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come & find me - heathney hanahaki au part one

synopsis:

“Who’re the flowers for?” Eva interjects.

The question dances around in Heather’s head and leaks out of the others’ imploring glances, but Heather finds herself faltering as she struggles to answer.

“I don’t…” Heather frowns, thinking of the flowers welling up in her lungs that she’s sure will snuff out her life. Her frown melts into a scowl when she thinks of whoever her enamored was, and how they doubled as her soon-to-be inevitable murderer, along with how she didn’t even get the privilege to know their identity. “I don’t know.”

❁

Or: Heather contracts the Hanahaki Disease. Other than the fact that she’s quite literally slowly but surely dying due to flowers rooted to her lungs, she has a problem; she doesn’t know who exactly her unrequited love is for, or how to prevent the disease from worsening. Can she figure out who her “beloved” is and snuff out the floral illness before it claims her for once and for all?

pairings: heathney (heather x courtney), BG gweoff (gwen x geoff), BG izva (izzy x eva)

word count: 15,226

warnings: suicidal thoughts implications + descriptions of coughing/vomiting

A/N: there are two endings, happy and sad! feel free to choose which you deem as the true ending :) thank you for reading!

READ IT ON AO3 HERE!

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

i. daffodils & gardenias; unrequited and secret love

It starts with a petal. Well, if Heather were to be honest, it had started far beyond the first initial petal, but all the pieces fell into place when the very first petal fluttered from her lips.

Her science teacher was going on and on about the instructions for their next lab — something about carefully dissecting a pufferfish that had long since died, but Heather paid no mind to it.

Instead, she observes.

One of her favorite things to do was observe those around her. It was like dissecting them, similar to how her science teacher was now demonstrating on one of the pufferfish, and their internal thoughts and behaviors. Who they unconsciously drifted to, who they repelled and fought with — or, to be more precise, where the weak links in her class were located. With this frequent and diligent studying, she knew exactly how to break certain students and their allegedly tight-knit friend groups.

Take Bridgette, Geoff, and Alejandro, for instance; all Heather had done was slightly insinuate to the gullible, blonde girl that Alejandro liked her, and she was putty in her hands. Of course, Heather noticed Bridgette stare and stare at Alejandro nearly around the clock, but Geoff, Bridgette's actual boyfriend, hadn’t. She did him a favor, really — all it took was her to mastermind him walking in on Bridgette and Alejandro during a Halloween party, and Heather was satisfied.

Currently, Geoff and Bridgette were sitting awkwardly and stiffly next to one another — a huge mistake on their parts, in Heather’s opinion, to choose to sit next to one another after only beginning to date during the summer, but Heather had never had the patience for high school romances. Bridgette had tried to slide apology notes to Geoff’s direction, but for once, his eyes were glued to the board and the notes went unnoticed.

Heather noticed them, though, and she had to stifle a laugh.

The rest of the class is more or less the same. Some were pointedly looking away from the experiment their teacher was performing, and some were sketching in their notebooks, like Gwen.

There had to be three people genuinely paying attention — Geoff, for obvious reasons, Beth, because she currently had a B in the course and thought it was the end of her small-minded world, and Courtney, because she was, well, Courtney.

It’s when Heather’s eyes stay on Courtney’s head of hair that didn’t have a single strand out of place that it happens.

A scratch in the back of her throat digs into her, but Heather swallows it down instead of clearing her throat. If she did it too loudly over something so mediocre and unimportant, her classmates would just assume she was trying to stir something seeing as how it was the end of the last period of the day and, while Heather loved the occasional entertainment at the spite of her peers, she wasn’t in the mood that day.

And so, Heather waits and makes stray sketches in her notebook — repeatedly writing her name in cursive, drawing hideous illustrations of her peers, anything to pass the time until the bell rings. When the bell finally sounded off, punctuating the end of the day, students unceremoniously gathered their lump of notebooks and textbooks and scoop them in their arms, leaving the classroom in a cluttered, chatty, and hurried mess.

The first one out the door is Geoff, followed by Bridgette on his heels, Heather notes, but she can’t bring herself to follow and eavesdrop and what would possibly be one of the most interesting breakups Wawanakwa High had seen since Courtney and Duncan’s infamous split. She’d probably overhear the details of the split from somebody else, anyway.

The devil seemed to have spawned at the initial thought, as a prickly voice accompanied with a light tap on Heather’s shoulder made with the eraser end of a pencil is what tears Heather’s eyes away from the door. She has half the mind to berate whoever it was for pestering her at the end of the day, but falters when her eyes meet the other’s.

