The third day was the most fucked-up day of his life.

Bakugo threw up. Not once, and not “by accident,” but long and painfully, until his stomach spasmed and his hands shook. He doubled over right in the school bathroom and barely managed to lock himself into a stall before some half-formed shit came out of him.

He sat there with his forehead pressed to the cold wall, breathing heavily and cursing everything in existence.

It wasn’t a cold.

And it wasn’t overexertion.

Katsuki started to suspect. But, as always, he chose denial.

He washed his face, rinsed his mouth, wiped his skin with his sleeve, and went back to class as if nothing had happened. His head was buzzing, his chest burned, and there was a lump in his throat that refused to go away.

That kiss surfaced before his eyes again.

Izuku.

Kirishima.

And that happy, satisfied smile.

Bakugo wanted to punch them both. Especially Deku.

On the fourth day, he caught himself watching them. Unconsciously, almost mechanically. He searched for their looks, gestures, accidental touches, as if hoping to see something wrong. Something that would prove this was all a mistake.

But Kirishima and Midoriya behaved as if nothing was happening. Laughing, talking, training—just like always.

And that pissed him off more than anything.

If they were suffering, Bakugo would’ve felt better.

If they were fighting—same thing.

But they were happy.

His throat was being torn apart by coughing, worse and worse. He coughed until his vision darkened and his chest felt crushed from the inside. He was sent to Recovery Girl again, given pills again—pills he didn’t even bother taking.

Katsuki didn’t need a diagnosis.

He knew.

The morning of the fifth day put an end to it.

He woke up choking and in pain, not immediately understanding where he was. He threw up again—right onto the floor, between the bed and the nightstand. He stared at what lay in front of him and felt everything inside go cold.

Yellow petals.

Small, crumpled, sticky with saliva and blood.

Tulips.

Katsuki laughed. Hoarsely, painfully, almost soundlessly.

Hanahaki.

Fucking hopeless love, if Wikipedia was to be believed.

Hopeless.

Meaningless.

And empty.

Love for Deku.

He kept throwing up. The petals scattered across the floor, his hands, the sheets. His throat burned, his lungs felt like they were tearing apart, and tears streamed down on their own, no matter how hard he tried to stop them.

He slammed his fist into the floor, growling, cursing Izuku, Kirishima, himself, and this entire fucking world.

Why him?

Why not someone else?

Everything inside him was ripping apart from the pain, like fireworks exploding right in his chest.

And Katsuki knew—he didn’t have much time left.

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