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"Hi~!" A singsong voice grated on Arturo's ears as he arrived back on campus after work. He knew who it belonged to without even needing to look. Veronika sat on a bench with an open book in her lap, childishly kicking her feet back and forth. Normally, he would've inquired as to whether she'd been waiting for him like some sort of stalker, but he wasn't in the mood for idle chitchat. When he ignored her greeting and kept on walking, she closed her book and trotted over to his side anyway.
"What do you think about the Hanahaki outbreak?" She blurted out of no where. Her tone was casual, as if she had just asked for his opinion on the weather, but there was that spark of curiosity dancing in the gray of her piercing gaze.
"I have no idea what you're even talking about," Arturo retorted as he attempted to brush past her, but she easily matched his quickened pace. He swore the red-headed woman could not— or perhaps simply refused to ever take a hint.
"Well, I suppose it's more commonly referred to as the 'Flower Virus' on the news and whatnot. But it's been called Hanahaki Disease since long before it ever became a real contagion," He gave no response, so she continued. "Literally meaning 'flower-vomiting', the concept's exact origin are a bit of a mystery but it was popularized in 2009 by the shoujo manga 'Hanahaki Otome'. It involves flowers slowly taking over the afflicted's vital organs, typically the lungs and heart, as a physical manifestation of unrequited love. This disease is portrayed as curable or incurable depending on the author," Veronika smiled wide, but her grin didn't reach her eyes. With her back to the setting sun, her face was cast in dark shadows. "Which one do you think it's going to be this time?"
Arturo suppressed a shiver. How desperately he wished the dormitories were just a little closer… Although even once inside, he'd still have to endure a whole elevator ride with the most unpleasant company imaginable.
The course of action he'd chosen in the meantime was to pretend like she didn't exist, but his silence seemed to only be taken as an invitation for her to keep blabbering.
"I've also heard that the specific flowers an infected individual coughs up reflects the object of their affection and the form said affection takes. Isn't that so wondrously fascinating?"
Pressing the close button couldn't make the doors shut fast enough.
"Apparently, it has been found that the intensity of the patient's love may determine the speed at which their body is overtaken. You're a medical professional. Do you agree with that hypothesis?"
"That's ridiculous," Arturo finally snapped. "Every bit of verbal diarrhea you've spouted this entire one-sided conversation has been utterly ridiculous!" For once, he was too exhausted to waste his precious breath correcting the assumption that a plastic surgeon would somehow possess unique insight on such a subject.
Instead of appearing dejected by his harsh words, the horror fanatic only cocked her head to the side, even more intrigued than before. Like always. There was never any winning with Veronika Grebenshchova.
"But it's the truth. It's been all over the news. There's no way you could've possibly missed it."
With a ding, the elevator doors finally parted and Arturo promptly made a bee-line for his room. Why did they have to live on the same floor?
"You're allowed to believe whatever nonsense you want, so long as you have the decency to not harass me with your delusions, will you," He got the last word in before slamming his door shut and locking it behind him. But it wasn't the victory he would've liked it to be.
His relieved sigh almost immediately transformed into an ugly cough. He raised a hand over his masked mouth, praying that no one could hear, and rushed to the bathroom.
Admittedly, feigning ignorance was not the wisest strategy. It had surely only earned him suspicion.
Now she knows. Now she's going tell everyone!
In his defense however, it wasn't entirely feigned.
Tell everyone what? There's nothing to tell!
After all, how was he supposed to believe something so inconceivable?
Putting the surreality of this whole burgeoning Hanahaki situation aside, Arturo rarely caught the common cold, let alone something practically guaranteed to be terminal. He followed health code standards religiously, he barely ever removed his mask in public, and he generally avoided social interaction with the hoi poloi like the plague.
But even if he had somehow come in direct contact with the virus, it would only infect him if he held deep romantic affection for another human being. And there was not a single person in his life he could possibly have such feelings for.
