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gdrawsthings · 6 years

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Of broken hearts, of broken lungs

Pairing: Valdemar x Apprentice; mentions of Julian x Apprentice (depending on personal interpretation) Genre: Angst, Gore, No happy ending, Hanahaki disease Rating: Teens+ Warnings: explicit gore Word count: 4120

A tall, lithe figure watches you from a distance. You’re putting on your lab clothes and surgical mask before entering the infected area with a couple of other doctors, and, even down here, you’re the only one except for them that is still able to crack a joke, with the difference that Valdemar has only ever been able to creep everyone out, while you somehow manage to make them laugh with your friendly and whimsical nature. Even them, no matter how many times they listen, could bring themself to hate that ring in your voice, and sometimes they wonder if it is what you say or if it is you yourself that makes them feel this alien warmth inside their chest from time to time.

They catch one last curling upwards of your lips before you cover them with the white fabric and walk through the gate. What has just made you smile so sweetly just now? Their clever, crimson eyes look at how you subconsciously cover your mouth, even when the mask has already been placed over it, as you laugh, before deciding that they really need to focus on the infected eye bulb they’re currently dissecting.

“Good morning, Doctor,” you say as you approach their table, and they can hear in your voice that the smile is still on your face.

“Good morning,” they reply. They act as if it is the first time they’ve lifted their eyes from their test subject; for some reason, they feel that they needed to hide that you had already distracted them.

You converse for a few minutes about nothing in particular; things like the weather, a passage in the last book you read that made you think, how you found a loose strand of thread on your skirt. You’re probably the only human being they don’t hate to have some small talk with. They even enjoy it, to an extent. It’s just that you can never seem to run out of things to say to each other, and it’s so… refreshing.

“That’s because I find what you say endlessly interesting, Doctor Valdemar,” you tell them in pure frankness in answer to them voicing that thought.

Amazed, Valdemar doesn’t know how to answer, so they just take advantage of the mask they are also wearing to cover whatever expression they are making – they really have no idea –, and simply change the topic to the red sclera of the eye between their fingers.

They’re thankful you don’t notice how stiff they have become when you, deeply fascinated as always, close the distance between yourself and the doctor to watch closely as Valdemar lists in detail all the components of the organ.

Endlessly interesting. Can you imagine? They think that what I say is endlessly interesting, they repeat over and over inside their head, privately smiling to themself as the hours pass.

For the next few days, they try to ignore, with little success, how this one simple thing you said won’t stop replaying on loop in their thoughts.

Quite frankly, this is embarrassing.

Your eyes sparkle as you read a medical book. You’re sitting on the floor of the laboratory as you turn the pages and look at the beautiful anatomical drawings, the heavy leather cover resting over your legs, and you look so peaceful, and Valdemar thinks that it wouldn’t be so bad to just watch you reading forever.

“Enjoying your read?” they ask you from their standing position on the other side of the lab.

“Very much so,” you chirp with the sweetest expression on your face.

They linger in the sound of your little laugh, and, even if they won’t admit it to themself yet, they fall just a bit harder, right then and there.

Weeks have passed, and it’s around the days in the Gemini-Cancer cusp when Valdemar coughs up a long and silky something for the first time.

When they look down at the object they are clutching in their hand, they see a couple of bright orange and indigo petals, and they recognize them immediately. They belong to a flower called “bird of paradise”. They would know: they’re your favorite flowers – Valdemar remembers you mentioning the fact one time at the lab, after which they had immediately done some research to know how they looked like, how to take care of them and where to find them.

As far as they know, they haven’t eaten any flowers lately, and they’re pretty sure none of their subordinates tried to suffocate them with petals in their sleep. Also, unfortunately, strelitzias have never been imported to Vesuvia, which begs the question: how in the world did they end up inside Valdemar’s mouth?

