Archive of Our Own ^beta

It really wasn't an earth shattering moment, brought on by something incredible that stood out against the mundanity of the life they've settled into. They'd been sitting together on the couch, all three of them, some show or the other that Anya had been interested in watching playing on the TV. Anya had fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the program, her head on his lap and her legs across Yor's, covered with a blanket. It was comfortable, and Loid had been content to lean back on the sofa, feeling Yor's warmth at his side and only half focusing on the show. Then she'd shifted a little, and he'd absently turned to glance at her.

That was when it happened. It had felt like a sudden warmth in his chest, and he found that he couldn’t look away from Yor’s soft smile, illuminated by the gentle glow of the TV. She looked so content, peace in her red eyes, her arm around Anya. He could feel his face warming, and for a moment his thoughts shuddered to a halt. Then he tore his eyes away and the moment passed as quickly as it came. The warm feeling lingered, though, and suddenly he was acutely aware of the fact that at some point, something had changed in his perception of Yor.

He didn’t address it, not as the warmth seemed to spread when they eventually got up to go to bed and Yor smiled at him as she wished him goodnight, Anya in her arms. Not even as he smiled back, more fondly than he could help. No, it’s not until it’s been three hours of staring at the ceiling above his bed, that the gravity of the situation hits him.

Loid is not stupid. He wouldn't be WISE's Twilight if he was. The risk of falling in love is always there, and so are the repercussions. It’s just never been an issue for him before. None of his previous marks have moved him to the point of messing up his composure like this. It’s a liability he can’t afford, personal investment in people involved in your missions is the fastest way to put yourself (or them) in danger.

Yor’s smile pops into his head again and derails his whole train of thought. Sighing, he rolls over, trying and failing to tamp down the sudden giddiness that overtakes him at the memory. He’s not a teenager, for heaven’s sake, he’s not about to get all flustered. The only thing to do is to try and carry on as normal, hiding the fact that just Yor’s presence is enough to brighten his whole day and set his heart hammering away in his chest.

It’s not like it’s come out of left field, either. Yor is a beautiful woman, the perfect mother to Anya and the perfect wife to him. To his cover as Loid Forger, that is. He frowns involuntarily, chasing away the mild feeling of disappointment at the reminder. Ultimately this is all just a ruse. His feelings don’t matter. All he has to do is make sure they don’t get in the way of his ability to do his job. He risks more than just his life if he does, it could put Anya and Yor in danger as well.

On the bright side, maybe it could help him sell the whole perfect family image even more, as a husband who is actually (though accidentally) in love with his wife. Ignoring the longing in his chest, he shuts his eyes firmly. Operation Strix will be completed, he will leave, and Yor and Anya will learn to live without him. He will learn to live without them. These feelings don’t, can’t, change that. He won’t allow this to become an issue.

It immediately makes itself an issue the next morning, in the middle of the hustle and bustle of getting ready. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Loid stares blankly at the petals in his palm. They’re rose petals, as red as his wife’s eyes. He doesn’t have time to think about the fact that he just coughed them up, as Yor comes into the bathroom, asking if he’s seen her earrings. He makes an effort to maintain a veneer of calm as he helps her find them, though his thoughts are a mess, and his emotions are a whirlwind of confusion and fear. She seems to notice something is wrong, glancing at him with thinly veiled worry, but he does his best to act like everything is fine, herding her out of the bathroom and towards the door.

He makes an excuse about needing to look through some stuff before work, and keeps it together until Yor and Anya are out of the apartment. Yor gives him one last long look as she closes the door, and he shoots her a smile that he hopes is convincing. Then, for the first time in a long time, Twilight panics. Willing himself to calm down, he goes over what he knows about the situation. One, he’s in love with Yor. Two, he coughed up a handful of rose petals the day after acknowledging that he was in love with Yor. These two points lead to point three, which is that he likely has hanahaki disease.

As if to confirm his assessment, a sudden cough tears through his chest. He feels the petals before he sees them, blood red against his palm. The disease causes the affected party to slowly suffocate from a flower growing in their lungs, and is triggered by unrequited love. It’s more common as a plot point in those soaps some people like to watch, but it does happen to people in real life. He lets out a shuddering breath, grabbing some tissue and moving to dispose of the petals in the kitchen bin.

