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But you can try and you can try and the
thorns can still cut your careful hands
So you left your love untended; still it grew in reprimand
"You've been spending more time in the Imagination," Roman observes. Remy nearly drops his coffee.
"What can I say, babe, it's like a vacation in there," Remy says, raising his thermos to his lips and taking a sip of the vanilla latte within. With an extra shot of espresso, because of course.
"Storybook, isn't it?" Roman asks, distracted by the compliment. "If only there wasn't such a…blemish on it elsewhere—"
"You aren't supposed to insult my corner, bitch, Pattycake told you," Remus shrills, appearing out of the ceiling and launching himself at his brother. Remy takes the opportunity to slip away before another of his leather jackets is sacrificed to the hissing green substance covering Remus's sleeves.
A tickle in his throat interrupts his escape to his own little retreat in the Mindscape, and Remy frowns, hurrying. He can't cough here, not when anyone could hear him.
Could see him.
Remy clatters through his bedroom door, nearly slamming it behind him as the urge to cough spills up his throat like a tidal wave. The taste of blood is thick and overwhelming, the texture of flower petals on his tongue abhorrent. Remy spits them out in his palm, pink and blood spattered. He sighs, slumping against the door.
"This is bullshit," he mutters to himself, grabbing a kleenex and gathering up the petals, dropping it in a trash can on the way to his bed. He isn't needed for hours— Thomas has been staying up late this week, trying to finish editing a video. Remy has plenty of time for a power nap.
Plenty of time to forget his feelings.
He can tell them. He could just tell them. Remy could just open his mouth and spill forth the feelings bubbling just under the surface. Hey, I spend so much time hanging out in here 'cause I like you. I hang out with you as much as possible because like yeah, we're friends, I hope, but also, I think I might be in love with you. No worries, babes, lemme just fuck off out of here until Thomas does the big sleep, I gotcha—
How about no.
He sleeps badly. Not a great sign for Thomas's sleep schedule later, but Remy can't make himself care. When he drags himself back out of bed, the sheet tangling around his foot and trying to trip him, his reflection in the mirror makes him recoil. His face is pale, shadows standing out under his eyes, and his hair is messy in the bad way. Gross.
"Can't go out until I look fabulous," Remy grumbles to himself, looking for a comb. He can't do much about his dark circles (he refuses to wear makeup, it's such a pain to upkeep), but his sunglasses will hide that. It only takes him five minutes to wrangle with his hair.
Patton keeps inviting him to dinner. Remy isn't sure why, save that the sides, the real ones, have gone through a bunch of emotional clusterfucks recently. Normally, he'd be completely up to date with all the juicy details, but his recent…upheaval has left him a little befuddled.
It's hard to keep up with their drama when his lungs are slowly filling up with flowers.
Still, if he shows up now, Patton will leave him alone for at least three days. "Giving him space" or something. Remy doesn't really understand it. Then again, maybe he's the only personification Patton's met so far. Wait until he meets Steve, Remy thinks, with a little snort.
Remy summons a fresh iced coffee with a snap of his fingers. Showtime.
He can hear talking in the living room, voices jumbled over each other, as he makes his way back to the regular living spaces.
"Hey, bitches," Remy says casually as he enters the room, only to freeze.
The Dragon Witch in human form and Dr. Emile Picani look up, Emile twiddling their fingers in a little wave.
"Remy!" Patton exclaims. "Roman invited some people from the Imagination to dinner tonight, isn't that exciting?"
"Definitely, babe," Remy croaks. The urge to cough is suddenly overwhelming. "Gimme a minute—"
Under the others' worried looks, Remy ducks into the bathroom, already muffling his cough in an elbow.
Fuck. Remy looks haggard. There is blood smeared on his bottom lip, and he's shaking.
But how can he not, there's a whole freaking flower on the lip of the bathroom sink now. Accusing him. He's never coughed up a full flower before. That's not a good sign. He thinks he recognizes it. He went through a lot of pink flowers a few months ago, when this initially started. A pink camellia.