Courtney’s narrowed dark brown eyes are unamused. When Heather rises from her seat, Courtney tilts her head up to meet her gaze — Heather was taller than Courtney, even with the pair of wedges the brunette had on that day.

“I expect you were paying attention,” Courtney’s tone is sickeningly sweet and mocking, the specific one she uses around people she thinks are below her in terms of intelligence, or just in general. She has seen Courtney use it around the young kids she tutors, Duncan, jocks, Heather herself, and practically any student in their school who has managed to sour her mood, which was mostly everyone. “We are partnered for the lab, after all —”

“We are?” Heather questions dryly. She had expected Courtney to pick up on her sarcasm — Courtney had made it her job to scribble Lab with Courtney on every available space in her planner on the days leading up to the experiment, after all — but judging by the brunette’s eyes narrowing further, she either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

“Yes,” She hisses through clenched teeth, before frowning. “Whatever, I actually paid attention —”

“And I thank you for your service,” Heather remarks just as dryly as before, sauntering out the door.

“Wha — hey, where are you going?”

Heather snorted softly. “Come and find me,” she chastised sardonically. She had figured the answer to be obvious, but Courtney never failed to surprise her in one way or another.

Courtney scoffs and follows her, falling into place next to Heather. She fixed the headband on her head that matched her clothes as she rolled her eyes so far back Heather couldn’t help but wonder if they saw the back of her head.

“Haha, very funny,” The brunette doesn’t laugh, which makes Heather crack a smile in satisfaction. Winning with Courtney was always exhilarating and thrilling. “See you tomorrow, Heather,”

Heather hummed, waving a lazy and half-hearted hand over her shoulder, already bolting in the direction of the student parking lot. “See you,”

When Heather is finally in the solitude of her sleek, black car — her parents wasted no expense when it came to spoiling her, despite neither being the affectionate or loving type — the thing building up in the back of her throat is finally released into the palm of her hand, and all Heather can do is stare at it.

She’s coughed up bile and phlegm before, and she’s heard of blood being coughed up as well, but the tiny, dainty and crumpled thing laying in her hands was unheard of and felt unreal as it rested in her palms. She was suddenly aware of how dry her hands were as she felt the thinness of the soaked object, given that it had been resting in her throat.

Rifling it in her hands, Heather scoffs when she realizes just how ridiculous it was to believe she had just coughed up a flower in the school parking lot. However, she blinks harshly and firmly, and when she opens her eyes, the yellow petal is still there.

A foreign feeling of confusion and uneasiness settles over her like a blanket, but she instead scoffs once more and crumpled the petal, wrapping a tissue around it to keep it from dirtying her leather seats, and rolls out of the parking lot, avoiding any acknowledgment of the flower petal she’s convinced she imagined coughing up.

(On the ride home, she coughs up two more additional petals, too — one white and curved to perfection, looking much too angelic and innocent for having just been lodged up in her throat just moments prior, and the other the same shade of yellow as the first. Heather ignores both, and tosses them out the window to sink further in denial, similar to how she felt her stomach sink as she watched the petals flutter aimlessly to the ground, destined to be run over or stepped on.)

❀

That night, after finishing both her math homework and leftovers for dinner, Heather switched off the lights and settled into her bed before impulsively flicking open her laptop. It was for school purposes, her parents insisted, and was to never be used at night when she should be asleep, but quite frankly, Heather hadn’t cared much for her parents’ opinion of her considering their clear distaste for her.

Her fingers mindlessly fly across the keyboard, the same feeling of dread from when she was stunned upon the initial discovery of the petals resurfacing.

why am i coughing up weird shit

Healthline - Signs of Lung Illness

If any of the following symptoms apply to you, be sure to contact your health agent and schedule an appointment to discuss your symptoms and possible diagnosis. If you experience a burning, aching, or squeezing sensation in your chest, illnesses such as Lung Cancer, Pleuritis, etc. may be at play.

why am i coughing up petals and how do i stop it

Derrit - r/AskDerrit, in an old manga I read today, the Hanahaki disease was a plotline. Is it real? I can’t find any research indicating an answer.

BlaineleysBitch: no. the entire premise of the disease doesn’t even make sense. it’s not real.

