Gas station wraps?”
“Ew, no. I know this fantastic ramen spot that opens past midnight in Japantown.”
“LA doesn’t have a Japantown.”
“Yes it does, come on get up.” Sean yanks on the corner of Marshall’s jersey. “Move your ass.”
“Alright chill, you’re tearing my shirt.”
Marshall cracks his knuckles and stands up, stretching to get rid of the drowsiness and puts on his hoodie. Sean’s already halfway out the door, hood up, hands tucked inside the pocket of his Sen hoodie. Marshall briefly wonders if anyone’s going to recognize them, him in civvies, Sean in merch.
The night is still young, but Sean’s dozing off in the car, riding shotgun. Outside the window, streetlights blur together as the K-Pop ballad song fills the peaceful silence, from a band that Marshall has been enjoying lately.
Sean does not fuck with those songs, he calls them corny and Marshall needs to grow up. Fuck Sean though, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Although, he has been quiet for the last fifteen minutes or so. Marshall reaches over with one hand to prop his head up.
“This place is on the other side of the city, don’t fall asleep on me now.” Marshall pokes Sean’s cheek. “Why’d you choose it anyway?”
“Huh?” Sean stirs awake at Marshall’s pestering. “Their ramen is unreal.”
“So unreal that you ruin your healthy sleep schedule?”
“You agreed to take me there, remember?” Sean rubs his bleary eyes. “I’m telling you, you’re gonna love it. You’re actually the first person I share it with, so be thankful.”
“As long as it—” Marshall is cut off by an intense cough, he dead-grips the wheel, trying to suppress the sudden pain in his chest. It’s strange at best and alarming at worst, he stopped coughing a while ago, why did it come back now?
Perhaps it has something to do with Sean saying Marshall is the first person he shares a secret spot with? No, can’t be.
Marshall concentrates on the winding road ahead, ignoring both that bizarre notion and his sandpaper throat. They’re almost there.
Sean grabs Marshall’s bicep, voice laced with worry. “Are you okay? Do you have a cold? Should I check your temperature?”
“Not while I’m driving!” Marshall swats Sean away. “I’m fine, just dealing with the aftermath of the chilis.”
“Shouldn’t you have gotten over that by now?”
“Beats me.” Marshall shrugs. “As I was saying, as long as it’s not some spicy monstrosity, I’m peachy.”
“Whitest boy in America.”
“Fuck you too.”
Sean chuckles, the sound echoes off the stuffy car straight into Marshall’s eardrums, which brings another bout of coughing. Is he actually sick? Has he contracted a virus? Marshall grinds his molars together, using all his will power to not cough his lungs out and bother Sean even more.
The streets gradually turn more and more deserted as they go, a clear night sky with no clouds, the moon leads them to a vacant neighborhood. Odd for a bustling city like LA.
After a painful half an hour, they arrive at nearly midnight. The “Japantown” in question turns out to be Little Tokyo, a historical landmark. Marshall has heard about it before, in passing conversation with Martin about what LA has to offer over Berlin.
The ramen shop is small, no, tiny actually, nestled between a revolving sushi bar and a famous chain restaurant, both closed for the night. It’s the sort of place that could totally pass you by if you aren’t explicitly looking for it. Inconspicuous and totally mediocre.
Marshall shuts the engine and exits the car, rounding to the other side to open the passenger door for Sean, who’s still waking up. A huge Torii gate looms to their right, blinking Japanese signages on top of blackout shops to their left, red-and-white paper lanterns etched with Japanese letters sway gently above. Like Marshall is transported to a real Tokyo sidewalk.
In lieu of a door, a noren—a split cloth curtain—hangs in the entrance. Marshall moves it aside and enters, Sean inches behind. Instantly, the scent of rich broth, soy, and grilled pork engulfs them both, the warmth from the bubbling broth pot radiates through Marshall’s very core, washing away the cold of the late night. There’s barely space for more than seven people, which means everyone is squished together, a good opportunity to converse with and befriend others.
