Chapter Text
The first petal came up with a cough, a tiny pink softness that looked more like a flower than something that belonged in someone’s body.
Hanahaki isn’t a well-known word to this day. The disease doesn’t spread like the usual illness, it doesn’t infect upon touch, its symptoms are invisible to the naked eye in its early stages, imperceptible until too late. All this goes without saying how uncommon it is to catch it.
The only reason Harlequin was even familiar with the word is because he was well accustomed to the suffocating feeling of flowers filling his lungs and pressing against his ribcage. New thorns appear as time goes on and stems wrap around his beating heart, restraining his breathing more and more. Everything about the symptoms was sick, appearing as if its only purpose is to infuriate one against their feelings.
Poets wrote for years about the illness, painting the pristine image of a beautiful proof on to what extent their love would go to. The image in itself is a great symbolic depiction of the suffering one must go through, some sort of sacrifice, a silent suffering, romanticised to the point readers forget how excruciatingly painful the process was. The clear portrait of a person agonising over coughed flowers, those were covered in blood but the sheer origin of its manifestation was enough for them to forget about the soreness taking over their muscles.
How disgustingly blind does someone have to be to paint suffering as appealing. And to what length can someone interpret it as such an alluring picture.
No one could be blamed for the filtered descriptions in the books. After all, Harlequin thought himself how ridiculously romantic the whole ordeal was. In his early years, his first surprise was a small pinkish petal he had coughed. It was covered in spit and was too tiny for him to make out the name of the flower. His first thought was that the petal was somehow in his food that day and couldn’t be digested so his system regurgitated it, fully untouched, which was weird.
Even after multiple reoccurrences of the same event after, he was still somehow in denial. At some point, paranoia took over him and he started to make out theories on how he managed to cough petals every day; it could have been from the same flower that continuously decomposes inside of him but the colours were grading from a dark pink to a light hue of orange. The gradient spoke volume. One of his early theories were that he unconsciously ate flowers in his sleep. That did make sense since the whole situation was quite unordinary.
What was somnambulism next to coughing different coloured petals every day?
Unfortunately, this theory had to be pushed aside. The doctor confirmed that he never lifted a single finger while sleeping, now how he knew that was another story…
Except for how strange the situation was, nothing actively stood out to him. Nothing was painful and once dried, the petals were beautiful. The perfect image of a blessing at the time if you didn’t count how they appeared.
Each day faded into another, small petals here and there became a common occurrence to him to the point he even grew curious to know what colour he got every time. Coincidentally, he often coughed at the view of Columbina and the colours matched her in every way. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
However, the petals grew in size and started filling a bit too much volume in his lungs when stacked, uncomfortably seizing space. Doing research ended up being harder than he thought. His first assumptions were wrong because no medical archives described such phenomenon lest it included hallucinations. Which couldn’t be possible since he kept every petal in a jar from the very beginning. Unless he’s gotten to later stages of hallucination due to the hunger and emotional whiplash of his situation.
It wasn’t a common problem and irritation dampened his mood as he was still in the dark of his situation, until he stumbled upon an old book. The cover was dusty and it noticeably wasn’t opened in a long time. The content of the book didn’t help him in the slightest yet he found a torn paper stuck between two of its pages. It read Hanahaki in cursive writing, like it was written by hand. The letters were a bit messy, maybe the person whom wrote it was in a hurry or was too weak, and you could trace smudges on some corners of the lines.
The name alone was similar to a fictional concept but looking back at the slight numbness in his throat, desperation looked back at Harlequin, what did he have to lose anyway? Reading through the long paragraphs didn’t disappoint, he found the exact description of his predicament and a wave of relief washed over him and made him release a sigh. His situation wasn’t as hopeless as he’d imagined it to be. Yet.
While the described symptoms matched with his, light fever yet cold chest and others, he found himself frowning more and more while reading the causes and treatments of Hanahaki. It turns out that Hanahaki was caused by unrequited feeling someone may have and the flowers served as a manifestation of those feelings. It was wholeheartedly a legend since the suffering people were never officially traced or reported, nor were they followed for more in depth analysis.
