I wish you would write a fic where Seven suffers from Hanahaki disease, thinks he's got it bad for MC when he's in hopeless denial that it's for Yoosung.
There’s a certain sort of beautiful irony to his situation. Poets have written sonnets about unrequited love, some of them shifting into songs with haunting melodies that pluck at the heartstrings. Authors will doom characters to it, artists transforming a canvas to an eerie representation of the longing that is all too familiar. Most people have experienced it in a fleeting fashion, waxing about lost love to their friends and family.Â
But none of it can ever capture the emotions that surround the knowledge that your love is destined to be your end.
Hanahaki disease is rare but fatal if left untreated. Most people don’t fall so far in love to experience the true pain of it being unreturned; the heart is a fickle thing, prone to loving self over others. The disease may be rare but it’s far from unheard of, often exploited in romance movies as the two main characters overcome the disease by confessing their love for each other in the last moments.Â
It’s hardly ever so convenient, and almost impossible to recover if a person is actually that far along. Basically, once the plant has begun to rip into the lungs, there’s no saving grace except for surgery.
Love is pain. Luciel knows that for sure as he watches her giggle and lean into Zen’s embrace. So stoic in public, the two let their guards down and become an uncomfortably mushy mess once behind closed doors. The other members of the RFA have complained about it, but Zen always waves away their concerns with amusement and occasional jokes about jealousy. Maybe that’s the case for the others, but Luciel’s just enough of a sadist to enjoy watching their shared kisses and hugs, the way they murmur sickeningly sweet things to each other and how their fingers intertwine a certain way. Perhaps it’s because in his free time he can imagine him taking Zen’s spot and holding her so close, feeling her heart beat against his chest. Being close enough to smell her perfume makes his chest ache in a way he’s only ever felt before when Yoosung talks about potential girlfriends. He’d brushed it off with the latter until she came around, and he realized it was an ache for his own love.Â
There’s very few things in his life he’s wanted so badly. If he wanted, he could tick all of those things off on one hand. Pointer: the absolutely safety and comfort of his other half. Middle: an escape from the agency that wouldn’t mess up the first. Ring: for that bright smile accompanied by sparkling purple eyes to be the main expression on Yoosung’s face once more (no longer weighed down by the depression of losing Rika). Pinky: to be able to help Yoosung get back on the right track with school and be successful (god knows he deserves it after everything and Luciel would do most anything to give it to him). Thumb: to find someone who wholly and unconditionally accepts him as who he is, not as 707 from the chatroom.
It’s just a small meeting to discuss the next party, but Luciel’s certain he won’t be in attendance. Still, he does what he can to help out; helps set up security (programs it to run even once he’s no longer around), recommends guests and always, always maintains the goofy smile and playful persona he’s known for.Â
It’s interesting to note that the disease is supposed to speed up it’s course when he’s around the person who causes it, and yet, there hasn’t been any change in his condition since he’s been here. The table is wide and ridiculously long for their small group - such is the norm when they meet at C&R - but certainly that doesn’t put enough distance between them to save him, does it?
He should get the surgery. He knows he should. But he has enough cash saved away to make sure his interests are taken care of and severely lacks the desire to live much longer. No one will really miss his presence, anyway. Really, he’s nothing more than an inkstain on the pristine description that is the RFA. The agency would just count him as the loss of another agent, a number filed away to be forgotten about.Â
So really, is death so bad?
Fingers drum against the table impatiently as his eyes flick toward the clock. Half an hour in and they haven’t even done much because Yoosung’s running late after class. It figures that on the day he actually goes, it runs over. Still, it gives him more time to watch, wish, and feel the roots of the plant digging in.
As though summoned by his thoughts, the door to the conference room slams open with a loud bang, everyone jumping slightly with the exception of himself. Yoosung’s hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, eyes wide and full of guilt and chest heaving to catch his breath. With a cheerful smile, Luciel waves and beckons him to come sit in the chair next to him, barely stifling a laugh when the young man trips over his feet in his rush to sit down. He’s so damn cute, it’s a wonder no one has snatched him up yet. An idle thoughts, quite common to cross his mind but he pays it no attention as he pulls out the chair in time for Yoosung to collapse into it. Apologies pour out of chapped lips but Luciel tunes them out as well as the reassurances from the others, the familiar tickling in his chest starting up again.Â
Odd timing.Â
It feels worse than before, so he reckons there’s just a delay from when he first enters her presence to now, time for the flower to dig in its deadly claws. Intense burning rushes up his throat and he barely swallows the iron-flavored bile, swinging his chair around to stand and excuse himself. A fist covers his mouth and his shoulders shake with the effort to hold back a cough, eyes beginning to water at the suddenness of it this time. He doesn’t manage to make it even a step before a warm hand gently pulls at his wrist and he looks down into Yoosung’s eyes, worry swirling in them.Â
“Are you okay?”Â
The answer is a double-edged sword, no matter how he looks at it. If he says yes, he’s lying, but if he says no, then everyone will smother him worse than the petals constricting his airflow. But there’s no escaping giving an answer of some sort and so he opens his mouth, intending to just say he needs to run to the bathroom quickly.Â
A mistake. Words are not what come out, chased away by wheezing hacks that put smokers to shame. Yanking his arm away, he covers his mouth desperately and tries to run, to get out before his body betrays him. The inability to recover his breath ends with him leaning against the door, body wracked with the most painful coughing fit yet. Cries of alarm circle the room and he’s aware of a face next to his, blurry, calling out his name in panic. He can’t speak. He can barely even manage to suck in any air. Someone tugs on his wrists and he lets them drop, feeling weak, wet hands opening to let blood soaked pansies fall to the floor.
Pansies. He’d never been able to solve the riddle of why the purple-and-yellow flowers were what cursed him. Aren’t roses more romantic (and more tragically beautiful with their thorns literally tearing one apart), or maybe at least her favorite flower? But pansies.Â
Not that he’ll have the time to ponder it, not anymore. The room begins to fade to black as the pain engulfs him entirely, and the last thing he feels is a pair of arms around him as his legs give out entirely.
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