Foolish coughs, acting as though he has something stuck in his throat, as he's been doing the entire evening. Even though you returned to the angel's church after visiting a family of pale vampires, you felt your heart stop for a moment when you caught a glimpse of Foolish's paleness. You'd immediately asked him if he were alright, but he insisted so. "Puffy checked up on me, we know what the problem is now!" However, he hadn't explained any further, or a coughing attack took place. Right afterwards, he had run to the toilet. He claimed he just had to throw up, but for some reason, you didn't fully trust it.
So, while eating the delicious food he made you, you try to make conversation. Awkwardly, but you try so nonetheless. "You can cook really well, mate," you start out, as he smiles brightly as soon as he hears your voice. His eyes twinkle, despite the sore throat he seems to have. You can hear that he breathes abnormally, but you don't ask him about it yet. You need a normal conversation first, after that you can go on to the more personal shit, to so put it. "So, uh, what have you been doing this day?"
"Just the routines," he casually answers, voice cracking ever so slightly. "And I was wondering if there was anything I could help you with? You know, with everything that's been going on and that will still happen."
You laugh, seeing the perfect opportunity to mention his disease. "I'm not sure if I can accept your aid, Foolish. As long as you're ill, I think you should rest and get better first." At that, he falls silent, looking away while his face slightly regains colour, mostly around the cheeks. When you don't get an answer, you continue eating, until you can't withstand your own curiosity, and need for knowledge. "What do you have, anyway? You haven't said anything yet about medicines, but it does seem to be bad enough for you to have those."
"It's complicated," he sighs, hiding his smile behind hands, before coughing some more in them. Which is when you see him throwing something on the ground. Quickly looking behind the table, you watch him put away a petal, which should be belonging to a flower.
Then it hits you. "You've been coughing up flowers." That's all you can say. After all, you don't know what else to say of it. Chrysanthemums, are what have been occupying his lungs, and more worry grows because of it. Has it something to do with the plant that's been growing in the centre of the town? You don't want to think you're responsible, but that's the only logical explanation you have for this incident. Besides, you have never heard of any illness that consists out of people coughing up flowers, so has he not been cursed instead?
"Please, don't ask too many questions," Foolish tries to convince you, standing up in a panic as he holds up his hands, like he's trying to calm down a child. "It's nothing too bad. I'll just have to get through it for a bit. And I will! I can promise you, I will! As long as you live here with me, you have nothing to worry about."
You don't know what that insinuates. You don't like that he doesn't want you to ask question. That's your whole point. That's the reason you've been brought into this world. To ask questions. To annoy the hell out of people, like Socrates used to. To give innocent strangers existential crises. That's what you're here for, so him asking you not to concerns you slightly, especially since he seems like one of the last people to be that irritated by you. So, you don't take him seriously. It's hard to, after all. What will he do? Take you with him on a flight and drop you from a thousand feet above the ground? Sounds interesting: pavements taste very good, from what you've heard.
"Is it an illness, or a curse?" you then continue, refusing to believe there's any human disease to include symptoms of coughing up plants, unless the patient is a bit too excited when it comes to tree hugging, as Foolish clears his throat, yet another petal coming out. Foolish looks in an almost invisible shame at the ground.
"According to Puffy, it's a curse. By whom, we don't know, but we have our suspicions." He doesn't say who are the suspects. "But I'll be fine, Y/N. I promise! You'll see me improving my health over time, you just have to be there." The constant insistence on your presence not only throws you off, but also worries you slightly. Surely, you're not the cure, right?
"Speaking of which," you mumble, uneasily putting your hands under the table, "tomorrow I'm going to work at night again, and I'm planning to go by my apartment again to... prepare some things. That's okay with you, right?" You catch his eyes darkening at that question, at which he walks away from the table, towards the door to the stairs which lead to the church under you.
While locking it, he answers: "I don't think it's a smart idea. Sapnap and Karl already came to my doors today. They've discovered you spend your nights here. If you get out at night, they're certain to get to you." He turns around, picking up your unfinished plate and his own, before walking over to the kitchen. Confusedly, you allow your gaze to follow his movements, as he closes the almost broken curtains quickly. "You need to be safe. If anything were to happen to you, your father would kill me." He says all of this with determination, and a neutral smile on his face.
"Should I be scared, Foolish?" you ask him carelessly, at which he simply laughs, nodding, mentioning Wilbur and Dream's evil intentions. "No, Foolish. Should I be scared of you?"
Your question throws him off, and it's visible to you, but you don't see how much it actually affects him. If anything, your words hurt him, more than the flowers in his lungs possibly can. Why would you think such a thing of him? You're not even necessarily fearful or careful at the moment, you're just asking with such sincerity, that he refuses to believe you're messing with him. "Why would you be scared of me?" he asks, innocence shining in his angelic eyes, while you're still suspicious.
"Well, the curse must've come from somewhere. And if you don't know who's responsible, then who's to say it's not a what?" Foolish knows what you're talking about. Foolish knows what you're thinking. And Foolish knows you're partially right, since he knows exactly who can save him, and what will worsen his state.