Currently, Harlequin was at the first stage, the one where small petals start to grow in the lungs, a light sign compared to what awaited him. Reading through the next stages made him furrow his eyebrows in frustration.
The fact remains he coughed flower petals every day and would probably continue that way for years until full flowers blocked his airways and thorns tore his lungs or stems squeezed his heart. It was absolutely ridiculous. The only way of treating it was to have his feelings returned or get the flowers removed, whether in a ritual or surgery. The downside of the last solution was to lose the ability to feel any emotion. The consequences of Hanahaki were not only dramatic and radical, but eerily cruel to its victims.
In addition, the only person that came to his mind was Columbina. However, he knew how his chances were practically null since Pierrot was courting her. He already tried to catch her attention and failed miserably in contrast of Pierrot whom captured her heart in some way. Her feelings are still unclear on the matter. They were both whipped for each other, or Pierrot’s constant protection said so, and his presence would probably aggravate his state by giving birth to unwanted sensations and accelerating the flowers’ growth inside of him.
Hanahaki, a disease taking over souls whom suffer from unrequited love and makes them agonise over it. If someone thought having a non-returned attraction was bad, Hanahaki made it worse, making their life gravitate around the person they admire yet can’t reach no matter what. Never has Harlequin been repulsed this much in his life.
Condemned to suffer from naïve feelings he had for an angel he knew was out of his reach but also has to see get with someone else and realise what he’d missed out by not being enough by himself. Although he resigned himself to his tragic fate, he was sure he’d given up on the woman completely before the manifestation of the first flower.
Strangely enough, it felt like the flowers were here as proof of the tight grip he had on his failure. Seeing Columbina with Pierrot though only brought him disdain in a suffocating intensity. Pink and blue hydrangeas were becoming the usual flowers coming out of his mouth, though slightly adorned in blood sometimes, they symbolised deep affection and cold unrequited love. When he saw Pierrot and Columbina as a loving pair, the hydrangeas were accompanied with purple petunias that provided a warm yet cold portrait.
If pink hydrangeas paint the image of an overwhelming love and deep affection, the blue ones also represent vanity and boastfulness, a somewhat accurate representation of his case, though he’d never admit it. And if purple petunias meant calm reassurance, they meant in his case bitter resentment and anger. The association of these three flowers convey two layers that he didn’t want to dwell on at all. The first one is about a performative love that turns into emotional entrapment while the second one leans into a desire to escape.
You might wonder how Harlequin knew this while recently accustomed to his disease. The answer is the paper he found actually had references at the bottom of the page on what books would help a victim of Hanahaki. First a book which contains helpful information and teaches how to lessen the symptoms and lessen their impact on one’s life span. Another one to read through the flowers’ meanings.
He huffed when he first gave it a try. No matter how he looked at the situation, the apparition of these flowers didn’t make any sense.
It’s true that he coveted Columbina. And yes, he first approached her to annoy the crap out of Pierrot but as time passed, he did develop feelings for her. Albeit the start of his intentions weren’t the purest, his want couldn’t be more real. It was inevitable, almost like the tragic fate one must succumb to in Greek epics. Fatality was always the moral of these stories.
Jealousy simmered as he was rejected at each of his advances until he resigned. The jealousy didn’t fade; he just didn’t see Columbina with the same intensity he used to.
On his own, he himself didn’t know the true nature of his feelings. His rivalry with Pierrot for her affection ended fruitless and he wasn’t so blind to not see the hint of obsessiveness in this twisted competition. The three of them were close, Pierrot and him looked out for each other since young age and Columbina’s addition made their light banters tenser though more lively.
The faces he made stirred a bottoming warmth in him, especially when he was with Columbina. He always had to swallow the yellow hyacinths when he teased him.
In their troupe, they all had a role. The Pierrot, the Harlequin, the Jester, the Doctor, the Ticket Taker and the Angel. The name was given for no kindness could compare to hers.
