Work Text:
Chuuya Nakahara prided himself on many things—his speed, his strength, his precision in a fight, the way people twice his size flinched when he raised a hand.
He did not pride himself on choking to death on toast at eight o’clock in the morning.
But here he was.
It lodged halfway down his throat, not because the toast was too dry, or because he was running late, or because the kitchen of the Port Mafia executive dorm was still cold from winter.
No.
He choked because the question—the question—had finally cornered him with nowhere left to run.
To die, or to ask Dazai for help?
The cruelest part wasn’t even that the decision felt like choosing between cyanide and arsenic.
No, the cruelest part was that his body already seemed to be making the choice for him.
A tremor ran through him, sharp as a blade, and Chuuya slammed a hand on the counter just in time to brace himself. He could feel it coming—again.
“Not now,” he hissed. “Please— not now—”
His throat convulsed.
Something soft and fragrant rose past the lodged piece of food.
Then another tremor.
Then—
Petals.
Warm, velvety rose petals spilled from his lips, scattering over the plate, blooming across the half-eaten breakfast like a sick joke of a garnish.
Chuuya gagged, catching the edge of the counter, tears stinging his eyes. More petals slid out in a slow cascade, brushing his skin like they were mocking him.
When he could finally breathe, he sagged down, arms trembling.
“…Fuck.”
There it was.
Hanahaki.
The disease of unspoken love. The curse of cowards. The punishment for wanting something—someone—so badly it rooted itself in your lungs, fed on your silence, and bloomed itself toward the heart.
He didn’t need a doctor to tell him what caused it.
He already knew.
He had known for months.
“Stupid,” he whispered, sweeping a handful of petals into his palm. They glowed a deep, burning crimson—of course they were red. Of course they were his colour. “I’m so damn stupid.”
He felt the pressure in his chest rising again, like vines tightening.
Chuuya wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He would rather die than—
A sharp knock at his door.
He froze.
“…Oi, Chuuya,” a familiar voice called. “You alive in there?”
Of course.
Of course it had to be him.
Dazai Osamu.
The last person on earth he needed at his door while choking up the physical manifestation of his humiliating, cursed affection.
“Go away!” Chuuya barked before he could think.
There was a pause. A small thud. The unmistakable sound of Dazai leaning his head against the door like he owned every surface he touched.
“That’s rude,” Dazai said cheerfully. “Especially because Mori wants us in twenty minutes.”
Chuuya glanced at the petals on the counter. At the ones on the floor. At the smear of red on his fingers.
His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Of all diseases—of all fates—why did he get this one?
And worse, why did the cure require the one thing he would never ask for?
Dazai’s love.
There were surgeries, of course. People survived hanahaki without reciprocation—but only if they sought treatment early.
Chuuya wasn’t early.
He had ignored the coughs. Ignored the soreness. Ignored the dreams. Ignored the way Dazai’s grin jolted him like electricity.
He had ignored it until the petals came.
Now, he was out of time.
“Chuuyaaa,” Dazai sang from the other side of the door. “Did you die? Can I ransack your things? Because it would save me some effort—”
Chuuya grabbed a cup and swept the petals inside, shoving it behind some cereal boxes.
“Out!” Chuuya snapped.
The door handle rattled. “You didn’t lock this.”
Oh shit.
Chuuya stumbled sideways, just in time to stop Dazai from pushing the door in fully.
“I’m not dressed!”
“That’s fine~ I’ve seen you before—”
Chuuya shoved back, practically snarling. “You haven’t seen shit!”
Dazai paused. A small, quiet breath. “Chuuya.”
There was something about the way he said his name. Not mocking. Not teasing. Something almost…sensitive.
It scared Chuuya more than anything.
“I can hear you breathing weird,” Dazai murmured. “Are you sick?”
“I’m fine,” Chuuya said, too fast.
“Mmh. You don’t sound fine.”
Chuuya’s hand tightened on the door. His throat tightened around something that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a cough.
If he opened his mouth, petals would spill out.
If he slipped, Dazai would see.
