drowned me in a wishing well

[nightburst]

TITLE: drowned me in a wishing well
FANDOM: Sengoku BASARA
CHARACTERS: Mouri Motonari, Otani Yoshitsugu, Chousokabe Motochika
WARNINGS: Choose not to warn.
WORD COUNT: 2,106
CHAPTERS: 1/1
SUMMARY: Motonari, against all odds, contracts the hanahaki disease: an ailment where a person harboring unrequited feelings spits up flower petals. If those feelings remain unrequited, they shall die.

“It’s no concern of yours,” Motonari tells anyone brave or foolish enough to ask.

 

It’s merely a basic viral infection, Motonari tells himself, one that has presented no symptoms other than a stubborn cough that has been steadily growing in its intensity over the past week. There is the dull pain in his chest, the ache when he breathes, but it’s hardly worth commenting on.

 

He resolves to ignore these things and proceeds as usual.

 

Two weeks pass.

 

Three weeks.

 

It takes about a month before the self-delusion shatters as he coughs up monkshood petals into the palm of his hand.

 

He knows what this is and why he’s not going to get better.

 

He doesn’t want to accept it.

 

---

 

“I hear you’ve taken ill, Motonari,” Otani says in a voice laden with false concern. “How terrible for you.”

 

Motonari would not feel any particular sympathy if he were in Otani’s position, but the hidden sarcasm in his words irritates him anyway.

 

If it were sincere, it might kill him.

 

“Yes, a tragedy,” Motonari says blandly. When he inhales, his lungs burn. He’s used to it. “I believe we had something to discuss?”

 

“Right you are,” Otani says, unfurling a map for the two of them to read.

 

---

 

Otani stares with pitch-dark eyes at the mess of bloody purple petals staining the center of the map.

 

“The hanahaki disease…?” he says slowly. “I did not take you for the type.”

 

Amusement creeps into his tone, then.

 

“Nor did I,” Motonari growls, catching his breath and wiping the blood away from his mouth.

 

“This is quite an unexpected development,” Otani continues. He puts a hand to his chin. “A lovelorn Mouri Motonari…”

 

“Be silent, Otani.”

 

“But who could be the object of your curious affections? That unruly pirate, perhaps?”

 

“Perish the thought,” says Motonari, scowling, and Otani chuckles.

 

“It is more a shame than I thought to see you’re unwell… Such a nefarious illness,” says Otani. “Our time together will grow shorter than I anticipated.”

 

Motonari heaves violently and another shower of reddened monkshood spills from his lips.

 

“We -- will continue our discussion at a later date,” Motonari states, clearly intending that his word be final.

 

“Is that wise?” Otani asks, understanding Motonari intentions but ignoring them. “I am no physician, but we both know your situation is unlikely to improve.”

 

It goes unspoken that no one in their right mind could ever love Mouri Motonari, and Mouri Motonari could never come to terms with loving another.

 

His ultimate fate is certain. He will not die at the hands of another: he will die choked by flowers and roots, his disgusting infatuation taken physical form.

 

“Do not worry, my friend,” says Otani evenly. “I will not abandon you in your time of need.”

 

Leave me, get out of my sight, Motonari thinks.

 

“How kind,” Motonari says.

 

---

 

Romance is such a childish concept; the concept of one-sided affection pathetic. The hanahaki disease was an ailment only suffered by the foolish and the weak. Motonari, the most intelligent man residing in Japan, a being of logic and reason, would never fall victim to such a thing.

 

He’s not sure why the resilience of his loveless heart faltered, or where the cracks in the armor were. His emotions have betrayed him.

 

It isn’t as if there is anything to like about Otani Yoshitsugu, Motonari thinks to himself sourly. He is the sickly madman who rambles nonsense about stars and does a terrible job of pretending to have good intentions for anyone. Only that brain-dead rabid dog called Ishida Mitsunari can’t see through him.

 

Ishida, the person closest to Otani. No matter what he may say, Otani’s fondness for Ishida is evident. That thought makes what must be jealousy stir inside him. In turn, the flowers come pouring from his mouth. It’s painful, it’s only getting more and more painful, but he endures.