"I'm doing what's keeping you safe."
"That's not an answer to my question. Is there a chance that you'll become a danger to me?"
"Come on, Y/N, I'd never hurt you."
"Again, that's not an answer." You stand up, crossing your arms as you stare at him seriously. "Don't use nice words to respond, mate. Just answer the damn question." Foolish isn't sure what to think. He admires you, for everything about you, but he can't help but be surprised nonetheless. Your stubbornness isn't exactly expected.
However, he doesn't give you the answer you hope for, instead approaching you after he's put the plates away and putting his hands on your shoulders. Without a singular warning, as your shoulders tense, he puts his lips against yours, burying you in a short-lived, but still passionate kiss, which you did not exactly appreciate.
You can't say you hated it as much as what Wilbur did to you, in this same room, but that was mostly because he was aware of what he was doing, and what you thought of it. And even worse: you knew he was. But with Foolish, you can't tell. His actions may stem from lust, but also from a genuine crush, and you would never know the actual truth. All you can do, is assume.
"Foolish," you start afterwards, before he embraces you, his arms wrapping around you tightly, as though he's scared to lose you. His action out of love, gives you an answer to your question, despite the lack of verbal explanation. A sharp sigh leaves your lips, as you hesitate what to do. Should you tell XD? Should you just live with it and hope he won't be too bad? Should you say something about it, and explain that you're not romantically interested in him exactly?
"I'd die without you, Y/N," he suddenly says, causing you to forget about what you have to do entirely.
"That's really cute, Foolish, but I'm not into you that way, I'm sorry," you begin, knowing he has done his best to make your stay as pleasant as possible. That, and he hasn't been a dick to you, so you have no reason to treat him as such.
"No, I mean it literally." He lets go of you, taking a step back as he coughs up another petal, or at least, you think. But it's an entire flower. Holding it in the palm of your hand, for you to look, he continues. "They're growing in my lungs. It's because of you." That's what you already feared. "The only thing that can cure me – or at least, treat me so I don't experience symptoms anymore – is you. Your love. Please, just, love me back, heal me. I don't want to die." His voice breaks at the last question, as you compare his state to Wilbur's.
And while Wilbur and Foolish have completely different behaviours, you come to the conclusion they both want the same: they want to live.
Your brain starts working more and more as some puzzle pieces start coming together. Is that what your energy perhaps does? Does it give people life? Or at least, what they believe 'life' to be?
Wilbur needs a heartbeat. Foolish needs to breathe. Those are the things that they need in order not to be alive, while you were at first certain that both were fully immortal. Foolish is a bloody angel: surely, a lung disease can't be the end of him? And Wilbur's a vampire, yet he looks so dead whenever you're not close enough. So, what? You made them mortal, and in turn became their key to life?
Clearly, you're zoning out, starting to think of any other victims you've made. Niki, whenever she sees you, clearly desires your company, but what is it that she understands under life? And what decides who becomes a victim anyway? Why not people like Jack and Jared, who are actually dead already?
Then, Foolish grabs your hands, squeezing them to get your attention, and you, uncomfortably, look at him. "I'm asking you to listen. To accept my feelings, and return them." He puts his head against yours, closing his eyes as he silently sobs. "Please, please, don't let me die."
But you can't.
Forcing him to let go of your hands, you take a few steps back, towards the stairs to your temporary room. "I'm going to go back to my apartment tomorrow," you tell him carefully, realizing how it'd be too risky to share too much information. "You're always welcome to visit."
"You can't. You can't leave me, not after discovering this!" he shouts out, pain turning into anger as his voice becomes more sore with the distance put between the two of you. "Do you really hate me this much, Y/N? Do you really want me dead?"
"Foolish, please, calm down," you start, watching his sanity deteriorate under the twisted truth of his love for you.
"Calm down? Calm down? I love you, Y/N, and my life depends on your love for me, but all you can tell me is that you'll leave?"
"Foolish, I'm being serious, stop this. I can't help it. I don't want you to die, but I can't love you eith-"
"You're staying here." His statement is firm and threatening, but you're not impressed. Instead, you let out an awkward chuckle, shaking your head.
"No, no, I'm not."
"Yes, you fucking are."
"The hell are you going to do about it, asshole?!" you end up screaming in his face, unable to deal with the sudden sense of claustrophobia that creeps up on you. "You know what? I'm not even staying here for another night. I'm going home."
"The moment you walk out of that door, you'll be killed. Or even worse, taken by those who want your touch, Y/N." You know he's right. You know it's not wise for you to get out. After all, if they're able to track you down only by following what makes them feel alive, who's to say they won't follow that scent the moment they smell it?
But you don't care. Trying to open the door – which has already been locked, and both of you know so – you growl, as you soon enough feel pure anger overflow you, blinding you, and leading to you breaking the door itself. You don't know how you did it, but you did it, and the door is opened and can never close again.
"Y/N, please, just give me a chance!" you hear Foolish beg behind you, but you're not even stopping to turn around. Maybe you would've. Maybe you should've. But you didn't, and ever since then, you signed your contract of fate.