Mr.CocoNutty: tbfh i haven’t heard anything about it? i’m sure if it were real there would be some coverage abt it considering how unbelievable it sounds

KittyKat16: yea, i don’t think it’s real, but it would be really cool if it was!!

what’s the hanahaki disease

Wikiresource - List of fictional diseases

Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease where the victim of unrequited or one-sided love begins to vomit or cough up the petals and flowers of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing impossible if left untreated. The flowers in particular symbolize the specific love and relationship the patient has for the enamored, as told through flower language. Hanahaki can be cured through the confession of the victim's feelings. The response of the enamored is unimportant. The victim may also develop Hanahaki Disease if they believe the love to be one-sided but once the enamored returns the feelings, they will be cured.

how to get rid of hanahaki disease without having to confess shit

Making sure to groan inaudibly — her parents were under the impression she was asleep, after all — Heather pressed her finger down on the backspace key with a familiar scowl on her face, her finger remaining in place atop the key long after the words had been removed. The feeling of resentment and annoyance was familiar, but the overwhelming confusion and petals she felt building up in her throat were not.

Sighing, Heather rubbed her eyes gently yet urgently. Mindlessly, she resorted back to her idle habit: observing.

Assuming she had the disease that was supposed to be fictional, somebody had swooped Heather off of her heeled feet without her even realizing it. That had to be impossible, as Heather wasn’t dense enough to not realize something as obvious as feelings for another. After all, she read people and their infatuation with others as easily as one read magazines — who was to say she couldn’t do the same for herself?

Recalling the wiki page, Heather sighed as she began to re-type. The article had said that the flowers she had coughed up symbolized her love for whoever her crush was in flower language, and seeing as how it was her only lead on whoever her supposed enamored was, Heather wanted to crack down who it was exactly and quickly exterminate any and all contact with them to execute any possible feelings.

how do you identify a flower

PlantCapture - What Flower Is This? How to Instantly Identify Flowers

If you already have a photo of a flower saved on your phone, you can also instantly identify it by uploading the photo to PlantCapture. Once you've instantly identified a flower, PlantCapture stores it in your library. You can easily go back to see how many flowers you've identified.

Heather whipped out her phone with another sigh as she begrudgingly began downloading the app. Watching the small icon load, she scowled even deeper. Even the smallest inconvenience in the entire situation was enough to dampen her mood even further, despite the fact her own alleged feelings brought this on herself.

Remembering she had tossed out her only petals, Heather just barely resisted another groan before a familiar scratchiness formed at the back of her throat. Being sure to cough quietly, Heather slipped the petal out of her mouth as she winced at the taste of copper rolling down her tongue. The article hadn’t mentioned anything about blood, Heather bitterly notes, before shaking her head at her own stupidity. Of course there wasn’t a full list of symptoms for a disease that was believed to be fictional.

Switching flash on, Heather got the results of her flowers instantaneously as promised: the yellow and white flowers she had been hacking up all day were daffodils and gardenias, respectively.

Heather’s fingers flew to her keyboard once more automatically. With bated breath, she hoped that the results would be specific enough that she could put an end to the investigation that night and stomp out whatever ties she had with her “enamored”.

But, as noted from Heather’s luck that day, things rarely went her way.

what do daffodils mean

FlowerDictionary - Flower Meanings: Flowers A-K

Daffodil symbolizes regard and chivalry. It is indicative of rebirth, new beginnings and eternal life. It also symbolizes unrequited love.

what do gardenias mean

Flower Dictionary - Flower Meanings: Flowers A-K

The gardenia is a flower that symbolizes purity and gentleness. However, this symbolism often depends on the color of the gardenia. ... Another symbol of the gardenia is secret love between two people and also joy.

Upon quickly searching them up, the results did little to ease the dread pooling in her. The test was definitely correct, as it seemed, but was entirely unhelpful when it came to figuring out the identity of whoever it was that Heather had unknowingly developed an unreturned love for.

Slamming her laptop closed — a bit too loud for her liking, but beats pass and she doesn’t hear the annoying patter of her mother’s footsteps reach her room, so she assumes she’s in the clear — Heather grunts one final time, unceremoniously moving her laptop back on her desk. Raising the petal to her line of vision, Heather has to squint to make out some of the details. This one was white, identifiable even in the dark. It was a bit crumpled from having been clutched so tightly, and still wet from her own coppery blood.

A gardenia, Heather recalls with another scowl that was deeper and more ferocious than the last were. Meant to symbolize a “secret love”... so much for a clue.

She wonders, her last coherent thought before succumbing to sleep, how big of a secret her love must be for it to have left Heather herself in the dark on who her loved one was.

