Ship/Member: Minghao/? Major Tags: Hanahaki disease, chronic illness Additional Tags: vomiting, implied (very minor) character death Permission to remix: Please ask
***
The producers like it, at least. After all, what’s more romantic than being chronically heartbroken, spitting out flower petals as a sign of true love?
The reality of it is different, of course. Uglier. A cough that never goes away, a chronic itch at the back of the throat. The occasional flare up, disrupting work or sleep to go cough over a toilet until something comes up, retching sounds loud enough to be unmistakeable.
When Seungcheol got it just after debut everyone at the company was worried, but they’d still put out a press release. Seungcheol told Minghao later that he regretted letting them do it, that if he could go back he would have made a different decision, but Minghao isn’t sure how much say he really had in the first place. The sick part is that it did help Seungcheol’s image — softened him, gave him a sensitive side that fans couldn’t see before — tough on the outside, but tender on the inside. Strong yet delicate. Even now, it still comes up when anyone talks about Seventeen’s leader S.Coups.
No one knew about Minghao yet back then. He was still holding it like a secret, breathing through the urge to cough and drinking twice as much water at practice as anyone else, hoping against his own better judgment that moving so far away would be enough to fix it.
Seungcheol’s condition cleared up in few months — Minghao never asked him what happened, if he talked to that person to clear the air or if the feelings just faded with time.
Seungcheol got better, but Minghao didn’t.
*
The coughing wakes him up in the middle of the night, unwelcome but familiar, and Minghao sits up on instinct to try to clear it, taking slow breaths as he reaches for the water he always keeps on the nightstand.
As he sets the glass back he looks over towards Junhui’s bed to see if he’s still awake, one hand coming up to clutch his chest when he sees the faint light from the window reflected in Junhui’s open eyes.
“Jesus,” Minghao breathes, laughing a little before he forces himself to let out another breath. Junhui doesn’t say anything, just watches him with silent, slowly blinking eyes. Minghao feels himself sliding down the pillows, too tired to stay upright for real, his own eyes drifting shut. Silence spreads between them, as familiar as it is lonely.
“Still?”
Junhui’s voice comes suddenly, so quiet it’s barely audible against the hum of the air conditioner.
Minghao stills, but he doesn’t open his eyes.
He doesn’t answer, either. He knows Junhui doesn’t really need him to.
*
“You should have fallen in love with me,” Seokmin says on a burst of nervous laughter, rubbing one hand up and down Minghao’s back as Minghao presses his head between his knees and tries to breathe. He didn’t disrupt filming, at least — they took a break to reset the lighting, and they’re doing solo shots next. Minghao will just have to go last. He’s sure he can pull himself together before then.
“I would have loved you back,” Seokmin continues. He sounds really genuine about it, like it’s that simple. Like it’s something he could make himself do.
Maybe it is, for Seokmin. He’s full of love in general, the kind words that flow out of him standing worlds apart from the miserable dead things Minghao coughs up.
Speaking of —
Minghao groans and leans forward as a deep cough shudders through him, wincing when he has no choice but to spit it out. He hates this part so much — it burns on the way up, something sharp poking at the back of his throat, and when Minghao leans forward to expect it he sees a tiny sprig with just one tiny blossom, sad and sodden in a puddle of bile on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, flushing, twisting to look for a staff member. He usually carries tissues but they’re filming — bad timing in more ways than one. Seokmin pushes him down before he can stand, though, hands warm on his shoulders.
“Stay,” he says firmly, holding a finger to Minghao’s mouth when he tries to protest until Minghao nods, miserably, and stays.
*
“You really can’t keep doing this,” Mingyu says in the car on the way home from the airport, frowning when Minghao takes in another rattling breath, struggling against the obstruction in his lungs. It’ll feel better if he just coughs it out, he knows, but it’ll hurt so badly on the way up that it’s still hard to make himself do it. He can’t now, anyway. They’re still in the car.
“It’s not on purpose,” Minghao bites out, annoyed. Mingyu knows that — he knows Mingyu knows.
Sure enough Mingyu sighs, some of his impatience leaking out with it. One big hand comes to rest on the back of Minghao’s neck, thumb rubbing against his hairline. Minghao doesn't shrug it off.
“I know.” Mingyu’s voice is very quiet. “I’m sorry.”
Minghao shrugs.
“Inho-hyung — he went with us to Saipan, remember? The one who always wore that red cap — he said that if you talk to the person it can really — ”
“I can’t,” Minghao cuts in, voice flat, as firm as he can get it when he still can’t take a proper breath.
“But — ” Mingyu starts, but Minghao cuts him off again.
“I can’t,” he repeats, and Mingyu stares at him in confusion until —
“Oh,” he says faintly. “Oh god, Myungho, I didn’t — ”
“It’s fine,” Minghao lies, the words heavy like dead things in his mouth. Dead, like —
He swallows hard against the bile that threatens to rise up.
“I didn’t know,” Mingyu finishes on a whisper, eyes wide, so much sympathy Minghao has to look away.
When they get back to the dorm he’s up all night coughing, loud enough to earn a u ok? text from Vernon, followed immediately by a questioning knock against their shared wall. Minghao knocks back right away as he types out an apologetic response, exhausted and humiliated and alone, always alone.
He doesn’t regret it, even now. His head and stomach ache from coughing and the back of his throat burns, but he still doesn’t consider giving it up.
After all — if he lets this go, what will be left? If Minghao doesn’t hold onto the memory, who will?
