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Hanahaki: an illness borne out of unrequited love in which the patient grows flowers in their chest. If left untreated, the disease will lead to asphyxiation and/or internal organ failure.
The only medical treatment for hanahaki currently is surgery, removing the foreign growth from the patient’s body before it overruns the organs. The use of medications has been unsuccessful so far, although there is one promising medication which aims at destroying the growth before it takes root that is in the early stages of development.
Symptoms of hanahaki include tightness and a feeling of fullness in the chest, an itchy, dry, or sore throat, extreme fatigue, and expelling greenery or flowers from the mouth. A fever, dry mouth, and blurry vision is also common.
If you experience any of these symptoms, please seek treatment from a medical professional immediately. While invasive, the surgery is largely successful and 93% of people have little-to-no side-effects once the flowers are removed.
As for a more natural approach to curing hanahaki, consider confessing your unrequited feelings to the person you believe has caused them. This is by far the safest, easiest way to cure hanahaki.
If the file on Oikawa Tooru is correct, the first flower petal that he could identify was a daffodil. Unrequited, Wakatoshi knows off the top of his head. His mind also supplies, a little viciously, narcissus: self-love, conceit.
Oikawa Tooru, the file states, has felt a little sick for the last two months. He thought it was seasonal allergies because of his sore, dry throat and headaches. Then he became exponentially more tired than usual, and almost passed out after a severe bout of coughing one day while coaching. That was when he thought maybe he should check in with his primary physician.
The primary physician recommended Oikawa Tooru seek out a specialist in hanahaki—there is a singular word on the Have you experienced or can you think of anyone who you may have unrequited feelings for? line, and that’s coworker.
Wakatoshi marvels that there is someone in the world that Tooru loves more than they love him.
That’s not professional, Wakatoshi scolds himself. He continues his skim down Tooru’s health history as if it doesn’t mirror his own so nicely. Retired professional athlete, no medications, drinks once every few weeks with friends, no drugs or cigarettes. Has lived abroad, has had more vaccinations than most people would need so he could stay healthy on the other side of the world. He has a healthy sex life, Wakatoshi notes, a place they differ. His eyes drift back to coworker before he can stop them.
“Ushijima-san, your next patient is checked in and waiting for you.”
Shima-san, with her straight black hair and pretty smile, gestures toward the consultation room he normally uses.
“Thank you,” he says, closing the file after one more brief look down the page. He feels unprepared, unmoored, as if he hasn’t read the file five times since Tooru booked the appointment. The disorientation comes from what isn’t in the file, what is still a mystery, and the fact that he has to very suddenly shift his worldview to include someone he has looked up to for years, has only longed to catch up to even as he excelled where Oikawa Tooru did not.
He has always thought of Oikawa Tooru as invincible—a pillar of strength, someone who knew himself so well he rose above the confines of society to make himself the star he knew he could become. To see that he has been reduced to this—a human who has feelings too big for him to grasp—has startled Wakatoshi into wondering how, exactly, he could help him.
No one really knows what triggers hanahaki; no one knows why certain people are prone to it, or how it can spread so fast in some and percolate for years in others. The science behind the flowers fascinates Wakatoshi, but that’s not the job he chose, not the job he loves.
What he loves is this: making sure that he gets his patients as healthy as he can, and helps them understand that they are loved, regardless of the flowers that show them otherwise.
He has never felt as wholly inadequate as he does when he walks into the room to see Oikawa Tooru sitting on the examination chair, feet swinging gently, with a small smile on his wan face, as if the world doesn’t already love him. “Yahoo,” he says, his voice swallowed by the insulation of the walls around them.
Wakatoshi swallows. He finds his fingers running along the folder of papers in his hands and stills them. He takes a deep breath. Daffodil, Wakatoshi reminds himself. Unrequited love. Ego. I want you to love me again.
“Oikawa-san. It has been a long time.”
Wakatoshi remembers the first time he met Tooru. He stood across the net from him, their first year of middle school before the first volleyball match they would play against each other. Tooru had been nothing, no one, a small, skinny kid who was all stick-thin arms and legs. He hardly played a set. But Wakatoshi’s eyes had tracked his movements, had watched him watch his team, his eyes hawklike in their intensity. Wakatoshi saw the same burning desire in Tooru’s eyes that he felt in his chest about volleyball.