At the thought, Heather wrapped her blankets tighter around herself, lulling herself to an uneasy sleep of blood, thorns, beautiful but deadly flowers, and a figure in the distance who looks so comforting and familiar whose name is on the tip of Heather’s tongue, but can’t be reached.

❀

ii. amaryllises & white chrysanthemums; pride & loyalty

Despite Heather’s praying to a God she didn’t believe in, the flowers didn’t disappear overnight. Instead, they bloomed rapidly in her lungs, and at times when she felt the familiar tickle in the back of her throat, flowers in full-bloom were coughed up.

They would be beautiful, if not for her own blood staining them, a grim reminder of what would become of her if she did not find a fix, and soon.

Still, Heather was nothing if not quick on her feet. She managed to keep her illness under the wraps — of course, her second in command was Lindsay, so it wasn’t difficult to conceal her bloody bundles of flowers as just “feeling under the weather”; any other person would be suspicious of the foreign scratchiness and hoarseness her voice now had, the way she would breathe shakily as if her lungs were rattling and about to give out, or the way she barely restrained the flowers from being coughed up after a gym class, but since it’s Lindsay, Heather can get away with her lie.

When Lindsay sweetly wishes for her to feel better, even dropping off a bowl of badly homemade chicken noodle soup, Heather couldn’t help but scoff as she shook her head at the feeling of guilt lingering in the back of her head, and the feeling of bloody flowers in the back of her throat.

❀

With every fistful of the flowers beginning to stain her clothes, Heather took responsibility for her own laundry, for the first time in her life. Her parents put on a spectacle of overexaggerated joy and relief when she announced it, saying that, oh, thank goodness their darling was beginning to take responsibility instead of pooching off of them; Heather had just forcefully smiled and nodded, as she always did now, and excused herself to hurriedly put in the first load.

Her clothes were stained red in her own blood. Some petals began to stick onto her clothes, as well, and the last thing Heather wanted was the intrusion of her parents and their nosiness as she deciphered just who she was coughing flowers for.

Interestingly, the flowers she was now coughing up were different. Amaryllises and chrysanthemums, as she had identified — the red flower was the former of the two and symbolized pride. The white chrysanthemums, wide with many intricate petals, symbolized loyalty and the truth. Thankfully, they were more of a clue than the daffodils and gardenias with their meanings of unrequited and secret love.

That still didn’t mean that Heather had any clue of who they were for, though — she just knew that they had to be high-maintenance, and part of her refused to believe she would unconsciously fall for someone who had to be so pretentious, but seeing as how the thought sent her into another bout of coughing sloppily disguised, it had to have been the truth.

Heather was beginning to hate the sensation that arose when she felt a coughing spur coming on. She hated how she could feel a crumpled lump form in the back of her throat, squirming its way up her throat and nearly out her mouth. It feels hot, sticky, and suffocating, and when the flowers come up, Heather hates them too, and especially whoever her beloved is. However, the disease doesn’t cease even just a little, and so Heather finds herself heaving, coughing, and puking chrysanthemums and amaryllises in the middle of the night as she ponders on who it is she’s supposed to be loving.

Still, she manages to keep herself from hacking during class in front of her peers, and that’s all that matters to her, even when the flowers she chokes on splinter into her like thorns in her side.

❀

It’s here that Heather messes up. Well, to be fair, she messed up as soon as she began feeling things for whoever it was that had captured her sight unknowingly, in Heather’s opinion, but that was irrefutable and couldn’t be helped.

This, however, could have been helped.

Like many things, it started at school. Like the first petal that had been coughed up weeks ago, it started during science class, when she felt the feeling of hot bile, blood, and petals rising in her throat as Courtney bent over their lab report. She didn’t notice Heather’s discomfort, as her eyes were fixed on the report, her brows scrunched together in concentration.

At least, that’s what Heather thought, until Courtney suddenly looked up from the report and eyed her curiously. “Are you feeling alright?”

Heather barely contained her surprise at the sudden inquiry. The only person to ask that was Lindsay, not even her own parents, let alone her (unofficial) rival and (official) lab partner.

Upon seeing her confusion — had she done that bad at a job of hiding it? — Courtney sighed and looked back to their work. “To be honest, you’re quieter than normal and you look kind of sick — you look like you’re going to pass out at any time now.”

“Thanks,” Heather mutters coarsely, finding her voice. Despite her calm exterior, she could feel her heart racing, and the flowers itching their way up her throat.

Courtney squawked indignantly. “Hey! I’m just being honest!”

