A short Hanahaki AU piece of @piyangg HPHM OC Yang by yours truly. There may be a continuation, depends on my mood ehe ;D
Yang squeezes her eyes shut and squats down, unable to stand up. She laughs bitterly because of course, of course, nothing is going to turn out for her. She’s a Rubis, misfortune has followed her since the first day she’s entered the world and announced her existence with the shrill cries of an infant. Misfortune is in her blood, in her dreams, and in her relationships.
Her hysteric laughs quiet down as the telltale signs of an episode start creeping up her trachea. She claws at her throat, completely helpless to the knowledge of the suffering she’ll endure for the next few minutes—if she’s lucky—and the misery that will follow her doggedly throughout the rest of the day.
She looks up at the ceiling forlornly. Please, just this once.
Yang collapses onto her knees as she doubles over. She grits her teeth, trying to suppress the urge to cough. But she loses—she’s always losing, why can’t she win for once?—and retches. Yang’s hands clamp over her mouth quickly to muffle her cries and grab the petals before she could breathe them back in. Disgust, dread, and fear settles in her stomach as she examines the flower, slick with bright blood, in her palm. She quickly discards it when her hackles rise once again.
As she continues to pathetically cough into her hands, she distantly notes how her throat and her chest are in a perpetual state of agony. It’s cut up from the thorny vines she’s choking out. The smell of copper stings her nose. Unpleasant. She tries to breathe in, a minuscule expansion of her rib cage, and immediately a whine of pain escapes her due to the pain radiating from her lungs to her mouth.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. When had breathing ever hurt like this? It had been so simple before…before Merula.
On the floor, Yang shakily gathers, one petal, flower, and vine, at a time and drops it into the toilet bowl. Groaning, she shuts the lid and flushes but makes no move in getting up.
She’s so tired and so alone. How much longer does she have left? She has fully formed flowers now (she distinctly remembers the anxiety festering inside her the first time she coughs up bloodied petals), and she’s afraid to sleep at night aware that the flowers could clog her windpipe (she doesn’t want to suffocate) and she won’t be able to clear it out until it’s too late (always, always never enough and always a disappointment) and—
Yang hates crying, she loathes showing weakness. She’s raised to be strong and to be unyielding but in moments like these in the silent and lonesome bathroom, she allows herself the luxury of falling apart. She breaks and something inside her cracks. Her animosity and despair let loose in the tears that flow down her face.
She sniffles and chuckles bitterly. If only she hadn’t fallen in love…
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