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It was midnight when Fyodor was working on his laptop. Moonlight shone through the blinds of the quiet room, but the silence is quickly pierced by the sound of his coughing.
A single, delicate white petal stained with red falls from his lips. Fyodor stares at it. It came from his mouth, his lungs, him.
“Irrelevant.” he declared, voicing it out loud to make it sound real. A physical anomaly, that must be what it was. His chest felt tight and his throat itched as he held back a cough, before failing to and coughing up blood.
Irritation flashed through Fyodor. He was working—and now this? Truly, it could not have been any worse. He swallowed back the taste of iron on his tongue.
Fyodor decided to deliberately neglect this. It was not necessary. It was unimportant.
After all, ignorance was bliss.
-
Fyodor was in an impromptu meeting with the Decay of Angels when he felt it again. The tightening of his chest, the itch in his throat, the feeling of wanting to rip his lungs out—well, maybe not the last one. Either way, he excused himself and quickly left for the bathroom. It would do no good for anyone else to see petals or blood.
Fyodor locked himself in one of the stalls, lunging for the toilet and coughing into it. It wasn’t just one petal now—it was a cluster. It was also still stained with red. His blood. His chest tightened again, not from the coughing, but because of the implications.
He knew what this was. He just refused to accept it. How could someone like him—a mastermind, a genius, the world’s savior—become… this?
“No.” Fyodor mumbled. He was alright. There was nothing wrong with him, he was sure! Love was a weakness, and he would not allow himself to be so for such trivialities. It was beneath him. He was better than this.
He heard a familiar voice. “Fedya~? What’s gotcha taking so long in there? The meeting has already ended!” Of course, the jester.
Fyodor pulled himself up from the floor, brushing off imaginary dust from his pants, and flushed the toilet as he watched the bloodstained petals spiral down in and disappear, before unlocking the stall door and leaving.
Fyodor was perfectly fine.
-
“Tsk, tsk,” Nikolai started, bouncing around. “Y’know, when I went into the bathroom to find Fedya? I heard coughing! Maybe he’s sick! Ooh, actually, y’know that fantasy illness thing? Hehe, maybe it’s real.”
“...What fantasy illness?” Sigma questioned. He didn’t like to play into the jester’s whims, but he was a bit curious now.
Nikolai wagged his finger at him. “You don’t know!? That one, like, flower thing? Oh yeah, Hanahaki! It’s pretty cool, if you ask me.”
“Oh… I know that.” the other man mumbled. “I doubt he’s in love with anyone. I don’t think he’s close to any woman.
“Well, who knows!?” Nikolai spun around to face him, pointing his finger at his face. “Maybe he’s gay! Aaand he likes me, you, whoever else? Subordinates, even?”
“Stop fooling around, Nikolai.” Sigma huffed. “That’s ridiculous! He probably just had a cough and didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Ahaha~ but it’s so much more fun guessing! Oh well, love is all just a trick~ of~ the~ mind~! It obstructs my wish for freedom!”
“You freedom-obsessed clown…”
-
“Fedya, you left early again!” Nikolai exclaimed as he found the black-haired man leaving the bathroom. Fyodor kept leaving the meetings early because coughing fits constantly overtook him. “You sick? Heh, Fedya’s sick?”
“Don’t be silly.” Fyodor hoarsely said before clearing his throat. “I simply have a cough. Nothing more than that.”
“You got awfully defensive!” The white-haired man giggled. “Don’t tell me you caught feelings for someone?”
“Of course not.” he replied a bit too quickly.
“Awe, not Hanahaki?” “Absolutely not. I’d like to be alone now. I’ll take my leave.”
Nikolai pouted as Fyodor left. He kept leaving so early. He hadn’t had any time to talk to him…
-
When Fyodor returned to his place, he slumped down on his bed before a violent fit of coughs overtook his frail frame, producing blood-streaked petals. It hurt, and he tasted blood.
He stared down at the petals. The blood. It was all embodiments of his emotions. His… feelings.
It wasn’t theoretical. It was him.
“Чушь собачья…” he cursed to himself in Russian. “Этого не может быть.” (That can’t be right.)
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Why did this have to happen now of all times? How long did he even have to live?
Fyodor’s mind wandered to him. To that person with brown hair and beautiful eyes and–
…
“Ебать.” Fyodor cursed again.
-
Hanahaki… requires unrequited love.
Fyodor forced himself to face it. The truth. But it couldn’t apply to him—not now, not here, not ever!
Therefore, he must identify the cause.
Nikolai? No. Sigma? No. Fukuchi? Absolutely not. Bram? He barely even knew the vampire. A stranger? Why the hell would he fall for a passerby?
Everyone—anyone who wasn’t him. He was denying it again. It was not him. It couldn’t be.
Dazai stood in front of him. They were in a back alleyway, and Fyodor couldn’t have felt worse. His throat itched like hell and his chest was so tight he felt like it was going to burst. He wanted to cough, to heave out those stupid beautiful petals.
