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Douma coughed again, blood dripping out of his mouth. The usually sweet liquid tasted metallic against his tongue.
He was hunched over the traditionally carved bowl, hands loosely wrapped around his own throat. He retched again, feeling the small shape come out of his mouth again. Douma hurriedly stretched out a hand, catching it as it fell.
His polychromatic eyes glared at the small chrysanthemum in his hand. He straightened his back, still holding the flower. Douma tightened his fist, crushing the delicate petals as if that would stop the disease from spreading.
He wiped the blood stains surrounding his mouth, dropping the broken and torn petals on the floor.
Douma turned around, ignoring the scratching feeling in his throat that meant another flower was going to come up. He placed the bowl down on the floor. With a sudden surge of energy, he kicked it harshly. It hit the wall and shattered, blood pooling from the under the various fragments. He glanced at his elevated throne, but chose not to sit.
The demon pulled off his turtleneck, exposing the skin underneath. Douma dug his sharp nails into his chest, opening a gaping wound.
He forced his regeneration to slow down, reaching into his rib cage with a hiss of pain. His slender fingers clenched around a lung, and with a forceful tug, he yanked it out. Douma turned the organ around in his hand, inspecting the fleshy tissue dotted with flowers and vines.
The Uppermoon Two looked at it with no expression, before he threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a sickening squelch, blood splattering across the white paintwork.
The other lung, also infested with flowers, followed soon after.
Douma walked across the room, turning to face a mirror. He could already see his lungs regenerate. Douma scrutinised his reflection sternly.
“Pathetic,” he said, his voice flat. He touched his new lungs. “You better behave.”
A new layer of skin blossomed over the wound, hiding Douma's internal organs again. The demon turned away from the mirror, unable to look at himself anymore. He'd failed. He was meant to be emotionless. He was meant to be a psychopathic killing machine, unable to feel. That was his one purpose. And he'd failed.
He could already feel vines contracting around his new lungs.
Douma pulled his turtleneck over his bloody body.
He couldn’t remember when it had started, but he knows it was recently. He’d researched the symptoms, after all, the cult had a library.
His disease was incurable. It was Hanahaki.
He’d never heard of a demon getting ill before, let alone with this specific disease. Perhaps there was some way to remove the flowers from his body?
Should he tell Muzan?
Should he tell the priest?
Douma didn’t even know who it was he'd fallen for. He wasn’t able to tell emotions apart.
He lifted his fan, hiding the blood around his expressionless mouth. He coughed again. Blood splattered on the golden metal in front of him.
Douma knew he was going to die. According to the countless books he’d read, a cure was being developed - a surgery of some sort - but wouldn’t be ready for a few years. Douma had a few weeks at most.
He lowered his fan and rubbed at his neck with his other hand, feeling with his fingers for the flowers that had begun to bloom on his skin. His nails brushed across a small lump under his ear, and Douma didn’t have to look at the mirror to know what it was.
He pulled it out, the sharp sting of pain nothing compared to the lurching feeling in his stomach.
He didn’t want to die.
He didn’t want to have lived a wasted life.
But it was too late for him to stop. To stop being useless.
Unidentifiable emotions bubbled up in him, and he just wanted to scream. He collapsed onto the floor, for once not caring about appearance. What did it matter if he was lying on the now red floor?
Then again, what did it matter if he was dying? No one would miss him. Perhaps his followers, but they’d soon get over it. The Uppermoons loathed him. Douma could see it.
He may have acted stupid, but he noticed things. He saw the glares they sent him when a rare meeting came around, the way they would roll their eyes when he spoke.
All other demons were too scared to talk to him.
How strange that just before he was going to die, Douma noticed how lonely he truly was. He wasn’t a god. He was a messed up, unloved, selfish person. He wasn’t even a person. Person implied he was human.
He was more like a creature.
And for the first time, Douma felt weak.
His trail of self reflect and destruction was broken when he coughed again. Douma attempted to stand, but he felt dizzy. He managed to eventually, swaying uneasily on his feet. Douma's eyes caught the mirror again.
He hated what he saw.
Douma screamed, throwing the first thing he could grab at his reflection. It happened to be his war fan.
The mirror broke, just like the other things he’d destroyed. It turned into tens of little pieces, each showing himself.
There was a knock at the door.
Douma snapped his neck in the direction of the sound. He should have known not to scream. Here, it was better to be seen and not heard.