[FILL] the part of me that's already buried
Major Tags: Hanahaki disease, chronic illness
Additional Tags: vomiting, implied (very minor) character death
Permission to remix: Please ask
***
The producers like it, at least. After all, what’s more romantic than being chronically heartbroken, spitting out flower petals as a sign of true love?
The reality of it is different, of course. Uglier. A cough that never goes away, a chronic itch at the back of the throat. The occasional flare up, disrupting work or sleep to go cough over a toilet until something comes up, retching sounds loud enough to be unmistakeable.
When Seungcheol got it just after debut everyone at the company was worried, but they’d still put out a press release. Seungcheol told Minghao later that he regretted letting them do it, that if he could go back he would have made a different decision, but Minghao isn’t sure how much say he really had in the first place. The sick part is that it did help Seungcheol’s image — softened him, gave him a sensitive side that fans couldn’t see before — tough on the outside, but tender on the inside. Strong yet delicate. Even now, it still comes up when anyone talks about Seventeen’s leader S.Coups.
No one knew about Minghao yet back then. He was still holding it like a secret, breathing through the urge to cough and drinking twice as much water at practice as anyone else, hoping against his own better judgment that moving so far away would be enough to fix it.
Seungcheol’s condition cleared up in few months — Minghao never asked him what happened, if he talked to that person to clear the air or if the feelings just faded with time.
Seungcheol got better, but Minghao didn’t.
*
The coughing wakes him up in the middle of the night, unwelcome but familiar, and Minghao sits up on instinct to try to clear it, taking slow breaths as he reaches for the water he always keeps on the nightstand.
As he sets the glass back he looks over towards Junhui’s bed to see if he’s still awake, one hand coming up to clutch his chest when he sees the faint light from the window reflected in Junhui’s open eyes.
“Jesus,” Minghao breathes, laughing a little before he forces himself to let out another breath. Junhui doesn’t say anything, just watches him with silent, slowly blinking eyes. Minghao feels himself sliding down the pillows, too tired to stay upright for real, his own eyes drifting shut. Silence spreads between them, as familiar as it is lonely.
“Still?”
Junhui’s voice comes suddenly, so quiet it’s barely audible against the hum of the air conditioner.
Minghao stills, but he doesn’t open his eyes.
He doesn’t answer, either. He knows Junhui doesn’t really need him to.
*
“You should have fallen in love with me,” Seokmin says on a burst of nervous laughter, rubbing one hand up and down Minghao’s back as Minghao presses his head between his knees and tries to breathe. He didn’t disrupt filming, at least — they took a break to reset the lighting, and they’re doing solo shots next. Minghao will just have to go last. He’s sure he can pull himself together before then.
“I would have loved you back,” Seokmin continues. He sounds really genuine about it, like it’s that simple. Like it’s something he could make himself do.
Maybe it is, for Seokmin. He’s full of love in general, the kind words that flow out of him standing worlds apart from the miserable dead things Minghao coughs up.
Speaking of —
Minghao groans and leans forward as a deep cough shudders through him, wincing when he has no choice but to spit it out. He hates this part so much — it burns on the way up, something sharp poking at the back of his throat, and when Minghao leans forward to expect it he sees a tiny sprig with just one tiny blossom, sad and sodden in a puddle of bile on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, flushing, twisting to look for a staff member. He usually carries tissues but they’re filming — bad timing in more ways than one. Seokmin pushes him down before he can stand, though, hands warm on his shoulders.
“Stay,” he says firmly, holding a finger to Minghao’s mouth when he tries to protest until Minghao nods, miserably, and stays.
*
“You really can’t keep doing this,” Mingyu says in the car on the way home from the airport, frowning when Minghao takes in another rattling breath, struggling against the obstruction in his lungs. It’ll feel better if he just coughs it out, he knows, but it’ll hurt so badly on the way up that it’s still hard to make himself do it. He can’t now, anyway. They’re still in the car.
“It’s not on purpose,” Minghao bites out, annoyed. Mingyu knows that — he knows Mingyu knows.
Sure enough Mingyu sighs, some of his impatience leaking out with it. One big hand comes to rest on the back of Minghao’s neck, thumb rubbing against his hairline. Minghao doesn't shrug it off.
“I know.” Mingyu’s voice is very quiet. “I’m sorry.”
Minghao shrugs.
“Inho-hyung — he went with us to Saipan, remember? The one who always wore that red cap — he said that if you talk to the person it can really — ”
“I can’t,” Minghao cuts in, voice flat, as firm as he can get it when he still can’t take a proper breath.
“But — ” Mingyu starts, but Minghao cuts him off again.
“I can’t,” he repeats, and Mingyu stares at him in confusion until —
“Oh,” he says faintly. “Oh god, Myungho, I didn’t — ”
“It’s fine,” Minghao lies, the words heavy like dead things in his mouth. Dead, like —
He swallows hard against the bile that threatens to rise up.
“I didn’t know,” Mingyu finishes on a whisper, eyes wide, so much sympathy Minghao has to look away.
When they get back to the dorm he’s up all night coughing, loud enough to earn a u ok? text from Vernon, followed immediately by a questioning knock against their shared wall. Minghao knocks back right away as he types out an apologetic response, exhausted and humiliated and alone, always alone.
He doesn’t regret it, even now. His head and stomach ache from coughing and the back of his throat burns, but he still doesn’t consider giving it up.
After all — if he lets this go, what will be left? If Minghao doesn’t hold onto the memory, who will?
Minghao’s afraid of forgetting most of all.