He’s quickly becoming overwhelmed by the implications of this newest roadblock, so he grabs his hat and coat, resolutely pushing down the ever growing urge to cough. Setting off at a brisk pace, he wills himself to calm down. It won’t do to let the neighbours find out. It doesn’t look good for a man in a seemingly happy marriage to suddenly develop a disease associated with unrequited love.

Entering the WISE base, he wonders briefly if he should go to Handler about it. There are (sparse) hanahaki protocols in place at WISE, mainly because it isn’t guaranteed to happen in every case of unrequited love. And most agents either didn’t fall for their marks, or were good enough at their jobs that the marks were sufficiently in love with them that unrequited feelings were never an issue.

Either way, he has two options. See if he can get the flower and the petals removed via surgery, or die of suffocation. There’s a third option, namely that he could try and get Yor to love him back. Or try and convince himself that she does, at least. He scraps those two options without a second thought.

He never expected his feelings to be returned. He's sure that as far as Yor is concerned, their relationship is fundamentally transactional. They may have come to really care for each other over time, but it’s never been romantic. Yor has never shown any indication of having feelings for him, not like that, and he’s done his best to accommodate that. He doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries. And it will be easier on her when he inevitably has to leave that way.

She also seems immune to all his usual seduction tactics. It feels wrong to even try his usual methods, and Twilight laughs at the feeling, earning him an odd look from a passing agent. He’s dying, literally, and he’s still concerned with ensuring Yor’s comfort.

He’s oddly relieved when he finds Handler’s office empty. Perhaps it’s out of some sense of wounded pride over the fact that he, supposedly Westalis’ best spy, is dying because he fell in love with his fake wife. Or because of that drive he has to avoid worrying people at any cost. He picks up the topmost mission from the stack of folders on her desk, ignoring the other two. Today’s workload will have to be light.

The day passes, and his mind is not on the mission at all. The tickle in his throat won’t go away, and every red petal reminds him of the source of his situation. Not that he blames her. Not in the slightest, this is all on his failure to keep himself in check. Between bursts of gunfire, he wonders where he went wrong.

When had cordial greetings and a mere veneer of warmth turned into genuine joy whenever he saw her? When had that careful distance he’d always tried to maintain between them turned into a near irrepressible urge to gather Yor into his arms and hold her like he plans to spend the rest of his life with her?

The urge to cough presses in his throat, and he irritatedly turns his attention to the last gunman. He wonders what Yor would say if she knew. Stepping out into the now quiet warehouse and finally giving in to the coughs clawing at his throat, he decides between handfuls of petals that she never will.

Crushing the petals, he strides out of the warehouse, mind racing. He’s heard that the pretense of requited love is sometimes enough to get rid of the disease. It’s a psychological disease as much as it is a physical one, likely triggered by the belief that the love in question is unrequited rather than the solid fact of it being unrequited. He doubts Yor could fool him into thinking she loved him, even if he were to tell her what was going on.

The obvious choice here is the surgery. But to his surprise, even as he crumples another batch of petals into his handkerchief, Twilight finds himself hesitating.

The most common and current form of hanahaki surgery would remove the flowers, but also his feelings towards Yor. If it turns out to be an especially rare case, it may even remove his memories of her entirely. He can’t risk that. He doesn’t want to. For the mission, but also for part of him that can’t bear the thought of everything ending like this. Of having to leave Yor and Anya due to something so entirely out of his control.

The thought makes him feel small, a tiny dot of a sailboat adrift on a big ocean that seems intent on sinking him. Uncertain. He doesn’t like it.

Ignoring the growing sense of dread in his gut, he makes his way back to fill a mission report. He’s just putting it on Handler’s desk when she comes in through the door, startling him. Embarrassed, he clears his throat as she raises an eyebrow at his uncharacteristic lack of spatial awareness.

“Everything alright, Twilight?” she asks, moving behind the desk. He nods, wondering if he should tell her. The cough that cuts off what he was going to say next makes the decision for him. He watches in resignation as Handler’s eyes widen at the sight of the red petals.

“Hanahaki,” she says flatly, staring at him incredulously. “You’ve gone and gotten hanahaki.”

The words hang in the air between them, and spoken out loud it feels more concrete. He sags into one of the chairs in front of the desk, rubbing tiredly at his face. He doesn’t feel the need to explain everything, it’s a pretty self explanatory situation.