One might assume that his devotion to Miss Rosales must be romantic in nature, but they would be dead wrong. His feelings were pure. His heart was full of nothing but utmost reverence when in her divine presence. Meanwhile, everyone else at school was too revolting for him to bear thinking about for more than a fleeting second, and it wasn't as if he had a more robust social life beyond the academy's gates either. At work, Arturo clocked in and clocked out without engaging in any unnecessary pleasantries with his colleagues. And it absolutely wasn't any of his patients, lest he repeat his reasoning for ruling out suspect number one.
"… the specific flowers an infected individual coughs up reflects the object of their affection…"
Veronika's words echoed in his ears. He stared down at the soggy cluster of petals caught in the drain. It was the first time he had let himself give them a proper look.
They were… blue, stained purple where they mixed with his blood (which, concerningly, wasn't a symptom he'd exhibited when he began hacking them up yesterday). The colour marginally narrowed things down at best; he knew far too many people with blue hair or blue eyes for this to be a useful hint. Unless, it represented something more symbolic? (Which was absurd, because why would the cultural meaning attributed to flowers have influence over the kind growing in his chest? But the fact that they were growing there in the first place was already beyond absurd.) Although he was unsure if determining the type was possible with such little evidence. There were about as many blue flowers in this world as there were people with blue hair or blue eyes, and the petals had come out in such a mess.
They were a rather light blue, with some faded to the point of appearing more white. The small pile almost resembled fallen snow. Begrudgingly, Arturo reached his gloved fingers into the sink to retrieve a sample. He managed to get a hold of a small, mostly intact blossom, with delicate curved petals and a tiny yellowish pistil like a button nose.
They were familiar. He traced the nooks and crannies of his memory...
They were hydrangeas.
Arturo scooped up the rest and dumped them into the garbage along with his wet gloves. Next, he washed his hands and went straight to his laptop.
He typed "blue hydrangea meaning" into the search bar, then hovered over the enter key. For whatever reason, pressing it suddenly felt like it would be the same an admission of guilt. If he pressed it, he would be implicitly conceding that the disease was real. If he pressed it, he would be implicitly confessing his apparent love for someone. And proof of his shame would forever remain in his search history, even if he wiped it clean.
With a gulp, he swallowed his laughably unreasonable doubts and fears, and hit enter.
His immediate observation was that the new disease had evidently given flower language an notable boom in popularity online. People were clamouring to use it in order to gauge the likelihood of their feelings becoming mutual, thereby curing their condition.
From what limited discussion surrounded blue hydrangeas, they generally weren't regarded as a good omen. Their assigned meanings ranged from "gratitude" and "understanding" to "frigidity", "regret" and "apology" — particularly: seeking forgiveness for rejecting someone's love. Thus, the internet had near unanimously declared this colour of hydrangea macrophylla to be a symbol of doom.
As jolly as all of this was to know, it didn't make the identity of his supposed 'crush' any clearer.
After slamming the laptop shut and tossing it onto the opposite end of his bed, Arturo sighed and put his head in his hands. He tried to take a moment to breath, but focusing on his lungs only drew attention to their unusual weight, so he got up to make a tea instead. At least that could help sooth his ruined throat.
Standing up so quickly made him feel incredibly dizzy, but he was getting used to it. He just had to pace himself as he staggered over to the kettle.
Chamomile sounded a bit too floral… plain green would do just fine.
Once he held a warm porcelain cup in his palms, he resumed his… well, "research" felt too sophisticated but he wasn't sure what else to call it. He let the soothing herbal steam waft into nostrils as he peered down at the screen. Still tired of reading melodramatic webpages, he'd switched to image results for "blue hydrangeas", where his eyes locked onto one particular picture with striking resemblance to the collection of petals he'd just thrown up an hour ago.
Beyond merely recognizing the species, there remained something familiar about the flower. It was difficult to place, but it definitely reminded him of something. Or rather, someone.
Upon closer inspection, while the mopheads were far from the most exquisite blooms Arturo had ever seen, they possessed their own understated charm. Shaped in round bundles, they looked somewhat bulky, yet gentle. Their washed out hue did evoke a sense of frigidity, yet it simultaneously calmed his aching heart. And the longer he looked… the more he started to feel as though they were staring back at him. Fixating on an individual bundle seemed to gradually morph the blossoms into one, singular pale blue eye.
A new wave of nausea washed over him. One much more violent than the last.