Faded newspaper clippings decorate the wall, rundown wooden counter with a few stools, the radio hums softly some dreamy Japanese pop, and the rhythmic clatter of ladles and chopsticks. Marshall hasn’t ordered, but he understands why Sean loves this place. He’s slowly falling in love with it too.
A haven, a sanctuary, a hideaway from the real world.
Sean pulls out a stool and sits, greeting the chef like an old friend. Marshall picks up an old menu, perusing it up and down.
Sean points out something on top of the page. “You should try their signature dish, out of this world.”
“Yeah? You recommend it?”
“Of course.” Sean waves at the chef. “Hey, two bowls of my usual.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Marshall says, crossing his fingers behind his head. “Are you ever gonna tell me how you discovered this place?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know weather boy?”
“What??? Come on!” Marshall whines, batting his eyes at Sean in a manner that he thinks is adorable and convincing. Though he probably just made a fool of himself.
Sean lets out a small tsk. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Pretty please?” Marshall has no idea what he’s doing, literally begging. He doesn’t want to pry that much.
Sean seems amused, like Marshall clowning has an effect on him. He puts his head on his chin, scanning Marshall’s dumb face whose cheeks are puffed up like a squirrel. After a while, Sean signs, defeated.
“Years ago, when I first came to LA, I was kind of lost and sad and hungry. I think it was around the time where we bombed out of a Masters or something, uh, we as in me and 100 Thieves,” Sean corrects himself when Marshall scowls. “I wasn’t thinking straight, just wandered on the streets and stumbled here. I was starving but I forgot my phone and my wallet at home. Fortunately the owner gave me a bowl of ramen on the house, it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life, minus my mom’s cooking of course.”
“Wow, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you talk aside from comming.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“No, your voice is quite easy on the ears actually, you should speak more. Don’t be such an NPC.”
Sean makes a face. “Uh, okay…”
Marshall grimaces, Sean seems baffled that he likes Sean’s voice, he didn’t say it but sure sounded like it. Maybe he shouldn’t run his mouth anymore.
The chef interrupts at the perfect time, setting down two bowls of steaming ramen. Marshall digs in, and he might’ve ascended to heaven, stars bursting behind his eyelids.
“What the fuck? You’ve been hiding this from me this whole time?” Marshall exclaims.
“Told ya.” Sean smirks. “Shit’s good right?”
“Good is a massive understatement, I think you just ruined ramen for me.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, you fucking imbecile.” Sean shakes his head. “You’re like a certified neanderthal.”
Marshall neither denies nor confirms, he’s too busy gulping down his bowl until there isn’t a lick of broth left. Out the corner of his eyes, Sean is glaring at him, amusement dripping from his face. Marshall wants to wipe that smug grin straight off. He doesn’t.
Marshall burps, he picks up a napkin to clean his sweaty forehead. “So like, no one else knows about this but me and you?”
“Yep. I’m gatekeeping the shit out of it.”
“Why’d you tell me then?”
Sean rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know, you're a good friend, I think. You always have my back, on and off the server. Of course everyone else is nice too but you’re… different. When I first joined Sentinels I didn’t think I’d make a friend out of you this fast. I’m glad we met.”
“That’s… very kind of you to say.” Marshall’s eyes widen. “I’m glad too.”
“Yeah well, that’s great then.”
Between side dishes of gyozas and complimentary out-of-season mikans, the conversations flow smoothly. Marshall tries to ragebait Sean into listening to K-Pop fruitlessly, though he’s too mellowed out to fall for ragebait. Marshall then switches to niche anime references disguised as quizzes, Sean somehow catches everything. He even laughs at Marshall’s dumb jokes, striking up butterflies in the blond’s belly.
“You wanna know something funny? I didn’t even tell Peter about all this.” Sean wets his lips. “That’s not funny but whatever,” he adds after half a beat.