They cast a brief glance at you: you’ve been talking with one of the doctors during your break, one of the tall ones, a red head. Doctor 069, if they remember correctly, the one that doodles a lot. Seems like their cough momentarily interrupted the conversation you were having, but, after your question if everything’s alright and a simple nod from Valdemar, you resume talking with the Devorak guy as if nothing had happened, and Valdemar can’t quite figure out the reason behind the irritation they feel as they look at the two of you standing close to each other.

Unable to find an answer for whatever strange event just took place – probably something magical in nature –, they tuck the petals away in the front pocket of their apron and decide that they will need to think about it later.

“How does it feel?”

Valdemar looks up from the surgical tools they’ve been cleaning after the last mess at the lab and meets your gaze. You have this habit of asking incomprehensible questions, lost as you are inside your head, and then not explaining yourself, which sometimes irritates them. This is one of those times, so they slowly turn a pair of scissors to check for residual blood stains, making their disinterest in such a vague question clear before asking for clarifications. They sigh.

“How does what feel like, if I may ask?”

“You know…” you explain, suddenly a little self-conscious, “being there when people die, I guess. Watching the light leave their eyes, experiencing their despair, all the time, every day.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend, doctor Devorak,” they tell you, their voice coming out more bitter than they had intended, and they feel something like a lump forming in the lower section of their throat.

“I’m sure he will be glad to answer any question of yours thoroughly.”

“But I asked you” you insist, sounding almost offended for some reason. They really can’t understand how you think, sometimes.

How troublesome.

No one has ever asked how Valdemar feels, and they never even thought it ever mattered, so they need to take a few minutes of silence to reflect on what they’re going to say as they rummage through their tools. When they’re done, Valdemar then regards you with cold eyes and, reluctantly, answers.

“I learned not to care about the emotional implications of death. My job does not require me to. It would be a hindrance, in fact.”

You seem dissatisfied with the answer, judging by the deep frown on your face, and that doesn’t make Valdemar happy at all. You open your mouth to say something, just to close it soon after. After a few moments, you seem to have gathered the courage to speak again.

“… What if it was someone you love?”

Their heart skips a beat. Strange.

Someone I love…

The very idea seems foolish to Valdemar. The only thing that they can say they love is their job. One could even say they’re married to it. They don’t need anything else, they tell themself, even while looking at you. They half-heartedly dismiss the possibility saying:

“It wouldn’t make any difference. Everybody dies, magician-”

“Not if we can do anything to stop it,” you suddenly shout.

Valdemar twitches. They didn’t expect you to sound that angry, or angry at all for that matter, but you do, and they can’t help but feel accountable for it.

Disappointed, you storm out the room, not even bothering to say another word, and the door shuts loudly behind your back.

Valdemar coughs. The petals clogging their trachea are so long that they need to pull them out using their fingers, and the way it feels as they slide up Valdemar’s throat is awfully similar to vomiting.

Their beautiful colors, mixed with spit and a few drops of blood, shine under the flickering light of the oil lamps.

They look so pretty, just like you is their daring thought, and Valdemar’s chest feels tight.

Valdemar happens to be looking in your direction as you pass by three books on a shelf. The middle one is slightly slanted to the side. The title interested you enough to pick it up and read its cover. After a couple of minutes, you carefully put it down.

You don’t seem to really like how it was placed before; they can tell from the hint of dissatisfaction on your features, one they learned to know well through the weeks you spent in each other’s company. You make a little more space for it so that its back can be fully touching the back of the shelf now. Still not convinced, you adjust it so that it’s placed like before, just for you to decide against asymmetry and place it again on the shelf in the way you had firstly intended.

Valdemar quietly chuckles at your adorable indecision. You don’t notice them looking at you, and they feel both like they are scientifically observing your behavior and like they are blessed to be the only one able to see how you act when you think no one is watching.

The moment is brusquely interrupted when Doctor Devorak calls your name. Such an irritating voice, Devorak’s. He wants to ask your opinion on one of his cases, and you are quick to comply.