“Mhmm,” Heather hums absentmindedly as she rises from her seat. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

She barely hears Courtney’s grumpy and hesitant “Fine,” before stalking out the room, grabbing a hall pass on her way out. As soon as the door swung shut behind her, out of sight from her peers, Heather dashed as quickly as she could to the solitude of the nearest bathroom. She slams the stall door closest to her open noisily, thankful there was nobody around, and heaves into the toilet as the blood and flowers bloom from her mouth.

They hurt more than the daffodils and gardenias, now that they’re coming out as full flowers accompanied with a few stray petals rather than just petals, but Heather shoves the thought to the side in favor of pulling her hair away from her face. The toilet bowl is filled with a hideous mixture of blood and petals, and Heather feels like a decaying corpse as the energy leaves her, crumbling to the ground as she heaved from the aftermath of the coughing fit.

Picking petals from her backmost molars, Heather spits once more, the remaining drops of blood falling into the sink. Her chin is wet and sticky with her own blood, and she’s sure her teeth are stained red as well; Heather half-heartedly debates asking her parents to pick her up as she flushes the toilet, whisking away most of the evidence excluding the blood dribbling down her chin from her mouth and a few stray petals, before deciding she’d rather vomit flowers rooted to her lungs for the rest of the day than be with her family.

As she rinsed water from the sink in her mouth, Heather nearly spits it out in surprise when she notices a bathroom stall crack open from the mirror. Then she actually spits the stained water from her mouth, whirling around to threaten whoever it was to secrecy. When her eyes meet a head of blue hair, she falters slightly, and that’s all it takes for the other to take control.

“You too?” Is all Gwen asks, having recovered from her initial surprise. She doesn’t look grossed out by the blood, and instead joins Heather by the sinks.

Narrowing her eyes, Heather recoils to what she knows best around Gwen: defense. “Excuse me?”

Gwen laughs, sardonically and self-deprecatingly, with a hint of amusement. It’s the most Heather’s seen her laugh to her since, well, ever. Then, still in astonishment, Heather felt herself stagger back and her eyes widened when pale pink roses, white carnations, and yellow coreopsis flowers fell from Gwen’s blue-lipsticked lips, gracefully fluttering to the tiled floor.

Suddenly, Heather understands, but Gwen still unnecessarily elaborates. “The flowers. You too?”

Heather only hesitates for a split second before sighing and staring down at the sink bowl. “Yeah,”

“Didn’t expect it from you of all people,” Gwen chuckled humorlessly. “Didn’t think the Queen Bee Heather knew what emotion was, let alone be stuck in unrequited love,” she mocked bitterly. She turns to Heather, gaze softening. “So, who is it?”

Heather blinked. “What do you mean?”

Gwen snorted and gestured to the petals and trail of blood on the tiled floor. “The flowers, honors student,”

Ignoring the sarcastic remark, Heather paused before admitting, “I don’t know,”

Gwen grunted disbelievingly. “Come on, I know you don’t like or trust me, but really, who am I going to tell?”

“Hey, I’m actually being honest here!” Heather snapped, glaring at the goth. Of course, I’m told I’m lying when I’m actually being honest… she thinks with a scoff as her scowl returns.

“Whatever, have you tried…” Gwen trails off, frowning as her brows scrunch together. “I don’t know, I just knew who mine was for—”

“Who?” Heather asks curiously, having not picked up on Gwen displaying any of the usual symptoms of a horrid teenage crush. No staring, attention-seeking, stuttering, or blushing — it was the same behavior for everyone with Gwen.

The goth hesitates only for a split moment before sighing and giving one name: “Geoff,”

Heather hums, unsure what to say. Gwen narrows her eyes, seeming to just remember who she was talking to.

“Seeing as how we’re one and the same right now, if I catch you telling anyone, I will spread the news of your diagnosis, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Weird Goth Girl, your secret is safe with me,” Heather promises, the corners of her lips twitching up at the use of the old nickname. “Just help me clean up all this before someone walks in,”

Gwen nods once, before bending over the sink and coughing a few more flowers and petals in the sink, blood spilling from her mouth. Awkwardly, Heather pats her back, unsure what to do, before realizing she should probably hold her hair back.

“Thanks,” Gwen murmurs, her voice even more hoarse and tired than normal. Heather just gives her a nod before crouching down to pick up the flowers trailing the ground; Gwen hurries to grab a mop from the back closet to clean the blood.

It’s when Heather comes across the petals of the pale pink roses, white carnations, and yellow coreopsis flowers that a pang of empathy spurs in her. She turns to Gwen.

“Those type of roses specifically mean joy, the white carnations mean purity and loveliness, and the yellow coreopsis means cheerfulness.”