With a sharp gasp, the cup of un-sipped tea slipped through his fingers, spilling hot liquid onto his lap, then the floor. The the teacup itself was unscathed, but he had no time to be appreciative.
This time, he threw away what little remained of his dignity and sank down in front of the toilet, seeing as his treacherous legs wouldn't support him anymore.
The sudden, visceral attack was his answer. As soon as he allowed the thought to seep through his mental walls, his body responded in fervorous affirmation.
And the worst part was that he'd known all along. Deep down, from the moment the first few petals fell from his lips (or perhaps even before), the truth was glaringly obvious.
There was only one person it could be; he just refused to accept it.
He refused to accept the existence of such a ludicrous disease. He refused to accept the parasites blooming in his chest. He refused to accept the fact that they were slowly killing him. He refused to accept that after everything he put into building this life, it could all come crumbling down so easily. And he refused to accept that it was all because of him.
Arturo flopped into bed like a rag doll.
After a few deep breaths, he reached for the remote on the nightstand, nearly knocking it onto the floor with his lack of coordination and weakened muscles. And for once, he flipped on a news channel. While not as reliable as digging through various articles and other sources, Arturo no longer had the energy to read or think for himself. He just wanted someone to give him answers.
The reporter (a woman with noticeably fake blond hair and a tacky outfit) began with the frankly atrocious line: "They say April showers brings May flowers, but this phrase has come to take on a bit of a different meaning this Spring."
He hoped that she, or whoever wrote that got fired. However, his displeasure wasn't immense enough to for him to take up the suddenly arduous task of changing the channel.
She went on to introduce the 'Flower Virus' as if anyone could've possibly been out of the loop at this point, before eventually getting somewhere.
Whether the disease could be cured by surgery was still being tested. In the meantime, medical experts encouraged those affected to "be brave" and reach out to the person causing their condition— declaring that even if a surgical cure were to be a viable option, it should only be an absolute last resort.
They expressed hesitancy to operate on someone who hasn't even confessed their feelings first.
"Unless you put yoursself out there, you'll never know if there's a chance. Surgery is always dangerous, especially when it comes to the heart and lungs, and it's not something you should risk coming to regret."
Arturo finally had enough. But as he looked towards the remote, he noticed a notification on his phone.
The eye-strainly bright screen displayed a boxed message that read:
Levi
Happy birthday
…
One name made his throat go even dryer than it already was. Two simple words left him staring down at his phone like it had just grown horns.
The light dimmed out completely for one second before it reawakened.
or at least I hope it's your birthday. I remember you saying it was the first of may when we were in an assigned group with J earlier this year, but I could be misremembering
After the initial shock, a sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through Arturo's veins. His grip stiffened, and he only had just enough of his senses left to not chuck the device as far as he could throw it. The taste of saccharine bile began to try and creep its way up into his mouth all over again. He forced it back down.
He didn't even recall letting that slip, but they were in a group of three sometime early into the school year and he did have a tendency of becoming more loose-lipped when around the classmate he idolized. However it came up, he probably had only said it because he assumed that she wouldn't use up any of her precious grey matter remembering such a meaningless detail, and had forgotten the presence of their third party.
Arturo didn't want anyone knowing that today was his birthday. Why would he? He didn't even celebrate it himself. For a myriad of reasons: the bad memories, the lack of people to celebrate with, the lack of someone worth celebrating- and the fact that it was none of anyone's god damn business. And he didn't need anyone pestering him for those reasons; the same way he didn't need anyone discovering he was only just turning nineteen— therefore making him the "class-baby".
He didn't need anyone wishing him a happy birthday. But one, single person had cared enough to do so anyway.
And it's exactly all these little thoughtful acts that will be the death of me.
"… the intensity of the patient's love may determine the speed at which their body is overtaken…"
Maybe it was just his imagination, paranoia getting the better of him, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being gradually eaten from the inside out.
The feeling of buds unfurling and tickling his lungs with their petals.
The feeling of leaves ever-so lightly scrapping at his visceral pleura with each shaky breath.
He placed the phone back on the nightside table, and closed his eyes. Trying to will himself to it forget it all, and give into exhaustion.