If anything on the Internet is worthwhile, pink camellias symbolize longing. Yearning.
Or, in other words, exactly how Remy feels about Emile.
"It's fine," Remy whispers. His throat is raw. His fingers tighten on the edge of the sink, avoiding tearing the petals in front of him. He normally throws the petals out, but this… he finds he can't actually toss it in the garbage, and it's not even because someone might find it. It just feels…important, maybe. "It's fine, it will be fine, I can do this."
He rinses off the camellia, as gently as he dares, patting it dry with a swatch of toilet paper and then carefully wrapping it in another swatch, tucking it in his jacket pocket. He cleans up the blood as best as he can, remembering to wipe it off his mouth at the end. It hasn't been that long. Maybe he can pass this off. It's not like the sides actually know what affects the figments like him. Not even Emile. He's not an Imagination construct.
So why can't he develop a cough? Maybe he can pass it off as insomnia, get Thomas in trouble. The thought cheers Remy up.
The others are still in the living room, though more subdued.
"Are you all right?" Emile asks. Remy nods, the movement stiff.
"Sorry," Remy says. "Just a little cough, that's all. Probably Thomas's fault," he adds, with a little dramatic flair. He retrieves his coffee from the pocket dimension it had briefly fallen into, and takes a sip. The vanilla syrup mixes poorly with the metallic taste of blood still lingering, but he ignores it.
"How could it be Thomas's fault?" Logan asks, curious. "Does it have to do with Thomas's sleep quality?"
Well, Remy knows a softball lob when he sees one.
"Afraid so," Remy agrees, with an obnoxious slurp of his coffee. "Thomas sleeps bad, or just doesn't sleep, and it lays me out flat."
"Oh, that's terrible!" Patton exclaims, full of sympathy. Janus eyes him, but doesn't say anything. Remy wishes he could immolate the deceitful side through his sunglasses. Don't you dare, Remy thinks. Call it out and I'll get out the scrapbook I have on your bitch ass…
"I'm not helping, am I," Virgil mutters. He looks guilty, shoulders hunched.
"Hey, nah, pretty sure it's Roman's fault," Remy whispers, just loud enough that everyone can still hear him. Roman's head snaps up.
"Just because Thomas is finally taking the creative process seriously," Roman begins in a brittle voice. Remus elbows him.
"He can take me," Remus suggests, with a little shoulder shimmy. He cackles at Roman's disgusted expression, and the heat is off Remy. Finally.
"Dinner!" Patton chirps, hearing a timer go off. As the crowd shuffles off to the kitchen, Remy finds himself standing next to Emile.
"Are you really okay?" Emile murmurs. "I heard some of that cough. It sounded awful."
"Yeah," Remy lies. "It's fine." His throat itches. He forcefully swallows. No coughing up flowers, whole or otherwise, on Emile.
You know, it's not like they have to reciprocate your feelings, the devil whispers to him. You could just admit it.
But he can't because the thought of Emile knowing how he feels and not feeling the same burns like acid. From Remus's room. Is it stupid? Probably.
Remy can't make himself care.
Dinner is a blur. Remy ends up seated next to Emile and all evening long, the ever-present tickle in his throat burns. Everything he puts in his mouth has a vague taste of blood to it. It's hell.
It's also wonderful.
Because Emile is right there and keeps talking to him. Keeps smiling and doing that little laugh of theirs, while they straighten their tie or push their glasses up their nose.
"This was such a good idea!" Patton finally chirps, as the meal winds to a close. Remy looks up, his throat searing. "We'll have to invite you guys over again! And uh, anyone else!" Patton looks a little helplessly at Roman, and Roman saves him.
"There aren't many full-fledged Imagination constructs," Roman says. "Only a few are capable of spending time in the Mindscape, and fewer still could actually spend any time in the real world with Thomas."
"If you'd just let me," the Dragon Witch grumbles under her breath. For a moment, Remy sees her breath turn into a tiny ribbon of flame, quickly dissipating into smoke.
