clockedbunny

[clockedbunny]

Hanahaki

1x1x1x1 & Shedletsky (PLATONIC)

Trigger Warnings:

Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Hanahaki Disease, Vomiting (Flowers), Swearing, Hurt/Comfort/Hurt, Unhappy Ending.

Summary: 1x1x1x1 manages to kill all of the survivors, save for one. And it's just Shedletsky's luck that he's the last man standing. Unfortunately for 1x1x1x1, it's also just his luck that the sickness that's been plaguing him for the past few weeks decides to flare up at the most inane opportunities. (TLDR: 1x1x1x1 has to kill that dumb deadbeat father that he hates WHILE holding a bucket to vomit in. A hypothetical bucket, of course, it'd be stupid to fight lugging a bucket around.)

AN: I forgot I had a tumblr, lol.

Ao3 Crosspost: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63468202

1x1x1x1 hates.

That’s all he knows to do.

He hates, hates, and hates. And when he’s had enough, he cuts down the things that make him hate. He makes them beg him for mercy and blast their vocal cords with sobs and screams before he severs their mind from their body with one fell swoop. And as his Darkheart shimmers with their blood and he stands there, hand tightly wrapped around the grip, his hatred swells and blooms. It’s not the end of it, far from it. It’s not enough. The void inside of him bellows and roars, scratching the sides of his mind and howling at him for more.

More blood.

More gore.

More carnage.

When he doesn’t fulfill its needs, the void curls up against the sides of his throat like thorny vines, jutting into his flesh and making it hard to swallow. 

And it’s all his fucking fault. Holding his bleeding arm tight and taking staggering breaths that sound more like they come out of an iron lung rather than a human, Shedletsky lies in front of him. His back is half pressed against the wall behind him, and his side is collapsed against the other wall on his right. Nothing short of pathetic. A truly remarkable sight for a man of his renown. His curly brown hair is dyed black and matted with layers upon layers of blood gluing them together—some, his; some, others’. Whose, specifically? 1x1x1x1 didn’t give a damn.

Taking slow, deliberate steps, 1x1x1x1 closes in on him. He lets the tip of his Darkheart drag behind him against the concrete as he walks. It makes an ear-piercing screech as it slides against the gritty floor as if it’s screaming with anticipation and excitement. His breathing is even, cool. He ignores the itch rising at the back of his throat. His eyes zero in on Shedletsky’s trembling form and he ignores everything else around him. 

It’s not like he’ll run. He has nowhere to run to, anyway. He made sure of that.

All Shedletsky does is pant, heave, and choke. And it’s pathetic. Truly, pathetic. Seeing him reduced down to such a state, 1x1x1x1 scoffs. He stops just three paces short of Shedletsky and raises Darkheart from the ground so that it’s in front of him—far enough to strike him if 1x1x1x1 wanted. But he holds his temper and remains patient. They’re right where he wants them to be; there’s no need to rush. And, as c00lkidd would say, Ending rounds early isn't any fun.

“Well, well, well, don’t you look swell? I’m really digging the whole… skeletal look you’ve got going on.” Shedletsky manages to laugh for a second before falling into a coughing fit. During it, a big glob of blood falls from his lips and onto his once-white shirt. It was already grimy and covered in dirt anyway, so 1x1x1x1 supposes it isn’t that much of a loss. Once he finishes coughing, 1x1x1x1 frowns and raises the sword to point it at Shedletsky’s throat.

He presses the tip into Shedletsky’s flesh, watching as the man flinches and tries to keep still so he doesn’t cut himself any further. Then, he turns the blade until the flat edge of the blade presses up against his wobbly chin and tilts the blade so that the man’s head tips up towards him. And it’s then that Shedletsky finally looks at him.

“And you, far from it.” 1x1x1x1 pointedly ignores addressing the skeleton comment. Darkheart rattles in his hold and he has to readjust so that it sits nicely in his hand again. “Enlighten me, won’t you? How are you, Creator?”

Shedletsky lets out a nervous chuckle. A short one, though. He stops when he realizes that every time he speaks, the blade presses closer into him. Seeing that, 1x1x1x1 lets up a bit—but only enough for him to speak. He can’t be complacent. Especially not with him.

“I’ve seen better days.” His voice is pinched. Shedletsky takes a deep breath and shakes his head to keep himself awake. “You?”

“I have been fine, certainly better than you.” Hearing that, Shedletsky smiles. Soft and gentle. And wrong wrong wrong wrong. It makes 1x1x1x1 sneer. “What are you smiling about? You have nothing anymore.”

“I have my life.”

“You won’t when I kill you.”

“I know.” Shedletsky looks away from 1x1x1x1 to stare at the sky above them. They’re far away from the city—far from the likes of any civilizations, really. The stars hang above them, free and abundant thanks to the lack of light pollution out here. They glow brightly: red, orange, yellow, white, blue, green. They dot across the blank, black canvas of the sky like little paint splatters shaken haphazardly on by a dog covered in paint. 1x1x1x1 can see a constellation—Lupus (a bygone voice reminds him from the crevices of his memories)—reflected in Shedletsky’s eyes. “But… as of now, I have it. Don’t I?”