 

Motonari can’t reason himself out of the hanahaki disease. He can dwell on Otani’s many inadequacies all he likes: nothing changes. There is something about that wretch of a man that he is drawn to. Intellect, perhaps? Otani is a fool in many ways, but to say that he’s completely stupid simply isn’t accurate. And to deny that they have a rapport would be a lie.

 

Despite everything, Otani is not a wholly unpleasant individual. If he were to perish on the battlefield, it would be a shame.

 

This is the most he can admit to himself.

 

---

 

Otani, to the best of Motonari’s knowledge, does not let it slip that his co-conspirator is suffering from an ailment so uniquely humiliating to him. Either “shameless gossip” is not one of his personality traits, or he has enough fondness for Motonari not to ruin his reputation for a cheap laugh. Whatever the case, Otani does not deliver any blows to Motonari’s already damaged pride.

 

Motonari has been lucky so far. The sun has had mercy on him, and he has managed to stifle his coughing fits while in the presence of others. There would be no explaining away the flower petals if his men saw. There is not a single person who wouldn’t know what that represents.

 

He could always kill any witnesses, but depending on the size of his crowd, he might not have much of an army left afterwards. Pawns are only pawns, but using them wisely changes the game. He must behave in accordance with what one would expect of a genius tactician like himself and not sacrifice them with reckless abandon.

 

He prays to the sun once again before he heads out for the day.

 

---

 

He doesn’t enjoy growing bonsai any longer.

 

He’s sick to death of plant life.

 

“Fate is cruel, is it not?” Otani says, examining one of the potted trees. “Aspirations and ambitions can be dashed in the blink of an eye, and you are left with nothing but your misery.”

 

“You’re projecting, Otani,” says Motonari, devoid of inflection or emotion.

 

“Am I, though?” Otani asks. “A young, brilliant mind stricken with debilitating disease… we are one and the same, Motonari. Does it not fill your heart with hatred? Do you not wish misery on the world that dares to exist free of what plagues us?”

 

“I am beginning to see where your priorities lie,” Motonari states.

 

(When was the last time it didn’t sting to breathe? He doesn’t remember.)

 

Otani continues, unfazed. “I wonder if you resent the one you love for burdening you so?”

 

Motonari, to his own surprise, thinks about that. Does he resent Otani? Can love and resentment for a single individual co-exist? It’s hard for him to say, knowing so little of the way the human heart works.

 

He does feel resentment, but its target is muddied in his head. Maybe the only one he resents is himself.

 

“You aren’t certain,” Otani says as if this is an entertaining development.

 

“Ultimately, of what concern is it to you?” Motonari asks.

 

“Why ever should I not show an interest in your state of affairs?” Otani asks. “We’re partners.”

 

Motonari feels like he’s choking. His eyes go wide; a hand flies to his sore throat.

 

A thick red petal with a strange texture hits the floor in a spray of blood. The pungent stench of a rotting corpse permeates the room.

 

“What a curious flower, smelling of death,” Otani says slowly, quietly, floating closer to both the petal and Motonari. “I can only wonder what sort of person would elicit the birth of such a ghastly thing within your lungs… A foul being to be sure…”

 

Motonari breathes hard, each inhale and exhale labored.

 

“Absolutely wretched,” he confirms.

 

“...How unexpected,” Otani says. “I’m flattered.”

 

He laughs.

 

Motonari gags as another rafflesia petal forces its way up his throat. Otani watches with no concern, only fascination, relishing the sight of flower-vomit and the pain written in Motonari’s face.

 

But Motonari does not hate him for it.

 

“I do not wish for your death,” then says Otani, in a quieter, darker voice. “But, you must understand… I cannot prevent it.”

 

And Motonari does not hate him for that either.

 

 ---

 

The next time he addresses his men, crimson-stained petals hit the floor, and the air reeks of rot.

 

---

 

“My sons-of-bitches were right...”

 

The pirate stands before him, anchor slung over his shoulder. The boisterous oaf appears somewhat disturbed.

 

“How did you get in here?” Motonari demands.