If Dazai saw—
He would know.
And Chuuya—
Chuuya couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t stand the idea of Dazai learning he was dying because he loved him—loved him so hard it grew flowers.
He leaned his forehead against the door, heart hammering like it wanted to break free.
“Dazai…” He tried to sound normal. He failed. “Just go.”
“…No.”
Chuuya’s breath hitched.
Dazai spoke softly this time:
“If you’re sick—tell me.”
No. No, no, no.
Chuuya swallowed hard. The petals rose like they were burning him from the inside.
He couldn’t tell Dazai.
He would rather suffocate on flowers than let Dazai see the garden in his lungs.
A choked sound slipped out—half cough, half gasp.
Dazai stiffened. “Chuuya?”
Shit.
Shit.
The pressure surged. Chuuya slapped a hand over his mouth, but—
It was too late.
A spray of petals burst through his fingers—violent, bright, impossible to hide. They scattered across the floor, betraying him in crimson silence.
The entire hallway went quiet.
Dazai didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
Then the door creaked, just enough for one brown eye to peer through.
It darted downward.
Landed on the petals.
Dilated sharply.
“Chuuya,” Dazai whispered. “Open the door.”
Chuuya backed away, shaking his head, eyes burning. “No.”
“Open it.”
“Go away.”
Dazai’s voice dropped, low and trembling with something Chuuya had never heard from him before.
“Please.”
Chuuya froze.
The petals in his throat stilled.
And for the first time, he realised:
Maybe Dazai already knew the answer to the question Chuuya was too afraid to ask.
Maybe Dazai already knew why the flowers were blooming.
Maybe—
Maybe he cared.
But Chuuya couldn’t bring himself to hope.
So when the next wave of petals rose, he let them come, sinking to the floor with a half-laugh, half-sob.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare.”
Dazai pushed the door open anyway.
He stepped in slowly, eyes soft, jaw tight, staring at Chuuya like he was watching someone bleed out.
“Chuuya…”
Chuuya’s voice cracked. “If you say one word, I’ll kill you.”
Dazai didn’t smile.
Didn’t joke.
Didn’t gloat.
He knelt.
And with the gentlest touch Chuuya had ever felt, he wiped a petal from the corner of Chuuya’s mouth.
“…Idiot,” Dazai whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chuuya closed his eyes, trembling.
Because telling you means dying in a different way.
Because the cure is something you’d never—never—give me.
Because I’d rather choke on flowers than lose face in front of you.
But he said none of that.
He said only:
“Get out.”
Dazai’s hand slipped to Chuuya’s cheek, thumb brushing away a tear before it could fall.
“No,” he whispered. “Not again. Not this time.”
His voice broke.
“You’re not dying.”
Chuuya let out a breathy, bitter laugh. “You can’t stop it.”
Dazai tilted Chuuya’s chin up, eyes burning.
“Then tell me who it is.”
Chuuya looked at him.
Really looked.
Dazai’s face was pale.
His breathing unsteady.
His hands shaking.
And Chuuya realised, with a sickening twist—
Dazai was terrified.
Terrified of losing him.
His heart clenched around vines, and petals fluttered out with his exhale.
“…Dazai,” Chuuya whispered, voice cracking. “It’s you.”
The petals scattered across Dazai’s knees.
Dazai stared at them.
Then stared at Chuuya.
Something crumbled in his expression—anger, fear, grief all tangled into one.
He gathered Chuuya against him, almost too tightly, forehead pressed to Chuuya’s temple.
“Then you’re going to live,” Dazai murmured fiercely. “I’m not letting you die for loving me.”
Chuuya stiffened. “Don’t say things you don’t—”
The words died when Dazai cupped his face.
“I do,” he said.
Soft.
Steady.
Unbelievably earnest.
“I do, Chuuya. I do.”
And for the first time that morning—
Chuuya could breathe.
No petals came.
No vines tightened.
Just warmth.
And the terrifying, overwhelming realisation that maybe, just maybe—
He wouldn’t have to die after all.