He has the audacity – the nerve! – to touch your face in order to adjust a lock of hair behind your ear, and Valdemar finds it absolutely unforgivable.

You laugh and smile at him, and Valdemar can see your affection for Doctor 069 blooming inside your pupils.

Valdemar wants to push Julian, to kick him, they want to throw him out of his laboratory and to rip his hair off and to scream and to cry.

And they hate it.

Such repulsive feelings inside their heart are useless. Utterly, utterly useless. So why can’t they get rid of them?

Valdemar laughs at their pitiful self in the quiet of their office, and chokes on the petals that flood their mouth as they do so.

When the Count appointed Valdemar as Head of Research for the plague, they knew it would be a gruesome job. He had given them no guidelines whatsoever for their experiments, and, as his own life was on the line, Lucio had made it very clear from the start that he had no time to worry about moral codes, and that the doctors he hired should do the same. Needless to say, Valdemar disregarded and still disregards ethics with pleasure time and time again. The end justifies the means, and they are willing to make use of any means possible, so long as they get to have fun while doing it.

Their insatiable curiosity, at the core of the true calling of medicine for Valdemar, has always outweighed any genuine concern for the victims of the epidemic. Curiosity for the nature of things, for how they function, for how substances interact with each other to create a new one with characteristics unique to itself, and the need for a better understanding of the human body have always been the deepest reason behind their every action. Far from having any philanthropic sense of obligation towards others, Valdemar genuinely feels compelled to study phenomena, to propose hypotheses and to face risks in order to gain answers, or maybe more, stranger and more exciting questions, wherever they may lead; all in the name of what they like to call an “instinct for death”. And that means that they feel no guilt whatsoever in playing even with their own mind or body, so long as it doesn’t compromise Valdemar’s ability to function.

And this time, it seems like they will be forced to play, whether they want it or not.

…

They’ve been researching on their peculiar condition for a while now. Only one forgotten scroll in the restricted section of their medical library seems to hold the answer. The results are… interesting, to say the least.

“Hanahaki byou (花吐き病) or Hanahaki Disease is a rare chronic condition of yet unknown cause, characterized by recurring attacks of intense nausea, followed by vomiting flower petals, sometimes abdominal pain, fatigue, fever and respiratory problems. As the vomiting doesn’t involve the digestive system but the respiratory one, acid and bile won’t pile up, resulting in dry discharge, which can prove to be equally if not more abrasive to the inner walls than regular vomit. If it is severe enough or the petals scrape the trachea during an attack causing internal wounds, the sufferer may also vomit blood. Sufferers may retch up to 15 times in one hour, depending on the gravity of the condition. HHD typically develops after-”

…

Valdemar’s hands twitch as they hold the scroll. It can’t be it. They’re not the type to fall victim of something as trivial as-... They can’t be suffering from-

“- heartbreak.”

…

Valdemar’s face scrunches up in confusion. The word sounds way too strange when coming from their own mouth, as if it weren’t supposed to ever fit in there. When they say it out loud, it feels clumsy, and weird, and wrong. They’re not supposed to pronounce it. They’re not supposed to feel it. They’re not supposed to-

“Valdemar? What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?”

You. Of course it’s you.

“I could be asking the same of you.”

They were so preoccupied they didn’t hear you approaching the library’s restricted section, which made them jump a little when they heard your voice calling for them. Your hand is resting on an old column, a precaution against tripping in the dark.

“I couldn’t find you anywhere else, so I came down here. I just wanted to ask you about-…”

Valdemar swallows, trying to ignore the irresistible tickle low in their throat as your eyes meet. The urge to cough is too strong, but they can’t show you the petals. They stand up shakily and put on a smile, but you’re way too clever not to notice the façade they’re putting on.

That’s why they fell for you in the first place.

“Are you alright?” you ask, tentatively. They know you know. You can see something’s wrong, as you always do. Your keen, delightful eye for detail recognizes insincerity in their expression, so Valdemar evades the problem by giving you their back as they close the scroll and put it away.

