Chapter Text
Richie was gagging and retching - throwing up a plethora of flower petals. Pink camellias, red roses, and blue salvias were sprawled across the bathroom floor.
He doesn’t know why he started heaving flowers. The first time he felt pressure against his chest and a small squeeze in his lungs, he brushed it off. The second time it happened, he brought it up to his parents who chalked it up to a simple cold and nothing else. And now, after the third time, he’s finally seen what exactly has been causing these weird chest pains:
Flowers. A great deal of them, he suspects.
Wiping some leftover petals off his lips, he goes to leave the bathroom and returns to class. He’s met with a curious glance from Stan and a worried look from Bill, but nothing else. Taking a seat and opening his textbook, he makes a mental note to visit the library today.
*
When Richie hears the familiar jingle reverberate throughout the school, he packs up and walks towards the bike racks outside, not bothering to send his friends a quick goodbye before doing so. Seating himself on his bike and placing his foot on the pedals, he cycles away - the hot summer air and the bright glare from the sun irritating him as it always does.
Stepping on the brakes as the building comes into view, the wheel skids on the rough road as he ceases movement. He haphazardly gets off and lets his bike fall down to the sidewalk nonchalantly. When he steps in, he’s met with rows of shelves compact with hundreds, if not thousands of books. Scanning the room - he spots a person who he presumes might be the librarian and trudges over.
“Um, could you tell me where the medical section is?” Richie asks the woman behind the counter.
Looking up from her book, she grunts and points to a corner in the library before returning to her book. Ignoring the somewhat cold response, he goes to check the section. Skimming past all the books on the shelf packed all about diseases, he finally finds what he’s looking for.
Lung and Respiratory Diseases
Flipping through the first few pages, he stops at the list of diseases starting with F. He thumbs over the list - stopping at one of them.
Flower Disease
Flower Disease (or Hanahaki Disease) is a disease that mainly affects the lung area. When a person with a case of Flower Disease suffers from unrequited (one-sided) love, flowers will start growing from a stem, slowly filling the lung and discharging the fully grown flowers out the pharynx, causing the victim to heave them out. If the enamored person does not have their love reciprocated, the stem will keep growing until it clogs the lung, causing fatal breathing problems and death. The time for the disease to fully grow and impair the lung depends slightly on the victim’s emotions state, but most people that reject the surgery have a month or two before the illness finally claims their lives.
There have only been two recorded procedures to cure someone that has Flower Disease. The first one is for the person the victim is enamored of - to return their love.
The second is through intensive surgery. Though the approach by surgery will remove the flower and stem from the victim’s lung, it will also take the love (and in worst cases, the memory) of their loved one with it.
Realizing the entry ends there, he closes the book and slowly slides it back into the shelf. He sits there for a while, face looking defeated. Getting up, he trudges towards the exit door, a feeling of slight hopelessness lingering in the air around him - suffocating. That’s when he feels a sort of itch at the back of his throat. He hacks and wheezes, the sound echoing through the library before someone sends an annoyed ‘shh’ at him. He exits the building with haste in his step, finding an alley around the corner. Continuing his coughing fit, he feels something slithering up his throat.
Begonias start spewing from his mouth on to the dirty, sticky alley floor. Slinking down on the ground, he feels his eyes start to sting.
Having ejected every single flower out of his lung, he wipes the tears that have accumulated in his eyes and stands up - feeling weak and tired. Plodding towards his bike, he gets on and cycles back home - wanting to forget everything that’s happened today.
*
It didn’t take long for his parents to notice. He wondered what tipped them off. Maybe it was how his coughing fit lasted for a second longer than it should. Maybe it was how he could be heard late at night, retching in the bathroom. Maybe it was how their toilet was overflown with purple hyacinths.
“Just tell her, son.”
“Stop being so shy, I’m sure she likes you.”
“Do you really want to forget her, son? It’d be a lot easier to just tell her.”
“Just tell her!”
He was exhausted, fatigued, and irritated at how much his parent irked him that he couldn’t be bothered to tell them that it’s a he. But then again, if he does say it’s a he, there’s a 90% chance he’ll get disowned.
