Chapter Text
“If this is a joke, it's not a funny one, Vox.”
“It’s not. I’m serious— deathly serious.”
“Then please don’t use the word ‘deathly’.”
‘Fair enough.”
This is not how Ike Eveland expected his Friday morning would go.
He received a call at roughly 6 in the morning informing him that Vox Akuma is in the emergency room and that he is the patient’s only “trusted contact.” And before he could take the time to process the situation, he was already on the metro, headed out to the far western suburbs of London. It was the single most stressful hour and fifteen minutes of his life. He refused to call back at that time, deciding it's better to leave that Schrodinger’s Box unopened; he would accept whatever fate dealt to him once he arrived there.
Well, he’s here now, in the tiny, cramped, colorless and sterile patient’s room; and this chipper looking asshole who’s lounging in the bed seems fine for someone who was allegedly in critical condition only a couple hours ago.
Ike slouches back against the cold metal folding chair, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling as he sighs in exhaustion “Un-fucking-believable,” he whispers to himself. He prides himself on rarely if ever swearing, but he lets this one slip, how else is someone supposed to react after being hit by an emotional freight train of this magnitude. He sits there in silence, his mind ping-ponging between the stages of grief: disbelief versus acceptance.
Vox Akuma is coughing up flowers, and he knows without a doubt that he is, in some way, the root of this problem. What impeccable timing and irony.
Hanahaki is a vile and unscrupulous burden, not just for the infected, but for the object of affection as well. Ike knows he’s the other party, there’s no room for debate on this.
Vox yawns as he reclines further in the hospital cot. Despite the dire circumstances, he still maintained his air of indifference, even though he was the one in bed with a gown and a cast aside ventilator. “You seem a lot more perturbed about this than I thought you would be,” He states, his expression smug and his tone obnoxiously pleased as punch— the same as usual.
“Why do you think that is!?” Ike jerks forward in the chair as it lets out a screech.
The sudden volume caused Vox to flinch a bit, “No, no, I understand. I would be angry too, I suppose.”
Of course, anyone would be angry if they found out they were the crux of a deadly one-sided literal love sickness.
“I think you should be the one who's more ‘perturbed’ about this than I am. ”
Vox groans as he twiddles his raven locks between his fingers “Oh, quit acting like it's the end of the world. These kinds of things happen to people from time to time so I’m not going to fucking belly ache like all hope is lost. A healthy attitude is the key to a healthy body."
“At least you’re trying to have a positive outlook, but I must ask that you take this more seriously. For starters, can you explain to me how this all started?”
“I think the situation is pretty self-explanatory on its own.”
“Announcing ‘I’m dying, Squirtle’ right as I walk in and nearly giving me a panic attack is not self-explanatory.”
"Alright, I'll admit that was a bit in poor taste."
"So—” Vox adjusts himself back to a cozy upright position, “If I recall correctly, the symptoms started a couple weeks ago. I noticed I was having difficulty breathing, my throat was getting sore and then I started having coughing fits. At first, I thought it was the flu, no biggie, take a couple Tylenols, have a lie down. But then came the petals, and I thought ‘well shit…this might as well be happening to me, it's not like I have any life commitments or aspirations ahead of me, so fuck it! Throw in a deadly near-terminal illness why don't you—’"
Ike listens intently, his expression twitching whenever he picks up an inconsistency in the story. Who exactly is he cursing? God? He thought to himself.
"Eventually, I started coughing really badly and it hurt like a motherfucker. Like last night, that's when I realized that I was also coughing up blood and thought 'oh shit! better go to the hospital' and then that's how I ended up here."
"Vox, that's stage 2. People don't start coughing up petals and blood until it progresses to stage 2."
Vox looks away sheepishly, realizing he let more slip out than he intended. "Right, the doctor did mention a stage 2…"
"Stage 2!? Are you kidding me!? Vox, you've been having it for a while now! Haven’t you!?"
"O-Okay okay okay. So, now that I think about it, it started around…3 months ago?" he admits, as if bracing for impact; his usual bravado now replaced with an amicable bashfulness.
"Vox!?"
"Sorry! Sorry! I should have mentioned that first. I-I just didn’t want you to worry about me, that’s all.” He really does kowtow whenever Ike gets angry, always making sure the little novelist gets his way.
Ike realizes he’s standing while shouting. Not wanting to add on to the dramatics of the scene, he sits back down, takes off his glasses and furrows his brows, refusing to make eye-contact with Vox.