“Yes, yes. I’m perfectly fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare my table for tomorrow morning’s dissection.”

Before you can inquire further, Valdemar mutters a farewell, quickly slides past your petite form and almost stumbles on the stairs leading to their office. They close the door behind them as quickly as they can and put gauzes between their teeth to muffle the sounds of yet another violent coughing fit. They fall on their knees clutching their chest in unbearable pain.

When they try to catch their breath, it only makes it worse. This time they find themself truly unable to stop coughing and vomiting. And it’s only thanks to the adrenaline in their veins that they somehow manage to stop as soon as they can hear you jiggling the doorknob in vain.

“Valdemar… Valdemar please, I need to know what’s wrong,” you shout from the other side of the door, and there is panic in your cracking voice.

You wait in silence for an answer that never comes.

“I’ll… I’ll be out here for anything, okay? I will call Julian too if you need another pair of hands.”

I will call Julian. Huh.

Valdemar, frustrated, twists their free hand, the one that is not holding the gauzes over their mouth, in their apron.

They hate that name.

They despise the coiling anger in their guts whenever you pronounce it.

They hate the feeling of loss for something that was never theirs to begin with.

They hate the grief that you make them feel.

“Go away.”

…

“… please,” they correct themself at the last second, as calmly sounding as possible, hoping that they didn’t sound too out of character.

You hesitate for a moment in front of their door, then they finally hear your steps getting farther away, until they can’t be heard anymore.

They resume coughing up a maelstrom of petals and blood to the point they could scatter them around and cover their office’s entire floor with them and still have some petals left. Valdemar picks them up one by one and throws them all in the fireplace, careful not to leave the littlest trace of them anywhere.

…

From that day on, you periodically stare at them with concerned eyes, Valdemar notices. Sometimes, when they catch your gaze fixed on them from your table at the lab, you look like you want to soothe their weariness away, somehow. You don’t know it, but there’s nothing you can do to help them. This will not get better. Not naturally, at least. There is only one way to survive.

I need to operate.

The evening of the next day, Valdemar makes sure they are the last person left at the laboratory before locking the gate. They personally escort you out, almost forcefully when you try to resist and stay, but, as much as they enjoy your company, this is something they need to do alone.

They prepare the stage as calmly as they can, hanging a large mirror on the ceiling over the operating table, and take their time to gather all the tools they will need for the operation. Once they begin, they will not be able to walk away and get the ones they have forgotten.

Almost an hour passes before they are sure they can commence.

With cold blood and precision, without even flinching, Valdemar makes an incision into the side of their own naked chest, one that follows the curve of their ribs. If they were operating on anyone else they wouldn’t need to, but in order to see if they’re doing it right, their hands are forced to move through the blood and open flesh to remove part of their ribs. Sweat falls down their temple and between their eyes and is caught on the fabric of the surgical mask, the falling of each drop going unnoticed by their focused crimson glare. The pain is almost impossible to bear as they remove a portion of the rib bone to access the lung, but they can’t afford to faint in the middle of the operation.

This is what I have come to, Valdemar ponders as they catch the first glimpse of an explosion of bright colors under the ribs reflected on the mirror over their head. It’s truly a wonder to gaze at: the roots of the flowers are tangled like cancerous tissue all over their lungs, in a horrible mess of green vines and burgundy, suffering organs. No wonder they were struggling to breathe, when the long leaves and the beak-like sheaths of the flowers were invading their entire respiratory system so violently that they could very well pass for hard iron thread clenching a wet sponge.

It takes many hours of cutting, draining pleura and blood and making space for their fingers to move between the bronchi to remove all of the plants growing inside and outside the lungs, inside their throat and extending all over their ribcage, and Valdemar unwillingly cuts off portions of both organs when the flowers’ clenching power resists even their hardest attempt at taming them. Once they’re done, they’re weak, but at least they can breathe again.