Peter Mazuryk. Asuna. A skilled player, Sean’s ex-teammate, current best friend. Sean keeps his “hideaway” from Peter—presumably for years—yet he feels safe enough to share with Marshall.
Which means nothing, right?
The coughing reoccurs, catching Marshall off guard. He hunches over the counter, holding his mouth, muffling the onslaught tearing through him. His heart hammers against his chest vocally, fast-paced and ragged.
Sean was going to say something else, but Marshall’s sudden coughing halted him. A warm hand settles on Marshall’s back, rubbing soothing circles.
“You should really get that checked out,” Sean says with concern. “What if it’s serious? Like Covid?”
“I’m—” Marshall can’t speak as another bout of coughing comes forth.
Sean furrows his brows. “Bro you’re giving me the ick.”
Marshall grips the wooden counter, his uncut nails making noticeable dents. Sean requests a cup of tea and offers it to Marshall, who gulps it down in one fell swoop.
“It’s probably the chilis.” Marshall coughs one last time.
“How many times are you gonna use that excuse? It’s getting old.”
“I’m fine, stop acting like a motherhen.”
“I’m worried about you,” Sean scoffs. “If you fall sick, who's going to be our initiator-flex?
“Is that all I’m good for?”
“What else?”
“Fuck you.” Marshall grins against his will. “I’m tired as shit, let’s get outta here.”
“Okay,” Sean acquiesces, he stands and puts the stool back. “But if you keep this up I’ll inform Kap.”
“Snitches get stitches.”
Marshall pays for them both despite Sean’s protest. In his defense, it’s the least he could do after Sean introduces him to this amazing little spot. They bow to the chef before leaving, all formal and stuff, Marshall feels like an anime protagonist.
On the ride back, Sean flat out falls asleep, not a care in the world. Months prior he wouldn’t have been this comfortable showing his vulnerable side to another person, Marshall isn’t complaining though. He reaches out instinctively and guides Sean’s head in his direction. They aren’t near enough for Sean to rest his head on top of Marshall’s shoulders, he speeds through three consecutive red lights so Sean won’t sprain his neck for long.
Something tells Marshall this late night drive isn’t a one time thing. Next time he’ll buy a neck pillow for his companion. Neck pillows can be a fun merch idea.
Soon enough, they get home. Home has meant many things to Marshall throughout the years, this time it’s an apartment building adjacent to the Sen compound. Late last year, he and Sean moved in around the same time, their apartments across the hall from each other, on the same floor.
It’d be fun if they saw each other every morning, walking to the office together. They don’t cross paths much however, Sean goes to sleep and wakes up much earlier than Marshall. Healthy sleep schedule he said, which just means he’d start yawning at 7 pm.
Zach and Amine live here too, only Jordan has a different residence somewhere in the city. One big happy family.
Marshall pokes and jabs Sean a few times, the guy is snoring gently, refusing to wake up. So, naturally, Marshall picks him up—bridal style and all, it’s the easiest method—and carries him through the entrance.
Sean is featherlight, skinny and pale, Marshall isn’t strong but Sean definitely hasn’t been eating enough. His diet probably consisted of green teas and junk foods. He doesn’t stir in Marshall’s arms, snuggling comfortably, fluffy hair tickles Marshall’s chin.
Marshall feels a pang in his heart, sweats break out at his nape, shivering as the wind cuts through his hoodie.
He swallows them whole.
At their apartments, Marshall fishes out Sean’s keys and unlocks the door for him. Sean’s place is bare, white and pristine, like he hasn’t been bothered to unpack anything beside his setup and other essentials. Marshall carries Sean all the way into the bedroom, passing by discarded cardboard boxes and dirty clothes on the way.
Marshall makes a lot of sounds, bumping into furniture here or there, but Sean’s still dead to the world. Strange, Marshall hasn’t pegged him for a heavy sleeper, he must be exhausted. They did have multiple back-to-back scrims today, no wonder Sean couldn’t stop yawning.