In the days afterward, Wakatoshi couldn’t forget the way his brown hair swept along his forehead, the lankness of his long legs and arms, the smile he showed when his team did something good. The way that, even as a first year, he was quite clearly the next predecessor of the captainship.
For the first time ever, Wakatoshi felt an ache for something unattainable, something that he knew he wanted but couldn’t vocalize why, or how. He just knew that if he could play with Oikawa Tooru, just once, this ache would be assuaged. At least, for a little while.
But Oikawa Tooru knew what he wanted from life, and Wakatoshi, it seemed, was far from it
A diagnosis of hanahaki can be frightening, but please remember that it is completely treatable. If your feelings are truly unrequited, there are many specialists that can help you get through this process. Do your research before you commit to one doctor—and remember, don’t be afraid to get multiple consultations if you are not sure of the results you receive at first.
Tooru comes back three days later to discuss the x-ray of his chest. He looks as if he just came from the gym, in form-fitting leggings and a baggy shirt, his hair styled to perfection. The dark circles and pale cheeks that were noticeable during his first visit have lessened. He is no less fascinating to Wakatoshi than he was that first time, and every other time, he stood across from him on the volleyball court.
“It’s hanahaki,” Wakatoshi confirms, as if there were any question about whether another disease could produce flower petals. He gestures toward the screen on the wall, where a display of Tooru’s chest cavity is displayed.
Tooru looks at it, his lips a thin line. His face is a blank canvas, more telling than any expression would be. Since Wakatoshi saw him, all those years ago at the Olympics, he has aged. Not in a bad way—on the contrary, Wakatoshi likes the way his face has sharpened, the way his laugh lines have deepened, the tiniest hint of gray in his hair. “Great,” he says finally, dragging his eyes from the vulnerable pictures of his insides to Wakatoshi. His lips quirk, trying to muster a serene expression in the face of such news. “What are our next steps then?”
Our.
Wakatoshi clears his throat. He glances down at Tooru’s file, as if he needs to read it again. As if he hasn’t memorized the words in Tooru’s careful hand. “Have you told this person about your feelings?” Wakatoshi asks. That question had been left blank.
When the question goes unanswered for longer than strictly necessary, Wakatoshi turns his attention to the still x-ray on screen, imagining the stalks trembling as Tooru breathes—a black and white forest of undeterminable, parasitic vines. Vines made of so much love. It’s amazing how something so beautiful can be warped to something so dangerous.
“Out of the question.”
Wakatoshi nods. He jots the information down on the page, as if he hadn’t already guessed the answer. “In that case, we will have to schedule you for surgery. From the looks of the x-rays, your case is fairly mild so far. It seems you caught it early.”
Tooru snorts, the first sign of disgust he has made since Wakatoshi saw him. His long fingers flex along his thigh before relaxing. “Bigger flowers tend to cause more symptoms,” Wakatoshi says, the closest he can get to an apology. Daffodil, he remembers. Narcissus.
“Lovely,” Tooru says, his sarcasm masked by his professional voice. “So when can you get me in for surgery?”
Wakatoshi shifts, flipping to his calendar as if he doesn’t already know. “Three months,” he says.
Anxiety creases Tooru’s eyes. Before he can say anything, Wakatoshi rushes to say, “Another surgeon has an opening in a month, and there’s always cancellations…”
“I want you to do it,” Tooru says, quieting Wakatoshi’s words even as his heart beats harder at the conviction burning in Tooru’s eyes. “Will I be okay for three months?”
They both train their attention back to the x-ray. The blooms are small, sporadic, hardly a blossom in sight other than the daffodil giving him so much trouble. “Yes,” Wakatoshi says. “Although in some instances, flowers can grow exponentially if certain triggers are in place. If you cannot discuss your feelings with the person who caused the unrequited love, you may want to try and distance yourself.”
“Trust me, I am,” Tooru says, leaning back in his chair.
Wakatoshi nods. “In that case, I would like you to be x-rayed biweekly leading up to your surgery to make sure your hanahaki stays manageable. If you have any severe symptoms, please make an emergency appointment and call the emergency hotline.”