Gwen looks up from her work and blinks, taken aback, before smiling slowly and softly. “That fits him,”

Wordlessly, the two set off to finish the cleanup of their shared death sentence in the form of flowers and blood, when the bathroom door flies open once more. Both Heather and Gwen look up, eyes wide in surprise. Before either can communicate, a thunderous voice and a ticked-off Eva enter the area.

“Get back to class, we have to clean up —” she gets cut off from her own demand, faltering at the sight of Heather and Gwen bent over the floor, cleaning blood, flowers, and bloody flowers. Her eyes flit back to the duo who are too frozen and flabbergasted to speak. “What happened?”

Heather opens her mouth to bullshit her way into an explanation as she always did when Eva’s eyes suddenly narrow dangerously, intercepting the unsaid lie. She spits out one last order before turning on her heel, leaving the bathroom.

“Meet me in the library after school. Come alone, and hurry up and get back to class so no one else walks in on you.”

After her departure, all Heather and Gwen could do was stare at one another, wide-eyed and depleted of the fluttery itchiness of their lungs and throats, for once, before resolving to hurriedly finish garnering the crumpled flowers and washing the blood down the sink.

Heather goes back to class for the remaining minutes of the day, her mind elsewhere even as Courtney berates her for the long bathroom break. Her mind drifts to Gwen’s sardonic laugh, the goth's utter defeat after finishing hacking, and the way her eyes are avoiding Geoff’s direction, instead fixated on a pink charm bracelet Heather had noticed her fiddling with on multiple occasions before.

The image of Gwen choking on her own blood and petals momentarily and the sound of her warbled snort had been seared in Heather’s memory, and all she could do was wonder. Wonder if, in due time, her own condition would mirror Gwen’s when she inevitably lost to the disease that was slowly but surely suffocating her.

❀

When Eva had instructed her and Gwen to meet with her alone, Heather had assumed that that applied to Eva as well.

What she had not expected, however, was for her and Gwen to be seated with Eva and two of the most arbitrary (personality-wise, that was) redheads Heather ever had the pleasure (?) of meeting.

She scowled. With herself, Gwen, Eva, Izzy, and Harold, they had practically formed their own little Losers Club. Brilliant.

Harold awkwardly coughed, having declared himself the unofficial leader.

Gwen scoffed, leaning back into her seat. She leaned her chair, balancing it on two legs at a dangerous angle. “What is this, Hanahaki Club?” Gwen mockingly questioned, mirroring Heather’s thoughts.

Harold guiltily smiles. “Well, no. See, Eva here —” Eva glared at the boy, scowling. Harold faltered for the fifth time that meeting, gulping — “had Hanahaki awhile ago. Last year, I think. She confessed to Izzy, and the rest is history.”

Izzy nodded enthusiastically. She grabbed Eva’s hand, making the latter blush furiously at the unprompted gesture. “Yup! Our getting together was actually like this one Romanian film —”

“Anyway,” Harold interrupted. “I noticed Eva’s symptoms and helped her, which we intend to do with you two. Now,” he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, casting a pensive look to Heather and Gwen, who exchanged glances. “Which one of you has Hanahaki?”

Before Heather can think to lie and save her own skin, Gwen answers truthfully. “Both of us,”

“Gwen!” Heather hissed. The mentioned shrugs.

“What, you think you’ll be able to resist coughing up flowers during this?” At Gwen’s words, Heather felt her face twist as she felt an itching in her throat. Satisfied, Gwen nods and turns to the others. “Thought so.”

“I’m going to be honest,” Eva begins. Her tone is softer than before, but just as commanding. “Hanahaki… it’s hell. But just ease your suffering by confessing. I didn’t want to risk my life when a few words could save it.”

At Eva’s words, Heather can’t help but feel a surge of jealousy at her words, her sureness. At how she and Gwen just knew who their flowers were for, and how Eva had the mind and courage to confess.

If she did know who the amaryllises and chrysanthemums that were rooted in her lungs were for, would Heather confess? She wasn’t sure, and she hated the uncertainty.

“Yeah, but, he just broke up with his girlfriend,” Gwen murmured, tracing a finger on the table as she spoke in a low voice. She seemed fascinated with the intricate design of the wood, now, refusing to meet the eyes of her peers that were softened with sympathy. “And… he just sees me as a friend. ‘One of the guys', you know?”

A beat passes before Harold frowns, a hand on his chin like some wannabe Sherlock, Heather notes, face expectedly contorted in pensiveness. “Is it Geoff?”