“Yeah,” he says, eventually. “What do you suggest I do about it?” He’s not going to beat around the bush. If she knows, he might as well see if she can help.

For a moment Handler doesn’t say anything, staring at him with an unreadable look.

“There’s surgery for it,” she says, and there is slight exasperation in her tone. “But there are…..side effects.”

Twilight sags further into the chair. “I know,” he says quietly. “What do you suggest I do,” he repeats, keeping his tone neutral despite the rasp in his voice from all the coughing.

A pained look flits across Handler’s face, gone before he can fully register it. “WISE protocol suggests that you get the surgery,” she says, crossing her arms. “Despite the fact that it’ll almost definitely remove all your feelings towards her, it’s the most certain way of making sure you don’t die.”

“A lack of emotional attachment may also make you more efficient in your work,” she says quietly, after a pause, like it’s an afterthought. “And the chance of memory loss is practically insignificant.”

Twilight looks down at the petals in his handkerchief, and thinks of Yor - her laugh, her disarming sincerity, the smell of her shampoo, her presence in their home and in his life. An unbearable feeling fills his chest. It’s yearning, and someone in his line of work should not yearn. He nods solemnly, and pretends not to notice how Handler’s shoulders sag slightly.

“I’ll look into arranging it,” she says, tone back to business. “It may take a while, so do your best to keep this on the down low. It progresses differently for different people, but the symptoms are typically not too serious for the first few days.”

He nods, and gets up to leave. Handler seems to have been through this before with other agents, and he’s not sure if that’s comforting or not.

“Wait,” Handler calls, still behind the desk. He stops, looking at her inquisitively. “WISE protocol says you should get the surgery. I agree. But I also suggest you talk to her.” Handler makes eye contact with him from across the room, and he nods without responding.

“Seriously, Twilight,” she says firmly, and turns back to her work. He steps out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Taking a deep breath, he steels his nerves. For now he just has to figure out how to hide it until he can decide what to do about it. A few days should be enough to reach a decision. The coughing hasn’t reached the stage where it’s impossible to brush off, and well placed slights of hand can make sure no one notices the petals.

By the time Loid reaches home, his throat is raw, and he’s had to get rid of more petals than he can count. It’ll be a miracle if Yor and Anya don’t notice that he’s sick, he thinks, stepping into the house with a sigh. At least coming home this early would probably mean that no one is home. Moving on autopilot, he pulls off his shoes, and hangs up his coat.

When he turns around Yor is standing there, and he blames the exhaustion for the small yelp he lets out. Taken by surprise for the second time in one day. He’s really off his game. She looks at him with concern, and he straightens up, hoping she didn’t notice his split second slip in composure.

“Yor, hi,” he says, wincing at how out of breath he sounds. “I didn’t expect you to be home so early?”

“They’re doing maintenance in our part of the building, so they let us leave early today,” she says softly, staring at him with those red eyes. It’s his job to read people, to find what makes them tick and how to use that to the advantage of his mission, but sometimes he’s frustratingly helpless when it comes to Yor. Her gaze pins him in place, and though she often easily believes his lies, sometimes he feels like she can see right through him. This time, she looks like what she sees worries her.

“Ah,” he replies, dumbly, and he can’t meet her eyes. There’s so much he wants to say. He resents that the tentative peace they’ve been building has been disrupted because he couldn’t keep his feelings under control. He hates the fact that the small mistake of loving his wife comes with such a hefty price tag, and hates that it’s affecting her like this. He’s sorry he’s made her worry. He’s scared. For Operation Strix, for him, for them. He doesn’t want to die. He voices none of these sentiments.

“A patient cancelled,” he says instead, attempting to smile Loid Forger’s most reassuring smile. “So I took the opportunity to come home and catch up on some missed sleep.”

Yor smiles back, but it’s a hollow imitation of her usual smile. She can clearly tell that something is wrong. Guilt mixes into the messy jumble of feelings swirling in his chest. He’s the cause of the anxious concern in her eyes, and the knowledge sits like a vice around his heart. Nevertheless, he mumbles something half-hearted about heading to his room, and shuffles past her.

A hand on his arm stops him, and he turns to find Yor looking at him with open worry. His traitorous heart does a flip in his chest.

“I hope you know that if you need someone to rely on, I’m here,” she says, and her tone is sincere. “We may not be married for real, but I’m willing to support you whenever you need it. I know you’d do the same for me.”

