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At first, Tomoya hadn’t noticed the scratching at his throat. He attributed any discomfort to his extra practices, the time he spent worried more for his singing and less worried for the condition of his throat. He wanted to work to prove himself to not only Nii-chan, but to Hokuto-senpai and Hibiki-senpai, too. It was worth the few days of having a sore throat to make them proud.
When he coughed up the first petal, he was walking home. His mind had drifted to the quick after-school practice Nazuna had called for, and then to the longer club meeting he was late to attend, and it was with a sudden rush that he had felt the urge to cough. Feeling the petal on his tongue had almost made him gag, stopping and needing to lean against a wall on the side of the street, and by the time he pulled it out of his mouth, his saliva had worked to deform the petal, rendering the flower it’d come from unknown. His hands grew cold as he stared at the petal, held delicately between two fingers as if he were afraid it could hurt him.
Tomoya wasn’t an idiot; he knew of the whispered disease. He heard stories of others who had contracted it, and it was even rumored some of the idol course suffered from it too. He had never thought he would be one to contract it. He was just...Tomoya Mashiro, an ordinarily average kid. He felt as if this kind of thing only happened to interesting people; people who had all kinds of drive and talents and something to set them apart from the rest of the population. Hell, if he was being honest, he didn’t even know who it was the petal was for. Gritting his teeth and hoping it was a false start, Tomoya let go of the petal and watched it fall to the ground, not even carried further by the wind. Then, he walked home and tried his best to forget about it.
Forgetting didn’t come easily, nor was it even comfortable. He often found himself thinking about the petal during school, looking at his classmates and trying to figure out if how he felt was considered ‘love’. It confused and frustrated him to no end. How was he supposed to know when he really loved someone? It wasn’t fair that this disease knew and he didn’t. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t figure it out; whoever these feelings were for, Tomoya couldn’t pin it on anyone. He’d never looked to one of his classmates like that. Hell, he’d never looked to anyone like that. And any of his senpai he felt for...he was sure it was just admiration at the most.
That didn’t explain the flowers, though.
It’d gotten worse as the year went on. What started as a petal at a time turned into a few, then a handful. At one point, while he was sitting in between classes with Hajime and Tetora, he’d had to run to the bathroom. What he initially believed was only a stomach ache turned into something worse; he barely made it to the bathroom before his chest heaved and the petals burst from his lips. As he dry-heaved and fell to the ground, shaking on hands and knees, his throat burned and stung, and the first thorn fell out to land among the flowers, its delicately pointed edge tinged red with blood.
Hajime was the one that found him, curled up and shaking among a mass of petals. Pink roses danced on the edges of the pile, mixed with the occasional red petal. Sunflower leaves still stuck to the corner of his mouth, tangled up in his hands and lying over pansies and daisies. Realizing what was going on, his friend only offered to help him clean up, whispering words of empty comfort.
He’d begged Hajime to keep his secret; Tomoya admitted it was likely unfair to their unit members, but he didn’t want Nazuna finding out, nor Mitsuru to be plagued with the knowledge. He didn’t want to burden anyone else with what he dealt with, not when he had no idea who it was that caused him throw up an array of beautiful petals speckled with blood.
It didn’t get better, as he hoped. If anything, the feeling got worse, and he was always looking for discreet ways to get rid of petals he coughed up during classes. He got odd glances, sure, and once he’d had to run away from Anzu when she offered to help him throw something away, but it was nothing more unusual than how he’d act when Wataru was around.
Wataru. For the first few weeks, Tomoya had wondered if it was only a coincidence that whenever he thought of the upperclassman, the tickling in his throat got worse. He thought it was; he’d even told Hajime there was no way in hell he loved Hibiki-senpai. Tomoya didn’t give it a second thought until he was sitting in the theatre club room, listening to Wataru practice a monologue.
He was acting like he wasn’t paying much attention, rolling his eyes whenever Wataru’s voice fluctuated overdramatically and huffing at the winks that were occasionally thrown his way. More accurately, he was trying not to show how it was affecting him. Since the first time he’d seen Wataru’s performances, he was entranced whenever he watched him. That hadn’t changed since his time in junior high; even now, while he rolled his eyes and turned away from Wataru, he was still paying as much attention as he could. When Wataru finished, voice light and sounding so real with emotion, Tomoya felt his chest tighten.
And then tighten more.
It was sudden, powerful, and ugly. There was barely warning before he was hunched over, coughing and gagging as flowers fell to the club room floor. He barely heard Wataru’s voice as he realized what was happening, too focused on the pain in his throat. Tears stung in his eyes as he felt the sharp points of thorns scratching, the searing burn and bitter taste of blood in his mouth mixing with the petals that drifted to the ground.
Roses, red and even darker with blood, made up the mass majority of the mess. Their thorns glinted in the light, covered in blood. Along with them drifted lilacs, pansies covered Tomoya’s hands, and red tulips lay at his feel. All the colors were tinted, twisted to a grotesque form of beauty that Tomoya couldn’t understand. Sobs escaped him as his arms wrapped around his stomach, trying to calm his own shaking as his eyes squeezed shut. A touch, feather-light against his shoulders, barely grounded him, and the voice at his ear only made his sobbing worse.
“I’m sorry Tomoya-kun...Whoever it is, they’re a fool for not loving you back,” Wataru murmured, his voice for once uncharacteristically soft as he rubbed gentle circles on Tomoya’s back. “I know it hurts. I won’t lie and say it stops hurting, either. It will keep as long as your love does.” His voice sounded bittersweet, reminding Tomoya much of the monologue he just heard. Remembering that, remembering the emotion of Wataru’s voice and how beautiful and amazing his performance was, brought on another wave of coughing, petals sticking to his tongue and lips and sliding down the front of his shirt.
Wataru’s hands were gentle as he helped pull them away, continuing to murmur as much comfort as he could to Tomoya.
“It hurts, but the pain can be beautiful. The emptiness of a love given away...that almost hurts more.”
Tomoya didn’t ask who he loved, much like Wataru wasn’t asking who Tomoya’s flowers were for. It seemed more personal, and Tomoya didn’t want to face his senpai if he knew he was the reason Tomoya couldn’t see himself any further than a few years out of high school, if that long. Instead, Wataru murmured that he would get supplies to clean the petals and blooms up, along with towels for him. As he left, Tomoya weakly coughed once more, pink Camellia petals drifting to join the rest as if they hadn’t caused the burning ache in his chest. One of his hands reached down, gently lifting the complete bloom of a rose, sticky with blood and its thorns pricking his fingers.
So, this is what love is, he thought to himself, feeling the pressure to even breathe at this point. He could feel the thorns, pricking lightly with every breath and waiting to grow, waiting to hurt him even more. It hurt, but what Wataru had said hurt as well. Loving someone through pain was one thing; giving up that love to be able to end the pain, being forced to see that person and only dimly remember how it felt to see them and whole-heartedly love them? He couldn't think of it, couldn't imagine how he could see Wataru when he hadn't even realized before what love felt like. Already, he couldn't bring himself to want to give this up, not when he didn't know where the line between love and hatred was. Without that love, who was to say that he wouldn't revert to having nothing but bitter feelings for Wataru? It was something that pained Tomoya to think about, bringing fresh tears to his eyes as Wataru carefully entered the club room again. Closing his eyes and letting Wataru sweep up the petals, he felt the thorns dig deeper, felt it get harder to breath; he didn't say a word.
Tomoya had often complained about Wataru being the death of him, but he never thought it would be like this.