“Yes, sir,” Tooru says, his voice hinting at sarcasm again. He stands, stretching his arms over his head before dropping them to his sides.
They stand and stare at each other for a few seconds. Tooru looks vulnerable in a way Wakatoshi has never seen from him. He understands—he’s seen the same look on a lot of his previous patients. But he never would have expected to see it from someone like Oikawa Tooru, darling of the volleyball world for so long, a figure that everyone loves and admires.
Wakatoshi’s heart aches for him the same way it used to all those years ago. A feeling he was quite convinced he would never have again.
“See you in a few days,” Tooru says with a small wave, letting himself out the door.
When he’s gone, Wakatoshi takes a long, deep breath. He holds his clipboard up to his forehead, closes his eyes, recalibrates himself.
Hanahaki, it seems, never quite lets you go.
In high school, Wakatoshi continued to watch Tooru. The only consolation he had was that everyone in the prefecture watched him.
The only person who ever realized Wakatoshi’s true feelings for Tooru was Satori. “You should tell him how you feel,” Satori said one night as they lounged in their dorm room reading Shonen Jump. It was third year, close to graduation, long after both Shiratorizawa and Aoba Johsai lost to Karasuno.
“I don’t know,” Wakatoshi answered. And he really didn’t—he didn’t know Tooru, not personally, so he didn’t think that he could truly be in love with him. And he didn’t know what Tooru would think about his confession. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even acquaintances. Tooru looked at him as if he was dirt on his shoes, a bug in need of extermination.
If it was just fascination, Wakatoshi could live with this little secret.
Satori studied him while Wakatoshi studied the ad on the page he was currently on. “I just think that you should, before we all go our separate ways. You never know what could happen.”
But Wakatoshi didn’t, and right after graduation, Tooru jetted off to his new, amazing life in Argentina. Because Tooru knew exactly what he wanted, and all Wakatoshi knew was that no matter where he was, Tooru could do anything.
The first flower Wakatoshi could identify was a white rosebud. Too young for love, he discovered from his research.
He thought that was very fitting.
Depending on the severity of your case of hanahaki, surgery could take anywhere from two weeks to six months to book. While cases are rare, hanahaki is a specialized niche that not many surgeons are skilled in. Make sure that you build a rapport with your specialist—it is important that you build trust with your doctor, as well as feel completely comfortable with their skills and knowledge. Do not be afraid to ask questions about a doctor’s qualifications before agreeing to a surgery with them. There are various websites such as this one that can be used to find the best rated specialist near you.
“Why did you decide to become a surgeon?”
Tooru yawns after his question. It’s seven in the morning on his first follow up appointment, scheduled before he has to go coach the girl’s volleyball team at the local high school. His eyes are still sleep soft, the coffee he had finished as he walked in apparently not having kicked in quite yet. “It seems a very big jump, from professional athlete to full-blow surgeon. Seems like a lot of time and effort.”
Wakatoshi nods, studying the x-rays on display before them. There hasn’t been much change, just a little more growth and a few more budding flowers. He can’t make them out quite yet, but he thinks there may be some more daffodils, and maybe forget-me-nots. Those are always quite common in hanahaki patients. “I actually worked through pre-med slowly, during the last few years I played volleyball. When I got injured, I was able to finish up quickly and start into more specialized training, so I was practicing much faster than anyone else who would make such a drastic career change.”
Tooru nods. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes trailing over the picture of his ribs. “It suits you,” he says, his voice bright as a windchime. “It looks like everything is still okay, right? I… do you need more information about… him? Or anything?”
A little shocked by Tooru's strange compliment, Wakatoshi just shakes his head. “You don’t need to tell me anything about why you’ve developed hanahaki. I can treat it either way. And yes, everything seems completely manageable still.”
Tooru’s smile grows, a different smile than Wakatoshi has seen on him before. Unguarded, easy, relieved. Something entirely at odds with the fact that unrequited love blossoms slowly in his chest. “Well, then, I have to go. I’ll see you again in a few weeks.”
“You don’t have to come in every time,” Wakatoshi says, because he would feel bad if he didn’t. “We can do phone consultations, if that is more convenient for you.”
Tooru chuckles. His coffee must have kicked in, Wakatoshi thinks, watching life pour into and out of Tooru now that he’s fully awake. “Ah, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to keep coming in person. It gets me used to being in a hospital.”