He nods mutely, a lump in his throat. He wants to thank her, to confess, to say something, anything.

“I’m okay,” he manages, after a moment. “I think it’s just a cold or something.” Something akin to disappointment flashes through Yor’s eyes, but she nods, her hand falls from his arm as he moves to continue towards his room. He misses her warmth immediately.

He feels her gaze until he reaches the room, but doesn’t dare to look back at her. Numbly, he changes out of his clothes and flops down onto the bed. It’s still daylight outside, but his chest is starting to hurt from more than just his emotions. He spends the rest of the evening in a haze, working through some WISE files, reading, coughing, trying not to think about the sincere look Yor had given him in the corridor.

He hears Anya come back a few hours later, and after a while there's a tentative knock on his door. It’s Anya, looking worried and holding a mug of tea.

“Are you sick, Papa?” she asks, looking up at him with wide, worried eyes. Loid smiles down at her despite the pain in his throat.

“It’s just a cold,” he says, soothingly. “Don’t worry.” Anya doesn’t look convinced, and he feels bad that this is affecting her too. She’s always been oddly perceptive, if Yor noticed something was wrong there’s no way she didn’t. She holds out the mug to him, and he takes it gratefully. The warm liquid soothes his throat, and he lets out a sigh of contentment.

“That’s really nice,” he says, trying to cheer Anya up. “I feel better already!”

“Mama made it,” Anya says, green eyes sparkling. He chuckles and pats her head with the hand that isn’t holding the mug, ignoring the ache in his chest. Absently he wonders what will happen if he doesn’t make it through this disease. He’s sure Yor would take care of Anya.

He misses the way Anya flinches suddenly, small hands grabbing at his shirt.

“Papa will get better, right?” she asks, voice small. Surprised at the urgency in her voice, he hesitates minutely before he answers.

“Of course,” he says, lightly. “Don’t worry.” Even after the surgery, Loid Forger would still be the loving father and husband Anya and Yor know, no matter that as Twilight he would no longer feel anything for Yor. It’s a bit of a hollow reassurance, but it’s the only one he has. At least things would carry on normally for them, on the surface.

Anya gives him a long look. “Papa has to get better,” she says, firmly. “Every part of Papa needs to be fine again.” There’s a gravity to her expression he can’t quite figure out the cause of, but he nods, and smiles as she leaves with a promise to bring back more tea.

Night falls, and his sleep is plagued with feverish dreams of a world where the sight of Yor leaves nothing but a dull echo in his chest, and of a sea of rose petals rolling in unrelenting currents that suffocate him until he’s gasping awake, coughing into the waste paper basket at the side of his bed. The coughs come from his chest now, and he hopes he isn’t waking Anya and Yor.

They’ve both left by the time he manages to drag himself out of bed in the morning, throat on fire and mind hazy from lack of sleep. There’s a note from Yor on the kitchen counter, and a thermos of tea. It’s a small thing, but it makes his heart twist in his chest.

Still, this is not the worst condition he’s been in, and he prepares for the day as usual, taking extra care to gather all the petals to dispose of them. A mere lung disease will not make him sloppy, not when he’s survived gunshot wounds and head trauma under way worse circumstances.

Handler seems to think otherwise.

“Go home,” she says, the moment he steps into her office.

Twilight stares at her incredulously. “Aren’t we short-staffed right now?”

Handler shakes her head. “Hanahaki gets worse quicker if you partake in physically demanding activities. So go home. The mission backlog is not that high, and none of these are time-sensitive.”

He raises an eyebrow at the stack of mission briefs on Handler's desk, which is taller than it was yesterday. She waves her hand at him dismissively.

“I’m looking into avenues for the surgery. Let’s not risk something dangerous happening before that, alright?” She turns back to her papers with an air of finality, and he’s left to make his way back out into the streets.

It’s only midday, and the streets are lively with people taking their lunch breaks. Stopping at a crossing, he absently wonders who will cook for Anya and Yor if the surgery doesn’t come through. And if it does, if he’ll remember that Yor hates spinach, or that Anya will only eat olives if they’re on pizza. He’s not sure what exactly he stands to lose as a side effect of the surgery, and it bothers him.

He’s passing a flower shop now, and a bouquet of red roses nestled in the display of colourful flowers catches his eye. The irony doesn’t escape him as he smiles at the shopkeeper and asks how much it costs.