He knows how urgent his situation is. If he doesn’t tell Eddie, he’ll die. But he can’t do it. Eddie isn’t gross like you. If you tell him, he’ll be disgusted. He won’t hang out with you anymore. If any of the losers found out, they won’t hang out with you anymore. A voice reminded him constantly. No matter how much he tried to tune it out; it would stay - a deafeningly quiet and persistent buzz in the back of his mind.
So he bears it. He bears the incessant voice in his head. He bears the flowers that he seemed to vomit with no end. He bears the unrelenting harassment that spews from his parents, and he bears the feeling of despair rooted deeply in his heart. He does so until the weight of everything is too much for him, and he caves in - right in front of his closest friend.
“Richie!” Stan rushes over to catch his friend as he collapses. He barely reaches him. “What the hell, Rich?”
He isn’t able to respond as he pushes Stan away with an ‘oomph’. He kneels on both legs, as he looks down, hands making contact with the rough and dirty sidewalk. He starts hacking and wheezing - the scruff and ragged sound scaring Stan. He continues to cough and cough until he feels something come up his throat. He barfs gardenias all over the sidewalk as his eyes start to sting with tears.
When his lungs are emptied and there are no more flowers to be heaved, he leans against a lamp post and sobs into his hands. Stan is quick to console him - rubbing circles onto his friend’s back. After a while of this, Stan finally breaks the silence with an expected yet painful question.
“Richie… Who is it?”
He doesn’t want to say. He can’t say. What if Stan thought he was disgusting? Would he never talk to Richie ever again? Would his best friend leave him to be all alone? The thought is nauseating, more so than all the throwing up he’s done. So he stays silent, his quiet whimpers and his ragged breathing the only noise that can be heard.
Stan holds the quaking teen in a soothing clasp. “It’s okay, Rich. Just tell me who it is. I promise I won’t get mad.” He conveys to the boy, taking care to utilize a soft tone. There’s a bit of shifting before the boy feels a nodding gesture against his chest.
“Promise you won’t hate me?” Richie offers his pinky. It’s childish - he’s aware - but at that moment, he couldn’t give a care.
“Promise.” He says in a light-hearted tone, intertwining his pinkie with the boy’s.
A gulp slinks down his throat as his hands get slick with sweat. “I-It’s Eddie, Stan. I’m in love with Eddie.” Richie says, guilt etched in his face.
He expects to see his friend’s face contort into something of disgust. He expects to see insults to be thrown from his best friend. He expects him to leave Richie on the cold sidewalk, not wanting to associate with such a freak. He expects so many things, but all he gets is a solemn expression on his friend’s face before he feels his two arms pulling him into a warm, protective embrace.
“S-Stan?” Richie stutters out, surprised at the reaction he garnered.
The only response he gets from his friend is a tighter hug. “It’s ok, Richie. You’re ok.” Stan whispers.
And for once, he feels some weight against his chest lift. Tears start forming in the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t care - he lets them flow. The liquid starts staining his friend’s shirt, and he feels shame. Stan assures he’s fine by coaxing his fingers through the crying boy’s hair.
They stay tangled with each other for a while, the embrace lasting for a second longer than he thinks is normal for friends, but he doesn’t care. Stan continues to rub circles into the shaky boy’s back and Richie continuing to cry tears of relief. When the sun starts to set, they untangle themselves from each other. Richie fixes his glasses before standing up, the fatigue causing his movements to be sluggish.
“Thanks, Stanley. I could always rely on you.” Richie says, beaming.
“Of course, Trashmouth. Anything for a friend.” Stan grins.
As the sun finally relinquishes into the night, they give each other a quick hug before waving goodbye. They get on their bikes and cycle to their respective houses. Richie reaches his home fairly quickly. Inside, he realizes the house is empty. Must be going out Richie thinks to himself as he plods upstairs to his bedroom. He lays on his bed and pulls his covers on top of him. Closing his eyes, his consciousness starts to drift away before sleep consumes him.