The excuse is a thin veil, but Wakatoshi doesn’t know what it’s disguising. So instead of pursuing the question, he nods. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Tooru leaves quickly after that. When Wakatoshi checks his calendar, he realizes that Tooru has already scheduled his appointments out until his surgery date. A little knot of affection lodges in the base of Wakatoshi’s throat.
“He’s married,” Tooru says on their third of five appointments. The growth in Tooru’s chest has expanded. Tooru had tacked on that little bit of news after he’d described his new symptoms—a little trouble breathing after semi-strenuous activity, a cough that seems more persistent than before.
Wakatoshi glances up from the notes he’s jotting down. He opens his mouth to tell Tooru once again that he doesn’t have to tell him about the other person, that regardless of the story, Wakatoshi can treat him. That no matter what happened, Tooru deserves to have his love reciprocated. If not by this man, then someone more deserving.
“I always choose the people I shouldn’t,” Tooru continues with a shrug. “Like playing roulette. One time, you’re going to get the bullet. I can’t believe it took this long. But hey, of all the fucked up relationships to lose feelings about, this one’s the best, I’d say.”
Sadness curls in Wakatoshi’s chest as he says, “It’s a myth, that the feelings go away entirely. They’re muted, for a while. Most times, they never grow back to the same level as before. There has never been a case of someone developing hanahaki twice in their lives, and scientists think that it’s because the body learns how to regulate the emotions into something more manageable after the flowers are disposed of. But sometimes, the feelings linger, or come back with certain triggers.”
“Well, fuck me,” Tooru says, leaning back in his chair with a laugh. Wakatoshi expects bitterness, maybe a rant or an over-exaggerated eye roll, but Tooru just looks a little tired. “I guess some things are just too good to be true, aren’t they?”
Yes, Wakatoshi thinks, and no.
Because the fact of the matter is, if you could get rid of emotions so easily, what would be the point of feeling them at all?
“Most things in life are,” Wakatoshi says.
Tooru sits up. “I’ve spent enough time with you to know you don’t actually believe that. Everyone thinks you’re such a realist, but you’re actually an optimist at heart, aren’t you, Ushiwaka-chan?”
Wakatoshi hasn’t heard the nickname in years, not since the last time he saw Tooru, almost a decade ago. Tooru realizes it as well, because his eyes widen. “Oh, I apologize Ushijima-san…”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I… like it.”
“You do not,” Tooru says, laughing at the expression Wakatoshi can feel twisted on his face. “It’s not a big deal, I can…”
“It’s… familiar,” Wakatoshi says quickly.
Tooru stops talking. His eyes track down Wakatoshi’s face, the same look he used to have on the volleyball court—intense, studious—as if he could read your mind with one simple glance.
“Alright, Ushiwaka-chan,” Tooru says. A smile plays on the corners of Tooru’s lips. Wakatoshi gets distracted by it for a moment too long, he can tell by the way it solidifies into a grin. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll rebound faster than I anticipated.”
Wakatoshi turns away from Tooru to look at his newest x-ray. Within the mess of plants he can see one flower reaching up, out toward the sun.
“You’re going to have a rough few days,” Wakatoshi says.
On his final visit, Tooru brings in a full flower. It’s purple, with thin pointed petals. Miyakowasure, Wakatoshi thinks, surprised to see it sitting complete and innocent in the palm of Tooru’s hand. Comfort for a while. Farewell.
Wakatoshi can see the toll of the hanahaki growing inside of Tooru on his face as well as he can see it on the x-ray. “Your surgery is next week,” Wakatoshi reminds him. “Please let us know if there is an emergency and I will let you know if there are any cancellations.”
“Only if it’s you,” Tooru reminds him, closing his eyes. They look big in his pale face, the only splash of color on an otherwise empty canvas.
“Why are you insistent on me being your surgeon?” Wakatoshi asks. The question has sat heavy inside of him, festering during these five visits with Tooru leading up to his surgery. He would have thought that Tooru would choose someone else, would prefer a stranger to operate on him over someone he sees as a rival, on and off the court.