It’s a good cover, he tells himself, as he carries the bouquet home. The perfect way to excuse any stray petals that he might miss. It’s also because Yor has been down, and the combination of his condition and her downturn in mood could lead to outside speculation that could shatter their family. That wouldn’t do for the mission.

Perhaps it’s because he may be dying, but he doesn’t squash down the small part of him that admits that it’s also because he misses Yor’s smile.

Reaching the apartment, he looks for a vase for the flowers, setting them on the kitchen counter of the shelves in the hall. He’s not sure what time Yor will come home, but he wants to give them to her himself. Winded, he sits down for a moment on the couch. He’s got things to do, but a moment of rest won’t hurt.

It ends up being more than a moment, because suddenly he hears the sound of Yor’s voice, gently calling his name, and opens his eyes to a much darker living room. He blinks groggily and finds that he’s sprawled out on the couch, still in his work clothes. Yor looks concerned, but also slightly amused. Huffing, he sits up, smoothing out his rumpled waistcoat. Clearing his throat in an attempt to regain his composure (and also to stifle a cough), he turns to smile at Yor.

“You’re back,” he says, glancing at the clock. It’s past 5, he realizes with a start. The lack of sleep from the previous night and the exertion from all the coughing had really knocked him out. “Where’s Anya?”

Yor frowns. “She’s gone to stay over with a friend,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I thought you knew?”

Ah, yes, that was today. He almost kicks himself for forgetting, Anya had been talking about it for a while. Yor’s expression is unreadable, and he winces.

“Are you sure everything is fine?” Yor asks, concerned. “You usually don’t forget things to do with Anya.” She’s right. He’s played the attentive father for so long now that it’s out of character for him to forget something like this. So much for keeping up appearances.

He shakes his head, weakly. “I’ve just been a bit busy lately,” he half lies smoothly. “And this cough is making me a bit tired.” He feels like it’s more suspicious if he doesn’t mention the cough, especially after the racket he no doubt made last night. Perhaps he should ask Handler to find him somewhere else to stay until the surgery has been arranged, just so he doesn’t further disrupt the peace and cause Yor to look at him with that pained expression.

“Would you like some tea? Lemon and ginger are good for coughs,” Yor asks, and he nods, sinking back into the sofa. He waits until her back is to him before yielding to an oncoming cough, expertly hiding the petals in his handkerchief.

A sudden exclamation from the kitchen reminds him about the flowers. He pushes himself up and makes his way over, savouring the way pleased surprise momentarily chases out the worry in Yor’s expression .

“I saw them on my way home,” he says, leaning against the wall. “I thought you would like them.” Red has always been her colour, and the flowers perfectly match her red eyes that soften at his words. In some messed up way, it’s almost poetic that his hanahaki flower is a red rose. Red roses for Yor, red roses to say ‘I love you’.

“They’re beautiful,” Yor says, smiling softly. “Thank you, Loid!” Her smile, small as it is, does wonders for his tired mind, and he smiles back, genuinely.

The telephone rings, interrupting the moment.

“Forger residence, Loid Forger speaking.”

“Twilight.” Handler’s voice filters in through the phone, and her tone is somber. “I have bad news.”

Dread pools in his gut, sudden and fierce, and he swallows harshly.

“The hanahaki specialist we usually work with is being investigated by the SSS. We don’t know when they’ll let him go, so his practice is closed for the foreseeable future.”

His head spins, and he can’t find any words to say.

“I’m looking into alternate surgeons, but it will be difficult to find one as precise as our specialist. The mortality rate is a lot higher in civilian hospitals, due to the relative uncommonness of the disease. And we also have to be careful not to compromise you.”

Vaguely he’s aware of Yor moving in the kitchen behind him, and he forces himself to project some semblance of calm.

“I see,” is all he manages to say back, and Handler sighs.

“I know this is not ideal, but it’s not hopeless,” she says, but there’s a note of weariness to her voice that scares him. “I’ll keep looking, and if push comes to shove we can see if we can move you to see a Westalian specialist.”

Agents in deep cover rarely leave the country, he knows, but he thanks her anyway.

“Did you talk to her?” Handler asks before he can hang up. He doesn’t respond, and from her sigh he knows she understands that he hasn’t.

