Hanahaki Disease Meme

[misheard]

HANAHAKI DISEASE

The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient coughs up flowers or flower petals. The only cure is to have that love reciprocated, or to somehow wipe away all one’s memories of their beloved person. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals.

1. Post your character with name, canon, and ship preferences in subject line. Also include whether you'd prefer your character to be the one suffering from the disease or not.
2. Tag other people.
3. Pain.
4. If you need help choosing specific flowers, this flower meaning chart might be a good starting point.

Comments

[ghostfromthemachine]

[ look, she is acutely familiar with asking for a thing, deciding you shouldn't actually have the thing, and immediately attempting to bully the other person into saying no as a result. she's also not particularly interested in having her mind made up for her in either direction.

...it isn't not a difficult decision to make, anyway; not when she actually takes a good look at her reasons for wanting to say no, and what her regrets might be. first time panic she can do nothing about, but the half-formed, quiet desire to somehow give that first to someone she'll never see again...

she turns it over a few times in her mind, and then folds it up and tucks it away along with all the other what-if's she hasn't quite been able to let go of, but refuses to pointlessly worry threadbare. (there'll be more where that came from soon.) ]

... all right.

[goatsongs]

[The surprise on his face is obvious, but it fades into something a little softer. She said yes. He doesn't have to try to change her mind, if she decided that for herself.]

Okay.

[Chuuya sits up properly, turning to face her. Sets a hand on her cheek, gently, slowly. Hesitates, all nerves and tumbling thoughts.

It's far from his first kiss. But it's his last one.]

[ghostfromthemachine]

[ she shifts with him, lets her hand drop from his mouth as he moves with a carefully steady inhale of breath. it's a struggle not to let the full extent of her own nerves show, and there's nothing at all she can do about her blush.

the touch helps, though. her face had been one of the few places her old, broken body had any working sense of touch, and even though she'd been freed from it over a year ago the significance she'd given to being touched that way hasn't faded. she's nuzzled into the hand cupping her cheek before she's even realized it, eyelashes dipping low. ]

[goatsongs]

[The kiss, when he works up the nerve to tilt her face forward and press his lips to hers, is soft. Lingering, but chaste. Exactly what someone's first kiss should be, except for the part where it's with someone who's going to die soon. Other than that, it's perfect.

...Chuuya doesn't want to pull away, which is why he's the first to pull back. This is enough.]

[ghostfromthemachine]

[ enough for him, maybe, but years worth of touch starvation has her thoughtlessly following after him before she catches herself

so when he pulls back, she thoughtlessly follows, only to catch herself and flinch back a moment later. ]

[goatsongs]

[She followed after him. And maybe it's just touch starvation, maybe it's reflexive. It doesn't mean anything. He knows if it meant something, he wouldn't be here in this room with flowers covering the floor.

He reaches for her shoulders to pull her closer again - though this time it's only a hug.]

...Sorry.

[ghostfromthemachine]

[ she lets herself be pulled, leans into the movement to press her face into the crook of his neck and wrap her arms around his back to cling. the situation is upsetting, her own reaction is upsetting— and there's still that quiet dark part of her that thinks in cycles and symbolism that just wants to tighten her arms that last little bit and replay out her own personal tragedy. it would be satisfying, in a twisted way. it would be better than letting him suffer. (it would let her keep something of his, permanently— his blood on her hands is the poorest substitute possible, but she isn't a good enough person not to prefer it over nothing left at all. she's the sort of person who would steal ashes from a grieving family out of nothing more than glorified possessiveness, after all.)

what a mess, she thinks, almost absent-mindedly under the weight of of everything else, and that is such an understatement that she nearly laughs. instead, she manages, cracked and wobbly: ]

I'm sorry.

[goatsongs]

You didn't do anything wrong.

[except consider killing him just now, but he doesn't know that]

...Thank you. For being here.

[For being here now, even if she's speeding things up. For caring enough to find him, even if she doesn't care enough to stop the disease. For being his friend, even if he'd still likely be in good health if they'd never met.]