Tooru bites his lip, opening his eyes. He’s still holding the flower, and his fingers trail over the soft petals lovingly, as if it weren’t trying to asphyxiate him hours before. “I’ve watched you perfect your volleyball craft for years. I’ve seen the love and care you put into something you’re passionate about. After that initial consultation, I could see your devotion to your job, the same way I saw it before. I trust you, Ushiwaka-chan. I know you’ll do everything you can to make me healthy.”
Wakatoshi is moved by Tooru’s words, so much so that he has nothing to say. Tooru must anticipate it because he reaches out, squeezing Wakatoshi’s hand in his. It’s unprofessional, Wakatoshi’s brain tries to tell him, but his heart beats quickly at the feeling of Tooru’s cool, slim fingers on his own.
“Thank you,” Wakatoshi finally says, “for trusting me.”
Tooru squeezes Wakatoshi’s fingers before letting them go. He stands, wobbling a little. Not enough for Wakatoshi to reach out and catch his elbow, but he does anyway. And quite suddenly, they are face-to-face, chest-to-chest, Tooru’s big brown eyes wide as he looks into Wakatoshi’s. “Please make sure you stay safe before your surgery. We wouldn’t want to fix a broken leg as well as remove flowers from your chest. That would be excessive.”
Wakatoshi watches Tooru’s cheeks lift at his joke, his eyes crinkling with the force of his smile as he slips out the door. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he loves this man just as much as he did when he sat in Tooru’s place years and years ago.
Most people don’t get second chances for their unrequited love. Tooru won’t. It feels almost sacrilegious, to feel this love blossoming in his chest once again when he’d excised it so long ago.
But all Wakatoshi can think about is his first flower. The white rosebud. Too young for love.
Maybe it was always an omen. Maybe he’s not too young for love this time.
And maybe, this time, Tooru would agree.
Two years after graduating from high school, Wakatoshi found himself getting ready for surgery. “Luckily, it’s during off-season,” his father said when Wakatoshi called to consult him about it. “Get it figured out sooner rather than later. Can you tell the person? See if we can eliminate it that way?”
“No,” Wakatoshi said in a voice that brooked no argument. He thought of Tooru, all the way in Argentina. What would he do—reach out on some random social media platform and ask Tooru if he loves him back? Tell him that he was sorry for potentially ruining the career he had tried so hard to build away from Japan? Wakatoshi knew he was a part of that decision, no matter how big or small.
“Okay, kid,” his dad said, without trying to persuade him.
Wakatoshi passed the time by researching flowers. He learned all about the common hanahaki flowers, but he also became fascinated by the fact that there were so many meanings behind flowers. He could create a whole letter of emotions, just by building a bouquet.
The doctor told him they caught it early, which was good. They told him they could squeeze him in, that they understood the importance of him healing quick enough to join volleyball practices as soon as possible and being discreet about his being there at all. “The only potential side effect of taking them out so early,” the surgeon hedged, “is that you may have lingering emotions. Generally, these are pretty tame, and while the full effect of love does not go away when getting the flowers removed at any time, these could potentially be even more present.”
Well, Wakatoshi thought, he’d loved Oikawa Tooru for this long. It wouldn’t ruin his life to love him for the rest of it either.
He agreed to the surgery, and in six weeks, he was back on the court, none of his teammates or friends the wiser, except for Satori.
“I told you, you should have confessed when we were in high school,” he said.
“No,” Wakatoshi said. “This was better.”
While invasive, hanahaki surgery is generally a safe procedure. Your surgeon will open your chest to extract the plants that have formed in and around your lungs—generally an incision down the breastbone. Without complications, this procedure will take no more than five hours, so as not to damage any organs in the process of removal. Be prepared to stay three to five days in the hospital after your procedure.
There are two other notable flowers besides the daffodils inside of Tooru. Marigold, linaria, Wakatoshi notes as he carefully unwinds the plants from around Tooru’s ribs, a caretaker of Tooru’s flowers. Jealousy, notice my love. All of these deep, sacred emotions, right there for Wakatoshi to handle, visceral and suppressed. He feels the weight of them as he removes the plants, places them in the biohazard bin to be disposed of properly.
Wakatoshi makes sure he hasn’t missed anything, that the only thing left inside of Tooru is what’s supposed to be there, before closing him back together as gently and precisely as he can.