The humans were getting bolder in their quest to take Columbina. They take more liberties and even harass her openly without shame. Pierrot was weakening himself by protecting her from them. Though he seemed to forget the cruelty they never hid from them. The troupe was starved every day to the point thinking had become exhausting. Their end was near if nothing happened soon.
Tomorrow is the day they plan on taking her.
Pierrot had been severely weakened. He stood in front of her when they wanted to touch her so they beat him up. Everyone heard their plan. If no actions were taken this evening, they would all die except for Columbina whom would succumb to a fate worse than death.
Starvation was eating at their bones; they all knew how bad the situation was but no one dared to make a move.
There lays in front of his cage the angel, defenceless and aware of her position, glassy eyes looking back at him and drowning him in the sorrow of their helplessness.
Only one option was left. Only one way to all save them. If no one would step up, he doesn’t give a shit about it.
Jester was ready to be the sacrifice but he is one of the strongest. If they did go along with his plan, they would only be four to fight in retaliation while also having to protect the Angel. Already in a position of weakness, she would be a liability.
She was different from them, she didn’t have horns nor claws and her fangs were less sharp than theirs. It was a reasonable conclusion to him.
He looked between the Jester and Columbina. They couldn’t give the humans the satisfaction they craved for in their suffering.
In desperation and adrenaline coursing through his veins, Harlequin broke his cage, jumping out of it and faced Columbina.
She keeps saying she doesn’t want them to touch her. She wanted him to save her.
Pursing his lips together, he looked her up and down with complicated feelings. How was he supposed to react?
And why him?
Why did everything have to be so difficult?
Why not Pierrot—well, no he could see why not. His heart would never allow him to save her in the kind of way she asked for.
Though he doesn’t understand what she means exactly by saving her.
If she meant what he thought about, he would die. Hanahaki isn’t merciful enough to let him live beyond the passing of his unrequited love.
Only one solution repeated cyclically in his head, an act of mercy, before everything went warmly red.
“…Thank you.”
Flashes of pink.
A sick iron smell invaded his smell.
The horrified expression of a frozen Pierrot in the corner looking at them her with tears streaking down his face like the endless current of a waterfall.
“Why are you laughing?” he asked through silent sobs.
He… wasn’t laughing? Everything was a blur.
“EAT”
Then dark.
The Angel had died that night and so the humans that enslaved them.
----
After the incident, everyone coped the better they could, finding solutions to non-existent problems.
The ugliest part in this was that he didn’t die with her.
In the books, Hanahaki clearly made someone die alongside the object of their affection. His foggy mind couldn’t come up with an explanation to his survival; while his vision was painted red, a dozen of petals clogged his throat, forcing their way out. He quickly shoved them in one of his pockets to see later on and everything only became more confusing.
He couldn’t leave them anyways or else the others might suspect something odd at finding bloody petals everywhere. That’s why he kept them, the reason changing between not be found out and look at the twisted fruit of his infatuation.
To his surprise, new flowers made their way and occupied his lungs, a real colourful bouquet symbolising the irony of his situation and answering the reason of his miracle survival.
Burdocks, red columbine, lavender and peony came into the picture. That was the most flowers he’d ever gotten and the fact they came in view the moment Columbina was dead was strange. The most numerous combination he’d had until then were hydrangeas, petunias and daffodils.
But this new association conveyed an entirely different message.
The bouquet tells a dark story of shameless folly, betrayal, and malicious deception, culminating in profound regret. While Burdocks meant a burdensome attachment, lavender tinged more into distrust, gaining the meaning because venomous snakes often hid in their fields, and the single peony went for deep shameful regret and bashfulness. The red Columbine seems to be the centre piece of the message and oddly specific. The flower held a historical connection to the jester’s hat, symbolising sheer foolishness and folly. Furthermore, the Aquilegia formosa (aka the red variety of columbines in its scientific name) represents anxiety and trembling, or acting rashly due to deep inner turmoil.
How the fuck was he supposed to interpret that shit?
First of all, the goddamn flower’s name was Columbine… It was red… A fucking Red Columbine.