“Just to clarify, it’s me isn’t it.”
“Yeah…”
Ike cringes through his teeth. It’s as he thought. He asked not out of ignorance, but out of a dumb hope that it would be some random Jane or John Doe that Vox never brought up before.
“Why now?” That's a better question to ask.
“I 'dunno, it was bound to happen someday. Never an ‘if’, only a ‘when’..."
Ike has known Vox for nearly all his life. For more than half of that period, Ike knew— even when they were children — that Vox was, and still is, deeply in love with him.
It’s not that Vox doesn’t take ‘NO’ for an answer, it's that Ike never gives him a straightforward answer. Ike doesn’t know why he won’t give him an explicit rejection to his advances, even when he knows he doesn’t feel the same way for him. Sure, they’re still “friends,” but their relationship could be a lot less complicated without this unspoken game they’ve been playing.
As a result of this emotional constipation, here’s where this nearly two-decade long game of chase led them: both of them are lonely but will never admit it and now one of them is terminally ill.
But that’s alright, they can both be lonely, difficult people together. Or at least that's what Ike thought up until now. It looks like life had other plans, ones that involved derailing this pathetic game of theirs by force.
Ike slumps down in the folding chair once more, his expression miserable and defeated. The atmosphere becomes heavy as the weight of the situation begins to sink in.
Vox speaks up first, “You’re not going to ask about it?”
Ike stays quiet, pretending he didn't hear him.
“Aren’t you curious as to what kind of flowers I'm hacking up?”
“No.”
“Really? You’re not the least bit interested? C’mon Ike, everyone talks about their flowers the first few—”
“No!” Ike repeats, a bit louder than intended.
“No, I don’t want to hear about it. Just, spare me any more details. Or at least leave out the gross ones.”
Ike sighs with his head in his hands, further exhaling his frustration, trying, but failing, to remain unfazed. But then something of value crosses his mind.
“Actually…” he sits back up straight, “Have you taken some time to consider what kind of treatment you would prefer? Or did the doctors already have something in mind?”
Vox’s temperament changes in an instant. “No,” his tone now sharp, cold and distant.
How peculiar, “Why not? Or is it too early in the diagnosis to begin discussing treatment?”
“They said it was too early to discuss it in depth and the best thing I can do at the moment is get some rest. ” he states hastily.
“That’s reasonable,” Ike responds, ending the conversation there. Yet, he still has his suspicions. He stretches up from his chair and slides his coat back on, “You have been up since 4 a.m. so I assume you’re exhausted.” He’s feeling fairly tired too.
And just like that, after dropping the subject, Vox is back to his usual casual demeanor.
“Leaving so soon? It’s only been— oh, we’ve been chatting for roughly an hour and a half. You’re looking exhausted yourself, so I suppose you can be excused,” he remarks jovially.
Vox is a puzzling one that's for sure, perplexingly hiding his emotions yet also wearing them on his sleeve. Something about the concept of treatment certainly does not sit well for him, but for what reason and why, Ike speculates.
“Could you let the staff know to contact me if anything happens, instead of reaching out to— you know.”
They don’t have to say it out loud.
“Yeah, I know— They’re camellias by the way.”
Ike groans, “I didn’t ask~” he opens the door and calls behind his back, “I’ll see you next weekend. Goodbye, Vox.”
"Next weekend? What? You're not employed. Or are you gonna be busy with writer's block?"
"Good. Bye. Vox."
"I'm kidding! I'm—!"
The door shuts, and the room is quiet once more.
Vox sits in silence, alone. His expression returns to a dazed blankness as he stares into nothing, allowing time to pass by unnoticed. Finally, he is allowed to let the façade slip.
A sudden sharp pain ripples through his body and he finds himself clutching at his chest gasping for air. His lungs and his heart both feel as if they are being slowly squeezed. Tighter and tighter, as if death itself is caressing him, taunting him with the inevitable.
With a single walloping cough, the pain dissipates, leaving behind an ugly red splat on his sheets. In the middle is a single red petal.
He stares at his own filth, how could something so beautiful, so delicate and celebrated, become so corrosive, so cruel. With a shuddering breath, he throws his sheets to the floor, preferring to sleep with a chill than with his fluids.
He lays back down on the empty cot and goes back to gazing at the unfamiliar ceiling, counting the cracks and divots, until closing his eyes, waiting for a dreamtime that never comes.