“Your life's on the line, Twilight,” she says, simply. “Be ready to receive future communication.” The click of the phone hanging up barely registers in the numbness that descends on him, Handler’s words ringing in his ears. It takes about a fortnight for hanahaki to become incurable. His chance of survival is slim.

It’s not like he’d never thought about dying, but admittedly he’d expected it to be in a battlefield or in the midst of an armed confrontation somewhere. Maybe, if he was really lucky, of old age, after a life of giving everything to keep his country at peace. Not from a disease that slowly squeezes the breath out of lungs, just because he had the audacity to fall for his fake wife.

He’d let his guard down, he'd flown too close to the sun. Its warmth had been too much to resist for the man underneath the many facades that made up Agent Twilight. He has made his bed, and now he has no choice but to lie in it.

“Who was it?” Yor calls from the kitchen. Her eyes are bright and she’s gathering ingredients, waiting for him to help prepare dinner. She’s made him a cup of tea, and it sits on the kitchen counter in the mug she knows he likes. He wants both to laugh and to cry.

What kind of half-baked agent puts his mission and the peaceful lives of millions of people at risk because he can’t keep his feelings for one woman in check? He’d never failed to keep his feelings on a tight leash before. But he’d never also been faced with Yor. Yor, with her heart of gold, her surprising strength, and her ability to catch him off guard like no other. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he plasters a smile on his face and goes to join her in the kitchen.

“Just work,” he responds, tone as neutral as he can possibly make it. If he’s going to die, he’s not going to make it a problem for her.

They spend the next few days blissfully. It’s the weekend, and he takes his family out to the beach, and to that amusement park that Anya had always wanted to go to. He spends the evenings chatting with Yor, savouring every smile and every laugh she graces him with. He cooks their favourite foods, buys peanuts for Anya, and they all watch the Spy Wars specials together.

Behind the scenes, he takes hushed and sombre calls from Handler, and prepares a cover story to use in the event of his death. Operation Strix is temporarily on hold, and Loid Forger can put all his energy into making sure his wife and daughter are happy, just because he wants to. Just because Twilight wants to see them smile, just a little more, before he loses the chance to forever.

Sometimes he gets the feeling that they both know something is wrong. Anya is happy to spend all this time with him, but occasionally she looks at him like she’s scared he’ll disappear, and she seems incredibly tense whenever he coughs. She clings to him more now, and sometimes she looks like she’s about to cry, seemingly out of nowhere. She’s always been really perceptive, he thinks, gathering her into his arms to soothe her. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

She’d stared at him seriously as he tucked her in one night, her little hands holding her chimera plushie close.

“Anya loves you very much, papa,” she said solemnly. “And Mama loves you very much too.” He blinked, surprised, then laughed and ruffled her hair.

“Glad to hear it,” he’d said softly, ignoring the twinge in his heart at the earnest look on Anya’s face. “I love you both very much, too.” He’d ignored the way his hands shook as he turned off the light and stepped into the corridor, head down to hide the tears pricking at his eyes.

Yor hides it better, but in the casual atmosphere of their shared evenings she can’t help but look at him worriedly every time he coughs. He has to actively fight off the urge to just tell her everything. The death of Loid Forger has always been inevitable. This has only accelerated it a bit. So he holds back, even as she looks at him with eyes full of feeling, and even as they fall asleep on the couch together, her head on his shoulder.

Five days after the first petal makes its appearance, he’s woken up by a sharp pain and an irrepressible urge to cough. He stumbles out to the bathroom, coughing petals into the sink. It’s getting worse, he thinks weakly, tasting blood in his mouth and feeling the scratch of thorns in his throat. He stares down at the mess of petals in the sink, hazily wondering how he's going to clear them all away.

A sudden gasp from the doorway sends a chill down his spine. Whipping around, he finds Yor standing there, eyes fixed on the red stain the petals make against the white of the sink. A million thoughts go through his mind at once. He thought she’d left already, and so he hadn’t locked the door. Cursing his complacency, he flips through the excuses he’d prepared in case this happened.

“Is that- is that blood?” There’s a tremor in Yor’s voice and the panic sets in before he can decide what excuse to use.

“Yor, I-” She cuts him off, rushing to his side.

“Is this what was wrong?” There’s hurt mixed in with the rising panic in her voice. “This is serious, Loid! Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve…” She trails off, taking a second look at the sink.