In short, the bouquet was more of a personal attack to Harlequin’s feelings than anything. It warns of a burdensome, clinging relationship with someone who provokes anxiety; suggesting that the partnership is rooted in foolish choices, characterised by betrayal, and will ultimately result in inescapable distrust and deep personal shame.
All in all, it was a fuck you from the universe.
A not so called for one at that.
Then realisation struck him like lightning hit an isolated tree.
He coughed out another of this bouquet when he first crossed eyes with Pierrot after the event, he didn’t get it at first. When he thought of Pierrot from then on, more of them pressed against his ribcage, which ultimately answered his questions yet made him boil with panic and more questions.
The object of his affection was none other than Pierrot himself. Not Columbina.
He killed her. There is no possible escape from the aggravating disease.
Every time he looked at Pierrot, his back faced him.
Even the petals’ colours changed behind the sticky liquid clinging to them. They now faded from the usual pink tints and light orange to bright yellow. He was deeply screwed.
His unrequited love was Pierrot, his weak-ass rival who he completely ruined his chances with. Well, he didn’t have a single chance in the first place but their relationship had never been this damaged before.
Sure, bantering had become the usual routine, some fights here and there, stabs in the back too but they could maintain a somewhat civilised conversation without shedding blood before all of this.
The guy harboured a visceral loathing, a rancour he’d only have chance hoping to fade with time.
For now, the unique type of interaction the other could react to from him is out of annoyance. By being clingingly annoying enough, he should be able to maintain a sort of connection between the two of them. Whether it be stupid for an idea coming out of him, he didn’t have much choice.
By limiting their “talks” while still keeping a connection, the effects of the slowly rising suffocation were dampened.
Another funny fact was that every time they were in the near vicinity of each other after the incident, yellow carnations and orange lilies petals would fight for release in his throat, threatening to burst out forcefully if he didn’t let them out soon. A real life adaptation of his previous feelings.
Disappointment, rejection and the end of a relationship.
The change in colour didn’t go unnoticed by Harlequin but his grief and the twist of event left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
He hates Pierrot, and Hanahaki forced him to confront feelings he wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet. His love feels like a betrayal of himself, something he couldn’t allow to himself. He even came with a core mantra to fight against the sickeningly sweet atrocity that clogged his breathing ways: “I hate him because I love him.”
Forcing this mantra repeatedly in his mind would probably lead to the abandon of this mess. At least, that’s what he told himself. The distress on the illness’ progress and aggressiveness towards the skin of his lungs, each new bloom irritating their surface, leaving seeds and leaves trailing slowly on his bronchitis, sticking on the buds.
They advanced every day, some days quickly and some others less. It truly depended on their interactions. If he saw the hint of a smile on Pierrot’s face while talking to Jester, he’d get pissed and huff before coming up with a trick and wipe it off his face. Often in those cases did he bite on the acidic blooms, matching the red on his back. Those days were the worst, the pain wasn’t unbearable, or was he used to it, but going from mild annoyance to a choking hazard did put his life on the line. He feared to wake up in a pool of his own failure first in the morning.
He sees his love for Pierrot as a weakness, a flaw he had to get rid of. He tries to purge it by channelling all his energy into their rivalry, making it more vicious and lacerated with unpreceded dramatics through the years. Every insult, every trick he pulls on him is a desperate attempt to prove to himself that he feels nothing but pure and outmost hate.
How hypocrite of himself to show his aversion to Pierrot’s weakness when his was him…
The isolation grew more. Jester told Pierrot to be silent from now on as part of his character, something along the lines of preserving the circus’ image. They grew more distant too but their interactions resembled less the lines exchanged between strangers than before.
They had to work together sometimes… Resulting in the usual chase that only Jester or Ticket Taker can break off. An example would be their shopping tag along? Harlequin had to come with Pierrot to prevent any causalities, which felt more like an obligation than anything. Most of the time, Pierrot ignored his presence completely.
He grew to withstand the bile aftertaste that came with the flowers in the end. He seemed to be stuck on the later levels of the first stage of Hanahaki. Or maybe the illness was just slowed down by his attempts at controlling it.
Until then, the symptoms were predictable. That was until MC abruptly became the object of Pierrot’s obsession.