I Told You I Was Trouble (You Know That I'm No Good)
Summary: His bile becomes petals, his veins become briars, but still, he would rather die than ruin your beauty once again.
Unrequited?Jamie x Reader
You guys broke up, he #fumbled and is too stubborn to admit he wants you back. You're still friends, because you always linger in his mind. You're his geyser.
This is an excuse to write Jamie as an idiot, it's probably OOC, but I need to get into writing something other than Gwenathan again.
His blood burns to see you, but for some reason, your smile is worth every laurel that stabs in from inside. It's you who intoxicates him, it's your laughter which brings the world bright, it's you, his star, his light to guide him through the night. But good things never last too long, and just like that, he’s left you burning like a star he doesn’t deserve to touch anymore. Precisely why when his supposedly normal cold started to produce mucus of roses, he said nothing.
"Dude, that's not even biologically possible," Percy hisses.
Jamie's coughed enough to make a romantic bed, but bites his lip to refrain from retorting something sarcastic. If he speaks, it makes the petal-spewing worse. It already hurts to breathe too deeply without you. Your visits are probably what's keeping him alive, what keeps some food down, what pushes the daisies at bay. Unfortunately, that's not a hyperbole. Percy continues digging through tissue boxes, unstuffing drawers, an assortment of hydrangeas and lilies emerging from their containers. One blood-stained handful of daffodils later, his voice pries any semblance of composure from the room.
"We need to take you to a doctor."
The air goes still at the stern look on Percy's face as he stares at Jamie's bedridden, pallid condition. His seriousness has sucked any warmth from the atmosphere, and left the frost to bite at his roommate's skin. This rare expression of harshness sends a shiver down Jamie's spine, and it forces his head to turn away. Percy's glare feels of steel and ice.
"Don't be stubborn," He pleads. "And tell me what else you've been hiding."
He doesn't hear it at first, Jamie speaks too softly. But as Jamie repeats the same syllables, Percy finally pieces the hoarse sounds together. It's your name, and he knows from the way Jamie's eyes sparkle gold when he whispers, from how his lips curve ever so slightly, and he knows from the tender tone. Still, that produces more questions than answers.
"What do they have to do with this?"
Percy shakes the flowers in his hand to drive home the point. At that point, his sickened roommate opts to pull out his phone and type something out. He's left wondering what's happening, maybe some texts? A bad game of "mystery ingredient?" All that Jamie ends up showing is a search result.
Hanahaki disease is a fictional illness caused by unrequited love, characterized by the growth of flowers in the body, often resulting in coughing or vomiting petals. It is commonly portrayed with cures involving the reciprocation of love.
That raises an eyebrow from Percy. Key word: fictional, made the pearl in his head roll. He takes the phone, pressing around on the websites, looking for anything scientific. Of course, nothing, because this disease is supposed to be fake. Yet, each wall of doubt is crushed by every matching symptom, until the conclusion comes to the core of the problem: Jamie Porter has the supposedly non-existent Hanahaki Disease.
"Well, it looks like there's a simple solution," Percy concludes.
He throws the phone back onto the sheets, and crosses his arms. The texting application is open. Jamie doesn't pick the screen up.
"Go on," Percy coaxes. "Text them."
To his disdain, Jamie remains motionless, green eyes staring forward blankly. Even ill like this, he still looks like he belongs in an oil painting—blonde waves like masterful strokes of gold, eyes a blur of sun and spring, lips tainted with spurs of red. It’s easy to see why you fell in love with him. Stupid, stubborn, intelligent, and handsome—a truly lethal combination.
Those two words make Percy's heart drop to his stomach. It sends his mind into a flurry daze, reeling back from the sheer audacity of the statement. Jamie Porter is the kind to construct an airplane for fun, the kind to do calculus just to spoil the ending of a mystery novel for himself. Jamie Porter likes challenging God for fun, but texting his ex is where he draws the line? The sheer ridiculousness almost pulls laughter from Percy—the only thing that restrains him is the weight of the situation.
"Seriously? You're going to risk your life because you're... scared?"
Jamie doesn't quite know how to respond, because when Percy phrases it like that, yes. But there's more to it than that. If you have a heart of gold, Jamie's looks like laurels. If you have a heart of glass, then his is metal. If yours is of stone, his looks like hell. In every way in his mind, he pales in comparison. Your beauty exceeds his, though you might not notice such.
"I know them," he mutters coarsely.
"So you know they won't be awful about it." Percy reasons. “No hard feelings you said.”
"They don't deserve to be burdened with this." Jamie coughs out.
Azaleas come apart with blood at their tips this time.
“You’ve never exactly been a saint,” Percy spews. “Why start now?”
His touch is corrupt, selfish, and greedy—self-centred as he can be, he's not completely unaware of himself. Perhaps to make up for what a prick he's been his whole life, this disease is his retribution, you are his karma, and for some reason, he has no desire to escape you. For some reason, his punishment feels like the kiss of life.
“Because I care this time.”
There’s a worn look in the brown of Percy’s gaze, something both wistful and resigned. A sigh escapes his lips, and he slides his right palm down his face. Jamie holds strong, though he looks paler than he did before. An unmovable wall, he is. It’s irrational really, though that thought comes from someone who has texted their ex for less—lonely nights are apparently more desperate than an actual life on the line. Between a rock and a hard place, there’s no move other than to waver.
“Fine,” Percy concedes. “You win this time. We’ll feed you weed-wackers or something.”
The pride Jamie feels at his small victory isn’t pride at all. It's relief he feels, really. Cowardice wins again, but at what cost? Well, he’s always been trouble—trouble at first sight—you’ve always known that. He’s no good. You know that. You loved him despite that, and maybe you still do.
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