1x1x1x1’s hand tightens around Darkheart’s grip. The metal squeals under his fingertips.

1x1x1x1 doesn’t strike him. He strikes the wall behind his head instead. It breaks through the bricks easily, sending chunks of rubble and dust raining down into Shedletsky’s hair.

“You are a fool. Nothing but an insignificant, bumbling fool.” 

“And you, my dear old friend, are as amiable as ever,” Shedletsky huffs as he ruffles through his hair to get the debris out. It’s no use. “Were you always this violent as a child?”

Before he can answer, 1x1x1x1 has to pause. He needs to take a second to bite back the hot, burning void that lies at the back of his throat, itching to break free. At first, it stops when he takes a deep breath. 

The cool air around them floods his lungs and cools his burning throat—as it usually would. But then three seconds pass, and he can feel the vines closing in. He knows what they’re trying to do, but he won’t let them. They ensnare his throat and try to suffocate his lungs.

A cough escapes his lips. Something soft lodges itself at the back of his throat. 1x1x1x1 swallows—a grueling endeavor. The softness travels deeper, back into the void.

He bites back another cough, Shedletsky frowns and opens his mouth to speak. Before he can say anything, though, 1x1x1x1 interrupts him: “You and I both know you don’t know the answer to that.”

“I don’t,” Shedletsky agrees. His brow furrows and he leans a little closer, ignoring the stinging pain Darkheart is certainly inflicting upon him. “Are you alright?”

Before he can reply, jolts of pain flicker through 1x1x1x1’s nerves and he has to bite his tongue to keep himself from screaming. Dull vibrations pulse in his hand as Darkheart rattles in his hold, no doubt trying to keep its owner grounded.

It works. Mostly. 1x1x1x1 manages to snap himself to attention and not keel over onto his knees and become the next laughingstock of the killers. No, that status went to Jason and his plethora of absurd and confounding costumes.

“Of course I am, no thanks to you. Bastard—” And with one last cuss, 1x1x1x1 falls into a coughing fit. 

As Darkheart clatters to the ground beside him, he reminds himself to apologize to the blade later. Now, however, he clutches his stomach with his left hand, using his other hand to cover his mouth and try to keep whatever’s inside from spilling out.

Blood pools behind his fingers and slips through the cracks between his fingers as he shuts his eyes tight and tries to breathe. Almost immediately though, he finds that he can’t. Not with whatever’s lodging itself at the back of his throat and preventing any air from escaping or entering.

They feel soft, delicate, and thin. Like cotton sheets or fabric softener. And, when he swishes them around on his tongue a few times, 1x1x1x1 finds that they taste almost… floral.

Petals.

They’re petals.

Distantly, 1x1x1x1 can make out the vague sound of Shedletsky’s voice trying to speak to him. Why? When he’s trying to kill him? Who knows? It’s probably a hallucination anyway. An illusion conjured up by his fever-addled brain. With a loud cough and a gag, 1x1x1x1 spits out a ball of petals the size of a baseball onto the floor in front of him—right at Shedletsky’s feet.

“What the fuck!?” Shedletsky kicks his feet against the concrete to push himself further back against the wall and away from the amalgamation of godknows how many petals. His eyes rapidly flicker between 1x1x1x1’s eyes, then the ball of petals, then 1x1x1x1’s eyes, then… “What–What the fuck just happened?”

1x1x1x1 wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood coats his skin. He takes a moment to think about Shedletsky’s question, tossing it back and forth between his mind, then he shrugs. “I threw up.”

Shedletsky blinks. 1x1x1x1 stares. 

A full minute passes before Shedletsky throws up his hands and lets out an exasperated groan. He pushes himself up the wall until he’s mostly standing, somewhat leaning on the wall, in front of him. Once he’s steady on his feet, he shoots 1x1x1x1 the most menacing glare the creation has ever seen come of his creator.

“You godforsaken—I can SEE that! Now, can you tell me WHY you did that?”

What does 1x1x1x1 do when he hears this question? Well, he looks at the ball of petals on the floor, sniffs loudly, rubs his nose with the back of his hand, then looks back at his creator. 

“I don’t fucking know.”

“You—!”

Completely setting aside the roles of killer and survivor, Shedletsky places both hands on 1x1x1x1’s shoulders and gently pushes him back so that he leans against the wall. The absurdity of it all stuns 1x1x1x1 long enough for Shedletsky to help him sit on the floor. He takes care to ensure that 1x1x1x1 doesn’t collapse onto the floor as he had before, guiding him down slowly with his hands. After all, he was never one for the old eye-for-an-eye adage. Witnessing it all makes 1x1x1x1 huff.

1x1x1x1 can see Darkheart in the corner of his eye. Right within his reach. Despite that, he makes no move to grab it.

No. Instead, 1x1x1x1 tilts his head at Shedletsky. He watches as the man rifles through his fanny pack, throwing trash and the sort onto the floor. Seeing the growing pile of litter makes 1x1x1x1 wince. 