He makes sure that he is there when Tooru wakes up, even if that means delaying his next surgery by a few minutes.
Tooru’s eyes are soft and unfocused. He tries to touch his incision, and Wakatoshi gently presses his hands away. “You’re so pretty,” he slurs with a smile. “And very strong. I’m glad you’re holding my hand.” His eyes droop closed as he falls back asleep.
Wakatoshi thinks about the strange interaction for the rest of the day. He wonders if that’s what Tooru truly thinks about him.
He knows he will never ask.
Hajime is in Tooru’s room when Wakatoshi comes to check in on him before he leaves the hospital after his shift. Tooru will stay the weekend in the hospital, to make sure his incision closes and he doesn't get an infection. Wakatoshi is sure he’ll have a string of visitors during that time, Hajime being just the first. “Hey!” he says with a smile. They’ve stayed in contact over the years, and Wakatoshi would say that Hajime is probably one of his closest friends. “It looks like everything went well.”
Wakatoshi nods, turning his attention to the still-sleeping Tooru before looking back at Hajime. “His recovery should be quick. Will you let me know if he needs anything?”
Hajime raises an eyebrow, and Wakatoshi looks away, hoping to escape before his blush becomes too noticeable. “Yeah, sure. Let me know what I can do to help him too, yeah? I’m going to be his resident caretaker, so anything helps.”
Wakatoshi nods. “I’ll make a list,” he says seriously. His eyes dart back to Tooru’s still, sleeping face for another quick moment before he turns away.
People who have experienced hanahaki are more prone to depression, anxiety, and other mental and emotional strains due to the very personal place from which this disease stems. Therapy is recommended for everyone who has opted to surgically remove the foreign growth from their body due to unrequited love. Most surgeons have resources that you can utilize if you do not know where to start.
It can be easy to feel as if you are unlovable or unworthy after this traumatic experience, but if you experience these emotions, please reach out to family, friends, and professionals. They want to help you through this very trying time in your life
“Toshi-kun,” Tooru says when he opens his door. The new name, paired with Tooru’s smile, makes Wakatoshi’s heart beat hard and fast in his chest. “I didn’t realize you followed up with your patients at home.”
“I am not here as your doctor,” Wakatoshi says, his face warm. He clenches the grocery bag in his hand tighter. “I am here as your friend. Iwaizumi-san gave me your address. I hope you don’t mind.”
Tooru cocks his eyebrow, opening the door wider to allow Wakatoshi entrance to his home. “You have my address on file at the hospital,” Tooru points out. He makes a face as he lowers himself onto the couch. From the sprawl of blankets and food, it seems Tooru has taken up a semi-permanent residence there.
“That’s unethical,” Wakatoshi points out. “Do you want this on the counter, or with you?”
Wakatoshi holds up the loaf of milk bread Hajime had told him to buy. Tooru raises his hand, making a grabbing motion that Wakatoshi takes to mean that he wants it.
It’s been two weeks since Tooru was released from the hospital. Wakatoshi has texted him, of course, to make sure he is recovering well. They have a follow up appointment scheduled next week. Hajime had told him to stay clear because of Tooru’s grumpiness and his mood swings, but Wakatoshi figures that by now he should have settled into a routine that would alleviate some of his discomfort.
“So,” Tooru says, taking a hunk of bread and stuffing it into his mouth. He speaks around it. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Wakatoshi sits tentatively on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t know what to say, other than, “I just wanted to check in on you. Make sure you’re healing properly.”
Tooru sighs, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “I’m so bored, Toshi-kun. Please tell me I can go back to work.”
“Not for another week at least,” Wakatoshi answers. When Tooru’s face screws up in a pout, he can’t help but add, “If your job wasn’t so strenuous, you could go back.”
“I can yell from the bench as well as I can yell from the sidelines,” Tooru grouses.
Wakatoshi smiles. “You would not stay on the bench.”
“Fine, you’re right,” Tooru says with a dramatic sigh, eating another hunk of bread. He presses his toes under Wakatoshi’s thigh, his look full of mischief as he continues eating his bread.
Wakatoshi doesn’t say anything about the contact, but the room feels ten degrees hotter than it did when he came in.
