Work Text:
Hanahaki Disease is definitely not what Sou Hiyori should be afflicted with.
It’s stupid, it’s so stupid , he’s trying to convince himself as he kneels on the cold floor; he coughs up, in the manner of possession, petals of some flower that must have some significance to him that he can’t remember right now. But they’re white.
‘Why now?’
Above him, although his perception is muddled with the incessant thrashing of his not-even-human body , the monitor displays Shin Tsukimi, the real one. He’s crying, hysterical. They both are. It’s beautiful. It’s disgusting.
It’s terrible. He hasn’t felt this much emotion… ever, he thinks. It’s such a childish thing—he’s yelling at himself as the saliva drips down his chin and onto the floor—but these feelings are true. Horribly true. He can’t stop—this isn’t him, this can’t be real, and yet…
The world is crashing and burning around him; the ruins are these ridiculous flowers.
And maybe—he presses a hand to his overflowing mouth like you would a wound—if this impossible disease left him alone, he would be able to understand what’s happening on screen. Shin won’t stop crying. But all he can think of is the bloom in his chest, and the tightening of his throat, and what he thinks must be blood coming up.
“H-Hiyori-kun, please, are you alright? You—you just won’t stop coughing, and I don’t…”
“I don’t care about you. You’re just an enemy,” Shin says to him.
Hiyori smiles as he always will. He won’t confess the sentences threaded in his circuitry, but his falsely tightening throat and his falsely swelling lungs know.
“I see you’ve grown.”