“Well, aren’t you as clean as ever… What are you doing?”

“Trying to find a way to fix you, so cut the chit chat.” Shedletsky’s thumb lingered over a bandage for a moment before he shook his head and continued searching through his bag for something else. “You’re bleeding internally, aren’t you? It isn’t external, is it?”

1x1x1x1 leans back and folds his hands over his lap, resigning to his fate. “Yes to the first question. No to the second…” He scrunches his brow. “Actually, somewhat to the second. The wounds aren’t deep enough to warrant a visit to a medic, let alone gauze. It’d be a waste.”

“That’s good—” Shedletsky begins.

“It’s because your swordsmanship sucks.” 1x1x1x1 interrupts. He doesn’t catch the shock on Shedletsky’s face because he tilts his head up to look at the stars as soon as he finishes speaking. “The domestic life has made you rusty, Creator. Soft, even.”

“You could use some domesticity yourself, emotionally pent up bastard. It’d probably do you some good,” Shedletsky growled under his breath. He finally managed to find something useful in his bag: a stethoscope.

And why he had that in his bag? Hell if 1x1x1x1 knew.

“I have no time for that.” 1x1x1x1 doesn’t move when Shedletsky kneels in front of him. He doesn’t try to rip the stethoscope out of his hands either when he plugs the eartips into his ears and raises the diaphragm to his chest. And he remains unflinching when the cold metal touches the skin over his heart—where it should be. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t actually know if there’s one there.

With all he knew about the man, he never thought Shedletsky would have added one.

“Your heart sounds fine but there’s something wrong with your lungs,” Shedletsky mutters below, moving the diaphragm over to 1x1x1x1’s lungs. “I think there might be some fluid in there. It keeps crackling. Can you take a deep breath for me? Hold it until I tell you to release it.”

1x1x1x1 complies easily, more than he’d like to. Embarrassingly, it comes as second nature to him. He takes a deep breath and holds it in his lungs for as long as he can. Without making so much as a sound, he pushes past the pain and itchiness he feels as rows of thorns press up against the sides of his throat.

Shedletsky’s eyebrows furrow. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and sticks the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he leans a little closer. 1x1x1x1 knows what it is. It’s his thinking expression. 1x1x1x1 used to tell the man that it made him vulnerable—easier to read. But, in all their years together, his creator never managed to drop the bad habit. Now, it seemed, he never would.

1x1x1x1 manages to hold out for at least five minutes before he breaks: “Tuck your damn tongue back in your mouth. You’ll catch bugs on it if you keep leaving it out in the open like that.”

He does, though not without a witty comment—as per usual. “There you are. Back to your old ways, I see. You were always the stagnant one between you three.” He pulls the stethoscope away from 1x1x1x1’s chest to place it back into his fanny pack. “Grey and Sevenless changed so much over the years. And you, well… You didn’t—Aside from the whole skeleton and jello look, I guess.”

At the mention of his siblings, a heavy, twisted lump forms at the back of 1x1x1x1’s throat.

It presses itself up against the back of his teeth. Painful, painful painful—

Until out comes another ball of flowers.

“And whose fault was that, huh?” 1x1x1x1 heaves, feeling another mass rising from the pit of his stomach. After two coughs, nothing comes up. 1x1x1x1 doesn’t know if that’s a good thing. “Who left me behind, terminated me. And left me to rot?”

Shedletsky says nothing.

1x1x1x1 continues speaking. Jabbing a finger into Shedletsky’s chest until he falls backward onto the ground, he tries to keep his voice level but it rises exponentially like the pressure in a hurricane. “If you didn’t go. If you didn’t leave. Do you really think I would be this way? If you would have stayed, come back and taken me with you, could I have been a good person?”

Shedletsky’s mouth opens and closes, opens and shuts, over and over again, until it settles on being slightly ajar. His eyes rapidly flit across 1x1x1x1’s face. Looking for what? Who knows? Sympathy maybe. Vulnerability, even.

1x1x1x1 doesn’t need him to answer. He already knows the answer anyway.

“No, I couldn’t have.” His hand goes for Darkheart. The metal slots against his fist perfectly. “It’s not in my nature. That’s not why you created me. You made me out to be a villain, so that’s what you and all your puny little friends are going to get.”

He presses the sword against the side of Shedletsky’s neck. The skin gives in easily and a dribble of blood spills down from the slice.

“So why don’t you drop this whole charade and tell everyone the truth?” 1x1x1x1 grits his teeth and brings his arm back.

“You never loved me. You never will.”

Shedletsky slams his eyes shut and tries to bring his hands in front of his face to shield him from the blow, but it’s no use. It never is.

His head falls to the ground with a loud thud. And it keeps rolling until it falls into a bush nearby. His body comes soon after; collapsing to the floor in a sad, pathetic heap at 1x1x1x1’s feet.

And as the blood drips down from his blade, making small plip plip plips whenever it hits the concrete, 1x1x1x1 wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand again. A little white petal sticks to his skin when he pulls his hand away. Annoyed, he flicks it away.

“I hate you. That’s all I’ll ever do.”