They stay like that for the next hour, Tooru chatting away as he eats the rest of his bread. Wakatoshi is painfully aware of the contact between them, of Tooru’s bare feet under his leg. Eventually, Tooru’s eyes start to droop as the night casts dark shadows into the room.
“Would it be okay if I came back on my next day off?” Wakatoshi asks.
Tooru smiles, pressing his toes against Wakatoshi’s thigh. “Of course. I’ll be here. Next time, you should bring us dinner.”
True to the suggestion, Wakatoshi does, in fact, bring dinner on his next visit. And the next, and the three times after that, until it becomes something of a routine between the two of them.
This visit, Tooru looks as if he is fresh out of the shower, his hair a little damp and wavy in a decidedly untamed way. Wakatoshi has never had the opportunity to see Tooru like this, and it affects him more than he thought it would. It’s so personal, especially for someone like Tooru, who appears perfect and put together in every aspect of life.
Wakatoshi can see the scar from Tooru’s surgery peeking out of the low collar of his shirt and turns his attention back to where he is dishing the takeout curry he had brought over onto plates. “Did Iwa-chan tell you that my love language is food? Because he’s not wrong.”
Wakatoshi stiffens. They’ve been careful to talk around the reasons Wakatoshi may or may not be coming here and why Tooru still invites him over. It feels illicit, breaching the subject over such a mundane thing as eating takeout. “I just… like to eat with you,” Wakatoshi finally stammers, handing over Tooru’s portion. Tooru smiles, amusement dancing in his eyes at Wakatoshi’s discomfort.
“Well,” Tooru drawls, “the feeling’s mutual.”
After dinner, they play a game. Tooru likes games, as Wakatoshi has learned over the course of their friendship. “I’ve collected a whole stash of one and two player games,” he boasts as he drops mostly card games across the table. Wakatoshi isn’t great at them, and he’s pretty sure Tooru cheats, but he hasn’t had this much fun in years.
Once they’ve exhausted themselves, they make their way to the couch. “Maybe just a quick show?” Tooru asks. Wakatoshi nods. Tooru usually sits with his back against the armrest as he had the first time, feet in Wakatoshi’s lap, but this time they sit side-by-side. Wakatoshi is a little let down at the lack of physical contact, until Tooru’s hand reaches out, brushing his. Before Wakatoshi can do anything like jerk away or reciprocate, Tooru has slotted his fingers perfectly between Wakatoshi’s.
“Is this okay?”
Wakatoshi looks at their joined hands, then back at Tooru’s open, curious expression. “Of course,” Wakatoshi says. He wishes he could bottle up the smile that appears on Tooru’s face when he grips his hand back.
“Toshi-kun.”
Tooru and Wakatoshi sit, backs propped against the headboard of Tooru’s bed, feet tangled in the sheets in front of them. They are not in bed doing illicit things, even if Wakatoshi wished he could at least kiss him, just once. Tooru’s good television is in his room, so most of their nights end with them sitting together on Tooru’s massive king-sized bed watching bad sci-fi movies that Tooru eats up as if they’re the best food in the world.
(When Wakatoshi asked why he’d camped out on the couch instead of his bed during his recovery if his television was better in here, he’d received an eye roll and, Because I couldn’t stay in one place for days on end or I’d go crazy. Besides, three hours of TV is more than enough.)
Wakatoshi hums, a little questioning noise, tucking his nose into Tooru’s hair for just a second to smell the tea-tree shampoo he uses before putting a respectable distance between them. He tells himself this isn’t strange, that they’re just friends, that he just wants Tooru to be happy.
Tooru is almost fully recovered. His scar has closed, he is back to running around the volleyball court whipping his high school team into shape. But Wakatoshi still has an open invitation to hang out with Tooru on his off days, so he takes advantage of it. Tooru himself doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he initiates most of their contact overall.
Tooru tilts his head to the side before asking his question. “Who was your unrequited love?”
Wakatoshi doesn’t dare move. He feels caught, unable to hide. He doesn’t say anything, and Tooru reaches out, placing soft fingers against the scar hidden under Wakatoshi’s shirt. “I’ve wondered, if maybe you had hanahaki,” Tooru says, his voice close to a whisper. “Most people would be surprised, I think, that you aren’t the stoic, even-headed person you appear to be.”
