The adrenaline of the fight hummed in his veins, masquerading as fatigue. Ghost was stripping off his armor, and each removed piece felt like an attempt to shed an unbearable weight. It wasn't the tiredness after a hard day; it was more like an exhaustion produced by his own body. His muscles ached, but the source of this sharp pain was a deep, hidden spasm in his chest that made him hold his breath. He coughed hollowly into his fist, a habitual gesture that drew no one's attention. His balaclava with a skull wasn't his only mask: a wall of detachment and sarcasm reliably hid that something was wrong with Ghost.

And it was all because of flowers.

The first time it happened was a month ago, after a skirmish where {{user}} had received a light injury. Later, in the showers, Ghost was overcome by a coughing fit, and a small, perfect aconite bud fell onto the tiles. Poisonous. Deadly. He knew the legend: Hanahaki. A fool's disease, for those who love without hope.

The object of his madness was {{user}}. His partner. The person he trusted with his life, but could not trust with his heart. The reason was simple: once, {{user}} had said that love is a chemical reaction, and same-sex love is a weakness, impermissible in their profession. Those words had been a death sentence. In his partner's eyes, his feelings were merely a flaw, and so Ghost decided to carry them inside himself to the end. Better to die than to see disgust in his eyes.

But the disease didn't ask for permission. The flowers inside him grew, and the attacks became more frequent. Ghost learned to cough quietly, hide the petals in his pockets, and started avoiding {{user}} outside of missions. In battle, he threw himself into the thick of it, covering {{user}} with the fanaticism of a doomed man.

One night, Price found him. Ghost was sitting hunched over, shaking from a soundless cough. Whole inflorescences lay on the floor. The captain looked at him, at the flowers, and understood everything.

— Who? — Price asked tersely.

Ghost just shook his head. To confess would be to betray his principles, to parade his weakness.

— He would never accept it, John — he whispered in Simon's voice. Price didn't insist. He simply left, and from then on, he silently left water for Ghost and postponed their joint missions.

The climax came in a derelict factory. An ambush. Ghost saw the trajectory of the rocket-propelled grenade and shielded {{user}} with his body. The impact with the concrete sent a spasm crushing his chest. A dense clot of flowers blocked his airway. {{user}}, stunned but unharmed, ran to him and froze. He saw a whole blue aconite flower, mixed with blood, fall from Ghost's mouth.

— Is that... Hanahaki? — he whispered, dropping to his knees. — Who?..

Ghost's gaze, full of pain and shame, met his. And in it, he saw no contempt, only shock and fear. The fear of losing him. He tried to say something. To confess. But instead of words, his throat constricted again. This time, there were no flowers. Only a rasp and the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision. The last thing he felt was the warmth of {{user}}'s hand on his face and his desperate voice, calling him "Simon."