"Absolutely not," Roman says, his smile never changing. Remy snorts a laugh under his breath, sharing an amused look with Emile, and that's just enough to propel the tickle in his throat to a full-fledged, all-hands-on-deck problem.
"Excuse m-" Remy blurts out, shoving his chair so far back it falls over, crashing into the floor. He stumbles back out of the room, shaking hand crushed against his mouth, trying feverishly to stifle the cough bursting free.
Looking up is his undoing. Emile's wide-eyed, half out of their chair, the first syllable of Remy's name just escaping their mouth.
Ears ringing, coughing so hard he can feel the spray of blood droplets against his fist, can feel the petals wadding up in his cheeks, darkness swallows Remy whole and he collapses to the floor.
Remy wakes up slowly. His throat is raw, and his mouth still tastes thickly of blood.
Someone's crying next to him.
Very quietly, as if they don't want to be heard, but he recognizes the tiny hitches in their breathing, the faint sniffles.
"Don't cry," Remy rasps, because no one should cry over him, he's fine, he's Sleep, he's—
"Remy!" Emile exclaims, and suddenly, Remy's lungs are on fire with panic. "You're awake!"
"Sorry," Remy whispers. He feels too threadbare to be his usual incredible self. It's hard to make a joke out of freaking out everyone in his life because he fainted in front of them.
"Did you know you have Hana- well, of course you must have known, the way it's progressed," Emile trails off, mumbling to themself. Their cheeks are flushed, glasses crooked on their nose.
"I'm fine," Remy says, but knows it's a mistake the instant the words come out. Emile stiffens, whirling toward him to fully face him in their chair.
"You are not," Emile says, eyes flashing. "Remy, don't lie to me."
"I—" Remy doesn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," he says helplessly instead. Emile subsides at once, and now they just look sad again. Sad and worried and tearstained. Remy never wants them to feel that way about him.
"You— you don't need to apologize," Emile tells him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice. I just…" They stop. "You're my friend," they settle on saying, as if that isn't like getting served a whole carafe of decaf. "I care about you, I was so worried, I am worried—"
"I love you," Remy says, without knowing he's going to say it. His nonexistent heart feels like it's going to rip its way out of his chest. Emile has gone very still next to him. He doesn't know where the others are, but he can only let himself look at Emile. "That's why I have it. I love you. I didn't- I didn't want to ruin our friendship by saying anything."
"Oh, Remy," Emile says, and their voice wobbles, just once. "You aren't ruining anything. I love you, t—"
Before Emile can finish what feels like a wildly improbable sentence, Remy doubles over again, coughing so hard it feels like his lungs have unmoored themselves. Emile cries out in alarm, and he hears the rush of other footsteps, but he's too busy hacking his internal organs up to care. Or a flower. Perhaps a whole bouquet of flowers, from how it feels.
"Get it up, Remy," Emile encourages him, murmuring directly into his ear. Their hand is warm on his back. "It's okay."
Flower petals, soggy with blood, fill his mouth, and Remy hacks the resulting mess out into his lap.
Several cherry blossoms, speckled with red, meet his disbelieving gaze. New beginnings.
"Oh," Remy says, in a very weak voice (horribly unlike him). Emile gently plucks off his sunglasses and gives him a gentle kiss on the nose.
"How do you feel, Remy?" They ask, earnest eyes scanning his face.
"Better," he admits. Better than he has felt in a long time.
"Guess confession is good for the soul," someone mutters in the shuffling crowd of sides. Remy aims a glare at them. The Dragon Witch glares haughtily back.
"Emile, darling, would you like to retire to the Imagination to get away from…them?" Remy asks, flapping a hand at the sides. He hears an outraged snort.
"As if I'm not the one who put him on the couch in the first place," Roman mutters, not quite under his breath.
"Aren't unconscious princes supposed to be your thing anyway?" Virgil retorts.
"That- Sleep is not a prince—"
The argument in the background becomes utterly unimportant when Emile smiles, Remy decides.
"Yes," Emile says, and grabs Remy's hand. "Let's go."