Chapter Text
Of all the things Viktor thought would kill him, it somehow makes sense that the one currently winning out is his own stubbornness.
He's grown very familiar with the limits of his own existence. Precisely how far he can walk, with or without his brace, his cane. On a good day, on a bad one. How long he can sit in one position before his back begins to protest and how long he can ignore it before it becomes nonnegotiable. With proper support. With none.
Most recently, how much time he can spend in the presence of one Jayce Talis before the urge to cough becomes too much to ignore, and he has to excuse himself to the nearest restroom so that he doesn't see the petals.
Viktor sees himself out of the lab and darts across the hall to the single-stall restroom (for as much as he can dart anywhere on a medium-pain day), a floral, acidic taste already in his mouth. As soon as the door locks behind him he's backed against it by the force of the cough, sticky petals and bitter iron crowding his tongue. He spits them into his hands with a grimace, studying the shapes of them. Nothing new, this time; the marigolds seemingly banished from his lungs for now. Instead it's merely the usual suspects: some soggy yellow puffball that he hasn't bothered to identify despite Sky's irate insistence, and the ever-present pale purple roses that have been there since nearly the beginning.
He sighs down at them and shuffles to the sink, letting his crutches fall against the wall with a too-noisy clack so he can hold onto the basin while he coughs some more. Violet and gold rain into the sink, blurred by the watering of his eyes. God, he hasn't had an attack like this in weeks. He'd thought maybe things had died down a bit (something the flower sickness was, of course, commonly known to do, in almost zero cases) since the damn marigolds. Since Jayce had been so…busy, he'd said, his unusual schedule effectively halving the amount of time they'd spent together since the ren faire.
Something frustratingly reminiscent of the hurt that seems to summon the marigolds simmers in his chest, and he groans through his sore throat. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He spits another gob of petals into the sink, and hangs his head.
He needs this to be a good day.
Just for a little while. Just for now.
Just to prove that he and Jayce—their friendship, the most important one he's ever had—isn't beyond repair.
Just to prove that he and his stupid flowers haven't ruined it.