As gently as possible, Marshall lowers Sean onto the bed, pulling up the covers as well. Sean looks… at peace. Eyes closed, sleeping soundly. Marshall’s gaze sets on the tiny curve of Sean’s lips, likely having a good dream.
A sharp ache wells up in Marshall’s chest, blocking out all other senses. He can’t contain himself anymore. He turns off all lights in Sean’s apartment and bolts out like some sort of monster is hot on his heels.
Marshall locks his own apartment and falls to the hard wooden floor, coughing his guts out. He might’ve scraped his knees as well, if the jolt of pain is anything to go by. He heaves and gags, practically burning from the inside out. Sticking his hand inside his mouth, Marshall digs out something soft and velvety, he tosses it away in disgust.
On the floor beneath him is no piece of regurgitated food, just a bit of bile. Among them are a couple of red flower petals. No blood, but the red stands out like a sore thumb in the otherwise darkened room, lit only by the moonlight through the gaps between the blinds.
Marshall stares at the petals, spits trickling down his mouth. He rubs his eyes once, twice, then three times, willing the scene unfolding in front of him to go away.
It doesn’t.
Marshall’s mind is fuzzy around the edges, like being obstructed by misty clouds. As if on autopilot, he drags his feet to the bathroom sluggishly to puke into the toilet bowl, a nauseating wave forming behind his temples. The sharp ache in his chest relents with each heave. Nothing else comes out except for those flower petals.
Marshall grips the porcelain edge desperately, knuckles white, vision swimming. The room feels suffocating, he’s suffocating—figuratively and literally—from the wound on his knees and deep inside his heart.
After a few minutes, he detaches himself from the toilet and slumps against the tiled wall, breathing in and out, trying to calm down. He then flushes the toilet, watching the flower petals swirl away yet the dread remains.
Marshall steadies himself on the sink and stares at his reflection in the mirror. The figure staring back has crazy eyes and wild spiky hair, he looks like a madman.
Maybe he’s really gone mad.
A panic attack is fast approaching. Before it catches up with him, he splashes cold sinkwater over his face and limps out of the bathroom. Digging through the drawer, he slaps a bandage on his knees which has stopped bleeding and climbs on the bed, deciding to call it a day.
Marshall is not in the right mind to process this situation. Whether he’s dreaming or not, it would have to wait until tomorrow.
In the soundless room, Marshall drifts off fitfully. His last thought is about Sean, of all people. Sean’s smug face when he looked at Marshall during “dinner”, chowing down a whole bowl of ramen, like he was so proud to share something he held dear to Marshall and have Marshall enjoy it too.
Perhaps this is just a nightmare, and by morning Marshall’s paranoia will vanish.
───〃★
It wasn’t a nightmare.
Marshall wakes with a start. He’s slept through his alarm, or worse, he’s forgone setting an alarm altogether. Thankfully Sen has a late scrim today.
After checking social media and rotting in bed for half an hour, Marshall suddenly feels nearsighted, body starting to sweat. He kicks off the covers and flings his legs off the bed, flinching when his knees hit the side.
The bathroom is the same as last night, except his reflection is much worse, like he hasn’t slept a wink. He winces at it, already dreading the questions he’ll receive later. He takes a quick shower, relieves himself then steps out as fast as he can.
The stuff he vomited out stays in place in front of the apartment’s door, even more unsettling in the daylight. Green bile and flower petals, a color not dissimilar to Sentinels’ signature red. No matter how much Marshall wishes that he hallucinated the whole thing, the evidence is right there.
He gags a little as he uses paper tissues to scoop everything up, dumping it away. Sitting before the PC, Marshall has his head buried in his hands, noxious thoughts invading his mind.
“Psychoflorapulmonitis,” or Hanahaki disease, a more romanticized definition as coined by the Japanese. For an illness born out of unrequited love (allegedly) it’s quite fitting.