This was a misattribution. He would eliminate the possibility of Dazai ever being the cause—if he interacted with him and nothing changed, it would prove it wasn’t love! So why…?
This was not intentional. He had ended up walking straight to this dumb brunette. He had not used logic, not reasoning, not–
“So,” Dazai started. “Why have you seeked me out, demon?”
Fyodor could not bring himself to speak. If he did, he would cough. In front of him.
He cleared his throat—or tried to. “I did not expect to see you here, Dazai-kun. This was a surprise.”
“A pleasant one?” Dazai snickered, glancing at him more warily.
What did that glance mean? Was he expecting a trap? Fyodor should’ve arranged one…
“Of course,” he forced a smile. “If you’re feeling up for it, we could always play a game of chess.”
“Hmm, I’m a bit busy today. Perhaps later.” Dazai spoke simply. “Is there nothing you want to say, demon? If not, you’re wasting my time here~!”
“No. I look forward to defeating you in the future.”
“Is that so? I can’t wait to see your corpse too.”
-
Breathing hurt.
“F-fuuu…” Fyodor quietly mumbled, burying his face into his arms. Nikolai popped up behind him.
“Whatcha doing?” he asked. “Moping around isn’t your style, Fedya!”
“Ah,” Fyodor raised his head to look at him. “I’m simply tired, that is all.”
“Oh, really?” “Yes, really–”
Fyodor was interrupted by his own coughs. He panicked at the feeling of petals tumbling out and he quickly swallowed them back down. They scratched at his throat. Now he had a hurt throat too.
“Oh, wow! You better take your meds, Fedya!”
-
Fyodor had just left his police disguise, changing into his usual clothes in the alley as he looked around. His hat wasn’t there. “My hat…”
Fyodor coughed violently again. Ow. Ow. Ow. Petals came tumbling out in heaps covered in blood. Crap! He knew Dazai would be here, so he had accidentally thought about him and–
“Looking for this?” a voice cut his thoughts off. Osamu Dazai, in all his glory, donned with Fyodor’s white ushanka on his head. Blood rushed to his ears. “Hmm, petals. You? Love? That’s… disappointing.”
Fyodor’s heart dropped to his stomach. Oh God. Fyodor mentally berated himself for coughing in public like this. In front of this man. In front of him. Him!
“You’re mistaken.” He quickly said. “I had the flowers–”
“Don’t play dumb with me, demon.” Dazai interrupted. “I saw you cough those petals out. Jeez, so pathetic. C’mon, a genius terrorist like you? I thought my archnemesis would be better than that.”
Fyodor’s ears turned more red when he heard the words “my archnemesis”. His? He coughed again and swallowed most of the petals back down.
“Doesn’t that hurt, demon?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Ahaha.”
-
Fyodor did not call it love. No, he couldn’t.
The word was overused, it was crude, misapplied—a convenient explanation for lesser minds who required names for their weaknesses. He had no need for such things. What was happening to him was not sentimental nor emotional.
It was a flaw.
A defect, perhaps, a mistake of the body. It had mistaken his feelings toward Dazai as romantic. It was simply a condition, therefore it had a solution.
He pressed the cloth harder against his mouth, yet warmth seeped through it anyway. When he pulled it away, there were already blood and petals on it, crushed into the fabric and smeared dark into the cloth. The petals were softer than they should’ve been, fragile in a way that irritated him.
He closed his fingers around the cloth tight and the delicate petals disintegrated until it was no longer recognisable—just damp residue, something unidentifiable. Something beneath notice.
That was what this was. Beneath notice.
He exhaled slowly, steadying his breath before tossing the cloth into the bin. Fyodor would continue with his day, as he always did.
-
“Thinking about someone?” Fyodor heard the dreaded voice come from behind him as he sat on a park bench with a blank expression. He shouldn’t have stayed out in public for this long unguarded.
“Dazai-kun…” he coughed violently again, petals falling out. Blood splattered on the wood of the bench. He covered his mouth, but a hand pulled his wrist off, and he felt fingers caress his throat. Fyodor struggled to breathe. Dazai was touching him voluntarily. He was touching his neck. Fyodor coughed, pulling away, but his hand firmly grabbed his chin. “Now, now, don’t be so scared.”
“I’m not– cough scared–” Fyodor was barely able to choke out before petals came tumbling out again. “You bastard…”
Dazai knew he was the cause of his condition and he enjoyed it.
What a cruel man.
Fyodor was guided to an alley. He hadn’t thought about how dangerous it was since he was still coughing and choking on flowers. “...Dazai-kun…?”
“What do you think about love, Fyodor?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. He had a faraway look in them. “You place far too much weight on something ultimately inconsequential.”
His first name was said. By Dazai. Dazai, oh the man he was.
“Not you, specifically. Though you are—unsurprisingly—guilty of it as well. Humans, in general, tend to assign meaning where there is none. They take… impulses, irregularities, and elevate them into something profound simply because they lack the discipline to dismiss them. It’s inefficient. Attachment for example—a structure imposed over what it is, in reality, nothing more than a series of predictable biological responses. Chemical, even.”