“Bingo,” Gwen says dryly.

Izzy turns to Heather, the hyperactivity from before dulled as she looks serious for what had to be one of the few times in her life. “And you?”

“What about me?” Heather sighs, though she knows that they know she knows what’s being insinuated.

“Who’re the flowers for?” Eva interjects.

The question dances around in Heather’s head and leaks out of the others’ imploring glances, but Heather finds herself faltering as she struggles to answer.

“I don’t…” Heather frowns, thinking of the flowers welling up in her lungs that she’s sure will snuff out her life. Her frown melts into a scowl when she thinks of whoever her enamored was, and how they doubled as her soon-to-be inevitable murderer, along with how she didn’t even get the privilege to know their identity. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Eva echoes. Her face is not contorted in anger, like Heather assumed it would, but rather thoughtfulness. Neither is her voice thunderous or disbelieving — Eva seemed to seriously be contemplating the likelihood of it. She turns to Harold. “Is that even possible?”

The redhead looks just as lost in thought as Eva. He shrugs. “Maybe…” He shifts his attention back to Heather, who is beginning to feel as if she were being prodded at, dissected, and inspected by her peers. “Have you tried thinking about it?”

“Excuse me?” Heather asks, taken aback. Her scowl diminished momentarily in her surprise, before it fell back into place, more intense than before. “What do you think I’ve been doing? Analyzing the flowers and flower language like I’ve gone insane —”

“I mean,” Harold interrupts, “have you tried… I dunno, fantasizing about the people in your life? Like, placing yourself in your ideal date with them to see if the flowers spur in your throat? It worked in this one manga —”

Heather droned out the rest of his rant, frowning to herself. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“Anyway,” Eva cut Harold off with a silencing glare. The boy in question audibly gulps, shifting in his seat and indiscreetly glancing away to the opposite direction. “What do your flowers mean?” She looked to Gwen and Heather.

“The first round were marigolds,” Gwen admits carefully. “They mean jealousy. The second had mistletoe and yellow tulips — they mean affection and longing, and the tulips meant good friendship, or something like that. Now, I have pale pink roses, which mean joy, white carnations, which mean purity and loveliness, and yellow coreopsis flowers, which mean cheerfulness.”

“My first flowers were daffodils and gardenias.” Heather found no reason to lie now. “They mean unrequited and secret love. Way to spell it out,” she chuckled dryly, and humorlessly, and pretending to not notice the varying amounts of sympathy from the group. Her throat stings. “The ones I have now — amaryllises and chrysanthemums — mean pride and loyalty.”

Eva raises her eyebrows. “High-maintenance? Wouldn’t have expected that from you,”

Heather grunted. “Shut up,” Her throat hurt too much for a better rebuttal.

“You know, it’s probably Courtney,” Izzy hums half-jokingly with a grin. Gwen barely stifles a laugh.

Feeling her face flush and a lump form in her throat, Heather opens her mouth to argue, but is silenced when Harold shoots her a look.

“So, to recap,” Harold draws their attention back in, “The flowers represent who you love and/or your dynamic with them. Heather, try finding some privacy and think of your ideal date with people you know who are prideful and loyal, okay? We’ll meet up here on Monday. Hopefully you’ll have figured it out by then.”

“Fine,” Heather agrees, clumsily gathering her things. Her throat is burning, along with her chest and she’s sure her eyes are stinging, and she desperately wants to cough, but not now, and certainly not here with this audience. “See you Monday, Hanahaki Club,” she mutters sarcastically.

Half-hearted laughs register in Heather’s ears, but she’s already out of the library and dashing to the second nearest bathroom, not wanting to be walked in on. Her focus had been shifted from her illness momentarily, but now that it had been remembered, it was all it took for her to cough up the familiar flowers to the bathroom floor, unleashing a familiar strangled and warbled choking noise, accompanied by foreign tears.

❀

At night, when Heather’s parents and siblings are fast asleep, Heather lies wide awake in bed, tossing and turning. Whoever her beloved was was causing her to be unable to sleep at night, and when she was awake, she would cough on petals and blood, and she just craved to sleep.

Part of her wondered if it was possible for her to choke on the flowers in her sleep, before concluding that it didn’t matter. She was going to die, anyway.

Her mind wanders back to the secret meeting in the library, and of Harold’s advice. She had never wanted to date any of her classmates, but seeing as how she had the disease, it was a waste of time groveling in defeat. Instead, she shuts her eyes, and thinks of her fantasy.