 

“Front door,” Chousokabe says, half-shrugging. “Y’know, I thought I’d be happier you’re gonna be outta my hair soon. But knowin’ it’s ‘cause even a slimy bastard like you can love…” He shakes his head. “Leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

 

The floor is a bloody, floral mess.

 

Rot, death, rot, death, rot, death, corpses, corpses, corpses -- the odor overwhelms the senses, leaves visions of war-torn battlefields in both their minds.

 

“I do not want your pity,” says Motonari, cold as a glacier.

 

“And I don’t wanna feel pity for the likes of you, but here we are, both feeling shit we don’t want,” says Chousokabe. “You don’t care, but I said I’d pass the message along, so… Tsuruhime says ‘get well soon and don’t give up on him’. Guess she can forgive anything so long as love’s involved. ”

 

“Naive child,” Motonari murmurs to himself.

 

“Yeah,” says Chousokabe. “Just like you.”

 

“What?” Motonari asks, frowning sharply.

 

Chousokabe re-adjusts the position of the anchor balanced on his shoulder and starts to pace the floor, avoiding the blood and flower petals.

 

“You heard me. Thinkin’ you’re above basic human emotions and all. And now look at you. You think you’re so smart, but you sure as hell didn’t see this comin’.”

 

Mouri Motonari. Lord of Chugoku. Exalted child of the sun. A man who thought himself capable of casting aside all emotion as it suited him.

 

Yes. He was naive. And that mental admission only makes him hate Chousokabe more.

 

“When I got the news, I thought my men were bullshitting me. Hanahaki? Mouri? No way! Feels weird knowing you’re not a heartless monster,” says Chousokabe, and then he turns a piercing glare on Motonari. “Still a monster. Just not a heartless one.”

 

“I would rather be heartless,” says Motonari.

 

“You’re a weird guy, you know that?” says Chousokabe. “I don’t get you at all.”

 

“There is no one who can claim to understand me,” says Motonari. “I am at peace with this.”

 

“Even Otani?” Chousokabe asks, raising a doubtful brow. “You don’t care if he understands you?”

 

Motonari flinches for a split second.

 

“...It appears you have overstayed your welcome, pirate,” he says frostily, malice dripping off his words. “Begone from this place, and Chugoku.”

 

This order is not particularly intimidating to Chousokabe, not when Motonari lacks both armor and a weapon, and certainly not when this proclamation is followed by Motonari doubling over, coughing up a heap of corpse flower petals until he can barely breathe from suffocation and stench.

 

Chousokabe doesn’t balk at the awful sight. It’s only routine for a warrior to witness the grotesque.

 

The pity in his lone eye lingers, a dimly simmering flame.

 

“Get the hell off my island,” Motonari snarls, mouth dripping blood.

 

“Dunno what else I expected,” Chousokabe says bitterly.

 

He turns his back and saunters away, hearing the sounds of retching and the thunk of heavy rafflesia petals hitting the floor behind him.

 

 ---

 

breathing hurts breathing hurts breathing can’t breathe breathing can’t breathe hurts

lungs hurt chest hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts

blood spatter flower petals blood spatter flower petals

stench of rot death rot death corpses corpses corpses corpses corpses corpses

otani

otani

otani

chose ishida

 

 ---

 

“Do forgive me,” he hears Otani say.

 

There’s roots in his lungs. Flowers in his lungs.

 

Stinging, burning, choking.

 

Stinging, burning -- His eyes are --

 

He’s --

 

He doesn’t want to die. The Mouri Clan --

 

The sun, the sun can’t save him, and --

 

And --

 

Damn Ishida Mitsunari to hell.

 

“You may think me a liar, but truly, I did not desire this outcome,” he hears Otani say. “But death comes for us all, in the end. One way or another. It is the only fairness we are granted.”

 

Otani laughs.

 

Motonari coughs floral and red.

 

“You are the most beautiful picture of misery,” he hears Otani say.

 

“I did like you,” he hears Otani say.

 

“I look forward to seeing you on the other side,” he hears Otani say.

 

These words are not enough. Not really.

 

But Motonari will take whatever scraps he is given.

 

He has fallen so far.

 

“Ah, Motonari, the sun rises,” he hears Otani say.

 

He feels the warmth of the sun on his face

 

and then nothing else.