Valdemar’s heart breaks for the last time when the last of the petals falls on the ground, a beautiful, bright stripe of orange swaying from the open air to the ground as Valdemar’s eyes follow it and tears fill their vision.

Their body is finally freed of the disease. With it comes un uncomfortable sense of emptiness that they only notice once they’ve stitched themself up and are putting their clothes on again.

Now there’s no burden left to bear inside their soul.

“Good riddance” are the first words that escape Valdemar’s lips in the silence of the empty laboratory after the lobectomy, and it is with some bitterness that they acknowledge they are truly speaking their mind.

They do not smile.

“And what is your favorite flower, Doctor Valdemar?” you asked that day, months ago. “Don’t tell me it’s the corpse flower, I will not accept that as an answer, it would be way too predictable.”

“As much as I am fascinated by the amorphophallus titanum’s smell and shape, no, I would not call them my favorite flowers,” Valdemar replied, their expression smug as they saw you trying to figure out what flower they could possibly favor if not that one.

“Oh. Oh! It could be the snapdragon seed pod! Everyone says they look like a dragon, but I disagree; they resemble little skulls much more than dragons to me. Or the voodoo lily, that one’s pretty evil looking, no? Oh, but wait, the voodoo lily is not a flower per se…”

They let you ramble about strange plants and gesticulate with your hands, almost hitting a colleague’s face while doing so, for a couple more minutes, amused by your unexpectedly wide knowledge of peculiar plants. In the meantime, they calmly adjusted their headpiece, hiding the few strands of hair that had come out of it during the long hours of work. They finally told you in the seconds you took to catch your breath.

“Rainflowers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “… Wait, really? Rainflowers?”

“Yes, the white ones.”

“I know them. They’re very pretty. They mean “I love you back” in the language of flowers, if I remember correctly. Am I right?”

“Yes. At the same time, they mean “I must atone for my sins”.”

You grinned. “And how many sins do you have to atone for, Doctor?” you asked playfully.

“Probably more than I think. Just like the rest of us.”

In the following days, Valdemar resumes their work as if nothing happened. They greet you as they have always done for the few months they have known you. But something doesn’t feel right.

Somehow, Doctor Valdemar acts much more coldly towards you than before.

Small talk is reduced to the minimum, and most of your interactions are now limited to the strictly professional.

It hurts. So much.

Is it because of something you have done? You can’t be sure. But Valdemar would certainly tell you if that were the case. They don’t like to bear grudges or to leave things unsaid, even and especially when they’re hard truths. That’s one of their qualities you admire the most.

But if one thing is certain, it’s that something is terribly wrong with your friend and mentor, and there must be a really good reason they suddenly shut you out like that.

You try to ignore the change as best as you can, but… you miss how things were before.

You couldn’t truly understand how much you longed for Valdemar’s company until you got deprived of it, even if you could call most doctors at the lab your friends.

But Valdemar is not most doctors.

Valdemar is important to you.

Truly, truly important.

While you’re sobbing, you feel a tickling around your larynx. You try to clear your throat, but you gasp instead, and after a few coughs, you choke out a small white petal.

You cough a few more, and they land here and there on the floor of your room.

… Rainflowers?

Stained by a couple of blood drops, they remind you of Valdemar’s beautiful, intelligent eyes. Dejected, you press them to your lips before throwing them away.

One day, when they look in your direction just in time to catch you spitting them out and clumsily trying to hide them from view, Valdemar feels relieved.

If they still had a heart, they are sure that in that moment it would be breaking again.

#i used vicky's favorite flowers for it but i kept all pronouns gender neutral #hanahaki has always been my favorite fanfiction trope #i couldn't not write at least one fanfic featuring it #it's so angsty and dramatic and gothic #it's perfect #valdemar #quaestor valdemar #the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana (game)#the arcana fanfic #julian devorak #apprentice (the arcana)#g has a pen

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