Intimacy is what comes to mind first. She doesn’t like intimacy with her family or friends, but maybe she’s a sucker for looking into someone’s eyes and holding hands and telling someone I love you and meaning it. It doesn’t make her a sap; it just means that her needs are impossible to fulfill.

Eyes still shut, the image of her perfect date materializes in Heather’s head. Limbs entangled around one another as she and her mysterious person cuddled on a couch while watching an arbitrary film. Sharing a cup of hot chocolate and blankets as the chilling air from outdoors was kept out from inside by the heater. Talking animatedly about their interests and such over the movie, gazing into one another’s eyes; no judgment was to be found in either. It was peaceful and isolated, and perfect to Heather. Her parents never showed affection, and couples in high school never lasted — that type of love wasn’t real, but Heather allowed herself to fantasize, still, for the sake of finding who her enamored was.

Thinking it was best to start with the girls Heather was acquainted with that fit the bill, Heather sighs before imagining the ambiguous person as her classmates.

Leshawna. She’s the most faithful person Heather knows of, and she’s certainly proud. The flowers remain still and unmoving in her lungs, and so, she decides to move on.

Gwen. Unsurprisingly, the flowers don’t itch. The goth was more of someone Heather could respect, anyway.

Eva. Still, no reaction. Part of her is grateful, as she didn’t want to face the wrath of Izzy ever.

Dakota. One of the least likely, but it was possible, Heather supposed. They had some things in common, after all.

Court—

Her dark brown eyes were the only thing that had materialized in her mind when the flowers came out roughly and swiftly. Her blood is hot and thick in her throat as she tries in a daze to not suffocate on it, but still, she chokes on it. She can feel tears springing in her eyes and the sweat piling on her back and under her armpits; she can feel her chest burning in indescribable pain that was unlike any of the other coughing fits. It’s worse than anything she’s ever endured which is, granted, not quite the resume, but nevertheless, Heather feels as if her body is tearing and ripping itself apart while simultaneously hastily stitching itself back together by the amount of pain unleashed from her floral disease.

She scrambles to the sink of the bathroom attached to her bedroom, retching into the basin. The blood and flowers look like an artful arrangement, though Heather barely registers its appearance through both the pain and the unwavering amount of hatred coursing through her at the thought of Courtney unknowingly inflicting this upon her. Somewhere, she’s sleeping peacefully, while Heather is choking on her own blood and the flowers rooted to her lungs from just the mere thought of Courtney’s eyes.

Finally, mercifully, after a few minutes, the coughing fit ceases, but all that’s left is Heather’s heavy heaves as she attempts to retain her breath. Her vision flickers as black dances across her vision, and all she can smell is an overwhelming smell of metal and cleaning supplies. Her sink looks like the delicately painted masterpiece of an artistic sacrificial seance scene with all the blood and flowers. With a sigh, Heather strips of her bloodstained clothes, tossing them in her hamper to wash in the morning. After changing into a new acceptable and clean pair that Heather is sure will be ruined in a few hours, she brings out the cleaning supplies from under her sink and begins to clean at a feverish pace in a dazed state.

Ah, Heather thinks bitterly with a crazed and forced smile on her face, scrubbing extra hard on the sink as the thought flits in her mind, I get it now.

❀

“It’s Courtney,” Heather admitted to the group with a scowl present on her face. None had to ask her to elaborate, and none mention her scowl or her cough at the name. Heather’s scowl deepens further when she notices Gwen and Harold sighing in unison, sliding money to Izzy and Eva, who gladly accept them, with defeated sighs. “Wha —! Did you guys seriously bet on this? I’m literally dying over here!”

The words silence the group before Gwen snorts, and with that, the rest join her and laugh. Heather has half the mind to tell them that they’re in a library, but realizes she sounds freakishly like Courtney. Plus, for once, Gwen is choking on her laughter rather than flowers, so Heather allows it just for once with her own small smile and laugh.

“You know,” Harold manages to choke out, eyebrows raised in either surprise or amusement, “I didn’t take Courtney as your type.”

“Me neither,” Heather mutters. “Who did you think my type was?”

He shrugs. “Alejandro was my main suspect. I thought Justin was Eva’s crush, at first, to be honest.”

The laughter dies down momentarily as the group stares at Harold in confusion. Gwen, cracking another smile, mutters, “Harold, they’re lesbians,” before collapsing in another fit of laughter.

This time, Heather joins in more easily, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. The flowers momentarily disappear, along with Courtney and thoughts of her love.

❀

END OF PART ONE

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