“Are those.. petals?” Her panic gives way momentarily to confusion. She steps back, eyes searching his face. He tries and fails to avoid her piercing gaze.

“You’re..” Her eyes go from the petals, to him, and then back to the petals. Realization settles into her expression, and she lets out a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

“It’s hanahaki,” she says softly, more to herself than to him. Tears well up in her eyes. “You’re dying-”

The tears spill over and Yor is crying, and Twilight wishes he was anywhere but here, anyone but the person responsible for making Yor cry.

“This is all my fault,” Yor manages to say between sobs, and Twilight wants to reach out and comfort her, but he doesn’t dare.

“It’s not your fault Yor,” he says softly, leaning against the sink. “I’m responsible for my own feelings.” He’s scared, terrified even, of how she could react to the almost confession, but at this point, he really has nothing to lose. A part of him is tired of fighting, and the knowledge that probably the only sure way of saving his life now hangs in a cloud of uncertainty emboldens the recklessness he usually works so hard to keep in check.

“But if I hadn’t asked you to be my fake husband, if we hadn’t started this, maybe you’d- maybe she’d-” She chokes on the words, trembling hands moving up to cover her face, and it hits him that she doesn’t realise that it’s her that he loves.

“I can leave, if you want, I can help explain everything, I have to fix this-” The desperation in her voice strikes him to the core. His days are numbered, and Twilight is tired of denying the yearning that sits entangled with the roses in his chest.

“It’s you, Yor,” he says, simply. “I’m in love with you.” There it is, out in the open, and Yor’s sobs die down, her red eyes rising to meet his.

She doesn’t say anything, her mouth open in shock, staring at him like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“I know it’s not appropriate, given the arrangement we have,” he continues, shifting nervously under her gaze. “I wasn’t going to act on it, but as you can see,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the petals, “Fate had other plans.”

Yor remains quiet, staring at him with wide eyes, and the suspense is the worst torture that Twilight has had to endure in his entire career.

Then Yor’s brow furrows. “It can’t be me,” she says, and for some reason she sounds puzzled. “It can't be, because then it wouldn’t be unrequited?”

There’s a moment of total silence. Then Yor flushes red as she realizes what she’d said, sputtering out jumbled justifications and excuses, but Twilight hears none of it.

It wouldn’t be unrequited.

“Yor,” he says, unable to hide the desperation in his voice. Yor doesn’t seem to hear him, still fumbling through her words. He grabs her by the shoulders and looks her in the eye.

“Yor,” he says again, urgently. Yor’s mouth snaps shut, but she won’t meet his eyes, face burning. “What do you mean it wouldn’t be unrequited?”

Yor looks down at the tiles, fiddling with her hands the way she does when she’s nervous. She lets out a long sigh.

“I’ve been in love with you for a while,” she says, tentatively looking up at him. “I know our family is just a facade, but I love who you are when we’re here together, and with Anya.”

Twilight is speechless. For the first time since that first petal he dares to hope, and it’s like water to a man who's been lost in the desert for days.

“It’s different from the you that you show everyone else,” Yor continues, picking up courage. “When I said I was happy to have married you I meant it. I can’t imagine being this comfortable with anyone else.”

They stare at each other for a moment, and Twilight can physically feel the tightness in his lungs fading away. A wide smile breaks across his face, and before he can stop himself he’s wrapped his arms around Yor, pulling her close. She moves with him, clinging to him like he might disappear from her hold at a moment’s notice, letting out a giddy laugh.

They stand like that for a long time, holding on to each other like a lifeline and basking in the warmth of the assurance of requited love. Neither of them say anything, what they feel is enough for the moment. The adrenaline and stress of the past five days seems to melt away, and Twilight is hit by a relief so strong that it makes his knees weak and his eyes watery.

“I don’t think I can ever look at red roses the same way again,” Yor mumbles into his chest, eventually, and he laughs.

“I’ll buy you red tulips from now on, then,” he replies jokingly, tightening his arms around her. She giggles, and his heart is mercifully light.

Later, he’ll update Handler and get a check-up to make sure his lungs are fine. A lot later, he’ll have to navigate through the end of Loid Forger and Operation Strix, and the potential fallout of it. But for now, all of that takes a backseat to the feeling of Yor in his arms. For now, he's content to cherish the feeling of being loved back.