“Yes?” He called, his voice cheerful. “Who is it?”
“Shut up,” came a harsh voice, which Douma instantly recognised as the head priest’s. “The others are worried. Do I need to come in and remind you of what happens when you don’t obey the temple rules?”
Douma's pupils switched to kanji, the desire for bloodlust increasing. What did he have to lose? He was going to die anyways. His eyes returned to their human like appearance, but his fangs stayed.
“Come in,” Douma replied. He could already picture the surprise on the priest’s face. Douma didn’t usually allow people into the main room outside of worshipping times.
The door was opened, and Douma heard the gasp of horror from the man.
“What the hell?! I need to use this in an hour!” Exclaimed the priest. Douma didn’t move, just staring at him.
The priest strode over, and slapped Douma around the face. It stung, but not enough to make Douma move. “Answer me! What have you been doing?”
“Don’t touch me.”
“What’s happened to you? Don’t be so cold,” scolded the human. He swung his fist at Douma again, connecting with the side of his face. There was a loud crack.
Douma coughed, blood beginning to run out from the side of his mouth. A pearly white tooth slipped out, a crack running through it as the result of the punch. Douma kept coughing, and something else came out of his mouth. Something that tasted all too familiar.
The flower was blue this time, a myriad of the sapphire petals connected to the stem. Each of the delicate petals were coated in a thin layer of blood.
“What is this?!” Demanded the priest, catching it as it fell. He grimaced as the blood touched his hand and dropped the flower.
It hit the floor with no sound. Silent death.
“My death,” said Douma.
“You have Hanhaki?! Do you know how this will affect the temple?!”
“This isn’t a temple. It’s a trap.”
The priest scoffed. “I don’t want to deal with you. Clean up this mess. I’ll postpone the service by two hours.”
The priest turned to leave, his white robe swishing gently. Not that it was white anymore. The blood on the walls and floor had seeped into the fabric, staining it a permanent red.
Douma let him go, watching his food walk out the door. He wiped his blood off his own face.
It didn’t feel like his face. His face was supposed to be a light guiding people through their struggles and grief, not a diabolical thing that Douma couldn’t bear to look at.
He felt another flower burst out of his skin, the pinprick of pain welcoming. Anything would be better than the aching numbness he felt.
He didn’t move his hand towards it. He’d realised now nothing he did would stop the disease. He just had to accept it.
He couldn’t run away this time.
Two weeks, and Douma could barely move. The flowers on his skin rubbed uncomfortably against any clothes he attempted to wear, so he’d resorted to a loose robe. It scratched horribly at his sensitive skin, but it was the best thing so far.
There was a small ring of flowers that had grown around his neck, and it tightened with every passing day. If Douma was human, he would have suffocated by now.
Petals and vines encrusted with blood littered his body, more appearing every time Douma looked at himself. Which wasn’t often. Once he’d admired himself in the mirror, now he would avoid any reflective surface.
He could barely stand seeing himself in someone's eyes, constantly reminded of the failure he was.
Lying on his back and gazing at the ceiling had become a hobby. It didn’t distract Douma from the pain, but it gave him time to reminisce the times he didn’t have this disease.
It was night when Douma decided to finally get up, his bones cracking from the long rest. The fabric of his robe irritated him as he slowly stumbled towards the door, legs unaccustomed to walking after so long of lying down. He wrenched open the door, feeling delirious due to the lack of food. Despite him being mainly omnipotent, he still needed nourishment.
He nearly fell several times as he walked unsteadily to the main entrance. There was no one about, and the corridors were pitch black due to the lack of windows. Douma's shaking hand grasped the walls, loosely tracing a finger along them to get a sense of direction. He’d always felt lost here.
He dragged his bare feet on the cold floor. Perhaps he should have worn some shoes. Would it have made a difference? Douma was often cold, despite his Blood Demon Art. The grand oak door didn’t make a sound as he pushed a pale hand against it, opening it outwards.
Douma blinked as his eyes became accustomed to the bright light of the moon. The moon was beautiful, in Douma's opinion. He didn’t understand Muzan's desire to walk in the day. Douma had seen humans turn red from the sun, and have skin peel off. The moon didn’t do that.
Perhaps he was too much of a selenophile.
The gravel path leading away from the unlit temple stung Douma's feet, and he could feel small cuts forming due to the small stones. They healed quickly, but not with the same speed they used too.