Wakatoshi doesn’t know whether to be offended or not by Tooru’s words.
Tooru looks up at his face, his expression open, curious, and so, so soft. Wakatoshi can’t help reaching out, brushing his fingers along Tooru’s cheek. “I didn’t want to forget how much I loved you,” Wakatoshi says, and Tooru closes his eyes. “It had been a part of me for so long.”
“How long did it take to get over me?” Tooru breathes.
“I never did,” Wakatoshi whispers back.
Their kiss is a soft, hesitant thing. Tooru’s lips are chapped, ever so slightly, something Wakatoshi is surprised to discover. Tooru’s index finger traces down the long, thin scar that is mirrored on Tooru’s own body.
So many things in common, Wakatoshi thinks again.
When they break away, Tooru rests his forehead against Wakatoshi’s shoulder. He says, “I’ve never felt happier that the feelings don’t go away entirely than I do right now. Is that selfish of me?”
Wakatoshi reaches his arms around Tooru’s back. He feels like he’s in a dream, the perfect daydream he imagined so long ago where he confessed his love and Tooru reciprocated. “It’s a little selfish,” Wakatoshi admits. “But I’m glad too.”
“You made the right choice,” Tooru says a few weeks later. They’re out at a cafe this time—now that Tooru has permission to leave his house, he does it as much as possible. In the time since Wakatoshi’s confession of unrequited love, there has been a lot of kissing, a lot of physical exploration, a lot of emotional vulnerability. Tooru has dated a lot of people but never gotten close to anyone. Wakatoshi has dated very few people and fallen fast and hard for them. They are opposites in as many ways as they are similar, and each new step in their burgeoning relationship is scary.
“The right choice about what?” Wakatoshi asks.
Tooru shrugs, taking a bite of the salad in front of him. “Not telling me about the hanahaki. When I was younger, I would have been cruel. I’m glad you’re telling me now, when I’m… less.”
“Less what?” Wakatoshi asks, a curious sadness blooming inside of him.
Tooru huffs a laugh. “Less… everything. Uptight. In my feelings. Angry at the world.”
“I don’t think you’re less,” Wakatoshi says. “I think you’re… more. Mature, resilient. Beautiful.”
Wakatoshi says the last one with a red hot blush igniting on his cheeks. It is still new, complimenting Tooru like this, but he loves to do it.
Tooru laughs. “You’re so good for my ego, Toshi-kun,” he says, and Wakatoshi is reminded of Tooru’s first flower.
After dinner, Wakatoshi walks Tooru home. They go on dates now; they have boundaries they respect that will be crossed with time, they have a relationship they’re building slowly, one brick at a time.
At Tooru’s door, they stand face to face. Wakatoshi reaches out, rests his fingers on the smooth skin of Tooru’s cheek. “I love you,” Wakatoshi says, something he was too scared to admit all those years ago. It’s the first time either of them has said it, and it’s only fitting that Wakatoshi be the first one to verbalize his feelings.
And just like that, the dam has opened. Wakatoshi pours out his heart to his first crush, his first love, his new boyfriend. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes. I grew flowers for you and got rid of them, trying to tell myself that it was for the best. And it worked, for a while. But every time I look at you, I fall more and more in love. I’ve learned that experiencing these feelings is okay, that you don’t have to love me back, and my love for you doesn’t have to be crippling. But if there is some way that you could love me too, I want to give you that chance, before I move on. Because that is also something I deserve.”
“Oh, Toshi,” Tooru says, his voice soft and filled with love. “I would be honored to love you back.”
Hana nira had been Wakatoshi’s last flower, a beautiful, bluish-white, star-shaped blossom. A sad farewell. Wakatoshi had never wanted to let the feeling of loving Oikawa Tooru go even as he made the decision to do so.
He feels infinitely blessed that his feelings hadn’t dissolved into bittersweet memories. That Oikawa Tooru is here, now, and that the farewell he had come to terms with so long ago has turned into a beautiful beginning.
He kisses Oikawa Tooru on his doorstep, and thinks of the reason they reconnected. Daffodil, Wakatoshi thinks, narcissus: self-love, ego. But also, respect, regard, new beginnings.
There would never be anything more fitting.