Hanahaki isn’t uncommon, but it’s rare enough that the majority of the population will most likely never catch it, nor will they encounter people who have it in their lifetime. The biggest mystery of modern science, to this day there are still controversial debates about the cause and effect. Some say it’s simply a psychological disorder, some revere it as a sign of divine intervention, some outright don’t believe such a thing exists.
The procedure to get rid of it comes with many hidden risks, a 50/50 coin flip. Either you straight up die or you live with holes in your memories, like it’s made out of cheese and the whole congregation is mice. Neither option is mercy, only death wearing different ropes.
A kind of death that the world will not mourn.
In regard to their little esports community, there hasn’t been any reported case of players catching it. Marshall doesn’t think he himself would ever come across Hanahaki, nor anyone in his social circle. But life—or God as he is—always gives his strongest soldiers the toughest battles, not that Marshall believes in God.
Marshall’s not an idiot, he knows what the flower petals mean. They have crept up on him at the most unfortunate time, wedged between Stage 2 and Champions. At least it isn’t Covid, he hasn’t contracted lung cancer, and he can put a label on it before having to visit a doctor.
It’s just, out of everyone, why him? Why now?
The worst part about this is Marshall has no idea who he’s fallen for. Ridiculous. Like his lungs and heart had a verbal agreement to sow a seed, without his brain’s consent.
The taste of acid rises up alongside something astringent, tears sting his eyes, he snaps them shut as flower petals escape his mouth. His chest aches with an unfamiliar pain, but soon to be. Crimson red petals, not unlike a river of blood.
Those petals turn out to be camellia petals. Red camellias specifically, if his Google search is correct. Marshall figures studying them might shed some light on this gloomy scenario, help him deduce who the flowers bloom for, or at least offer him some solace.
When Marshall found out which kind of flower it was, his first thought was why camellias? and why red?
For starters, camellias bloom from winter to spring, one of the only species of flower to withstand the cold harsh weather. It doesn’t wither in a normal sense, it falls whole from the stem, bold as if making a statement. In older Japanese folktales, camellias symbolize a noble death, or undying love.
Passion. Admiration. Devotion. A kind of love that doesn’t explode, but burns steadily under the barbed wires and rough edges.
While the plant itself is long-lived, each individual blooms have a short lifespan. Flourishing in a fleeting moment, perishing just as fast.
A short but brilliant life.
It’s all too much for Marshall, and it doesn’t really help. The blinking cursor on the search bar mocks him, he can vaguely make out his own facsimile on the screen, tattered and decrepit.
Who could possibly hold so much weight to him, that his heart figured it out before he does?
Ever since Marshall clawed his way up to franchising, leaving his “rivals” in the dust, he has vowed to never involve himself with redundant romance. All eyes on the prize, the shiny trophy every player dreams of.
But as it were, the wheel of ill omen has chosen him as the victim.
Don’t get him wrong, he’s no wimp. Even if he dies from this he’ll seek that person out and confess his love, maybe rizz them up along the way. But how can he do that if he doesn’t know who they are?
After more useless research, Marshall clenches his fists, determination surges through him. He only developed Hanahaki as soon as last night. This mysterious person that has captured his heart must be someone close, he has no time to waste. He’s on a deadline, literally.
Marshall’s too young to be running on empty.
24 hours on the dot. Marshall gives himself just 24 hours to identify this person, and end his predicament for good. If his love is unreciprocated, he’ll at least lay down to rest with closure, knowing that he has tried his best.
The delicate petals in his open palm seem to be singing, a final song to the bygone summer days, mourning the loss of a carefree youth. Outside the windows of his studio apartment, leaves are either withering or departing from the branches. Leafy green disappears, leaving specks of gold and orange in their trails.
Autumn will soon fall.
Marshall couldn’t be sure, but he has a feeling so peculiar, that this pain would be for evermore.