Douma was definitely getting weaker.
His thin robe was no protection against the night wind, and Douma found himself shivering. He paused his walk, glancing behind him. He wasn’t being followed.
Often when he’d left the temple before, people would soon be hurrying after him, telling him to come back. They’d scold him for being childish and running away, saying he couldn’t abandon his responsibilities.
He’d be abandoning everything very soon.
He continued to walk, curling his arms around himself. It didn’t work, as he had very little body heat to begin with. The path ended abruptly, gravel turning to a mossy, natural road, and Douma could feel the dew under his feet. It was calming in a way.
Douma swayed, struggling to stay upright.
“I guess I should have eaten the priest when I had the chance, huh?” He said, words unfamiliar on his tongue after his prolonged silence. “How dumb of me not to~”
He rubbed at his eyes, unnatural darkness clouding the corners of his vision. He kept walking, getting further from the temple with every minute. It must have been a few hours before Douma decided to stop. He stood very still for a few moments, unsure of what to do. He’d often wondered what it would be like to escape the temple.
He only wished he’d done it sooner.
Douma lowered himself onto the ground, sitting on the spongy grass. He brushed his fingers against it, savouring the feeling. He’d never noticed how soft grass was before, too obsessed with becoming powerful.
There was a sound behind him, but Douma didn’t move. So he’d been found. Oh.
“…hello,” came the voice, and just by the way the person - or should he say demon - hesitated, Douma already knew who it was.
His positive mask donned his face again, and he tugged the hem of the robe higher to cover the flowers around his neck. Would Kokushibo notice the ones just under his plait?
“Kokushibo-dono!” Smiled the Uppermoon Two, turning around the face the silhouetted figure. “I didn’t expect to see you!”
“I…didn’t expect myself…to come. Muzan…wants to know…why you are…different.” Said Kokushibo, skipping the pleasantries. “What…is wrong?”
“Awwww, are you concerned about me?”
“No.”
Douma sighed, flopping onto his back. He threw his arms above his head in a dramatic gesture, then folded them back to lean his head on. The flowers under the fabric rubbed up against robe, and he forced back a grimace.
“So~ you’re only here because Muzan-sama wanted to know why I haven’t killed that Hashira?”
“Yes.”
Douma glanced at him. Could he confide in Kokushibo? It wasn’t like they were close, in fact Douma barely knew his superior.
“Haven’t been bothered,” laughed Douma, the lie coming easily. After all, he’d grown up in an abusive cult. You had to be able to lie. “I’ll do it soon though~”
“That’s…not true. You’ll never…do it.” Replied the six eyed demon, sitting down gracefully next to Douma. “We…both know that.”
Douma looked away. When he spoke again, it was quietly, and without emotion.
“I’m going to die soon,” confessed Douma. “I have an…incurable disease.”
“Oh.” Kokushibo gazed at Douma with an expression that was akin to pity. “I thought…demons…couldn’t get sick?”
“It’s not that kind of disease.”
Douma coughed. He could feel Kokushibo's eyes staring at him and the flower that emerged from his mouth.
“…Hanahaki?”
Douma wasn’t surprised that Kokushibo knew what it was. He was over five hundred years old after all. Douma didn’t answer, but his silence told Kokushibo everything.
“Who..?”
Douma coughed again. “Don’t know.”
He didn’t stop coughing, not for a few minutes. Douma looked at Kokushibo, and the Uppermoon Ome sighed.
“…You’re dying, Douma.”
“It’s so…cold. I didn’t imagine it like this.” Said Douma, dragging a bloody palm across his face in an attempt to wipe off the red liquid. Kokushibo could only watch.
“It’s not like it really hurts. If anything, it’s more…suffocating.”
“Are…you sure?”
“Yes. I suppose I should feel happy that you’re here. At least I won’t die alone.”
Douma could feel his strength slipping away, the ache in his bones becoming numb. His eyes fluttered shut, and he pressed his palm across his face.
Kokushibo reached out a shanking hand, but by the time it reached the person it was meant to, Douma was no more than ash and flowers.
Kokushibo looked at what had once been the third most powerful being in the world. He looked away.
That day, after Kokushibo told Muzan of Douma's death - not that he needed to, Muzan knew the moment Douma had begun to decay - he sat in his room. There was a tightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt for a long time.
And that night, when he went out to hunt, he coughed up a small, yellow carnation.