Fyodor’s eyes met Dazai’s. He noticed he wasn’t really listening, and his heart sank.
“...Then, I’ll take my leave.”
-
Fyodor could barely function now.
He was constantly coughing up heaps of bloody petals. His throat was scratched up and he felt dizzy from the blood loss, making him weaker than he already was. In fact, he’d even begun to cough up whole flowers that were larger and thorned, not only darker.
“Then this would work–” he was talking to himself in his room on his laptop when he choked on a flower. The thorns really annoyed him and made his throat hurt all over.
“...”
“Perhaps death would be easier.”
He didn’t choke this time.
Fyodor’s phone lit up with a notification. He didn’t get them very often since people didn’t usually text him.
‘Come if you’re still capable of walking.’
It was from an unknown number, but Fyodor knew who it was. That stupidly beautiful brunette man. Osamu Dazai, again.
This is a trap. This is unnecessary.
…
I will go.
Fyodor pulled himself up from the bed. The sheets had long been stained with blood and he hadn’t been able to scrub them clean.
Then, Fyodor left.
-
Fyodor’s trip to their usual alley was not an easy one.
He felt like collapsing. He wanted to cough up flowers until he died. But he still walked. He still went. Because he wanted to see those hypnotising eyes once more before his imminent death.
Fyodor had to pause multiple times, leaning against the wall, catching his breath, quiet coughing fit…
This will conclude it.
His breathing was uneven as he stepped into the alley with shaky legs to find Dazai casually sitting on a crate waiting for him. It was quiet and dark as usual, but the atmosphere was tense and still, almost as if it was staged. “You actually came.”
“Why did you call me here?” Fyodor asked, withholding his coughs.
“Hmm, let me ask you first!” Dazai deflected. “Why did you come here if you’re so weak?”
“You–” “I’m just teasing you, don’t worry.”
He sighed. “I came because… I believed you had a good reason to call me here.” Fyodor slowly said. “Information or a request. Even a chess match would be wonderfu–...l.”
Dazai seemed to light up when his voice cracked. “Is that so? You’re here to help your rival?”
“It could be beneficial for both of us.” Fyodor agreed, breath hitching. Dazai took careful note of that.
“My, I didn’t know you were so eager to work with me.”
“It’s not–”
He was cut off by a cough which he nearly suppressed successfully but faltered. Dazai noticed instantly but didn’t comment yet.
“It’s not?” He repeated questioningly, standing up and moving closer to Fyodor. “Are you sure? You seemed so excited to come here, with your weakness and strange illness. I’d think you were in love with me if I didn’t know any better.”
“It’s not like that.” Fyodor wanted to end this conversation already. Being near Dazai made everything worse. “I truly believed this conversation would hold purpose, but I suppose I was wrong. In any case, I’m rather busy, so if I may–” he stepped back, turning around, but Dazai yanked him by the back of his collar, slamming him against the wall. He wasn’t pinning him to it, but now he was standing in front of him, in front of the only exit out. Fyodor’s head spun from the impact.
“You came all this way. Leaving now would be rude.” Dazai lightly said.
“...What are you playing at, Dazai-kun?”
Dazai’s expression morphed into the one Fyodor knew best. He dropped the subtlety. “Now, now. You’re coughing flowers and blood all the time. How could I not be curious?”
“It’s an irrelevant condition.” Fyodor retorted. “It’s temporary.”
“Ah-ah,” Dazai wagged his finger before leaning in. “It’s most likely… unrequited love with a specific person, in which I could guess who.”
Fyodor went quiet at that. He wasn’t wrong. That person was standing in front of him right now. “I…”
He coughed. Thorns ripped his throat as flowers poured out of his mouth, blood splattering. He struggled to breathe. It hurt. Fyodor looked up to see Dazai, and everything seemed to become irrelevant when he saw his watching, unmoving expression.
He wasn’t going to help him. He was just watching closely. Observing like it was interesting, not tragic. “Come on, spit it out.”
“...I–...”
Fyodor sputtered, before doubling over. Dazai stepped back, waiting for Fyodor to calm down before he pulled himself half up. “...I love you…”
“That’s unfortunate. I’m not interested.”
In an instant, Fyodor’s world crashed.
He collapsed. His body was declining—no, it was broken. Thorny dark flowers poured out of his mouth in clusters, blood splattering everywhere. He couldn’t hide it. He couldn’t stop it. Why couldn’t he stop it? His death couldn’t be today, could it?
It was a flood of flowers and blood. “How beautiful. My favorite beloved flowers.” Dazai casually spoke, scooping up a few of the bloodstained flowers as Fyodor hacked up a storm.
“...Dazai-kun…” “Hmm?”
“...Will you miss me when I’m gone…?”
It was laughable of how desperate of an attempt to get the tiniest shred of reciprocation.
“No.”
"...Heartless until the end." A larger flower spilled out from between Fyodor’s lips before his eyes glazed over and he stilled completely.
“...How tragic.”