Chapter Text
Paul remembers the moment it happened. Or, well, he thinks he does.
It was a lazy Friday afternoon, and Paul was over at John's. By some miracle they had the place to themselves, and were ostensibly writing a song, but that had fizzled out nearly an hour ago. The conversation had mostly fizzled out, as well— John had just gone out with some bird that he’d been mooning over all term, but he’d refused to give Paul any details, the bastard. Paul knew, logically, that there was something sweet to it, the kind of soft that should inspire a round of good-natured teasing, but the thought of John keeping something from him made him uncomfortable in a way that he didn’t want to linger on. So, the conversation had slipped away, and Paul was left half dozing on the couch, half watching John through mostly closed eyes.
John was sitting across from him, lazily strumming on his guitar. Paul was entranced by the way his hands stretched across the frets, pressed and pulled at the strings. John's hands were larger than Paul's, a real man’s hands, in Paul's opinion. John had once confessed to Paul, proud and furtive, that his father was a sailor. Paul had replied that he could see it in John's hands, that they looked like they should be out hauling rope on the seven seas. John smiled and snorted and the conversation devolved into a series of pirate jokes, and Paul tucked away the exchange in his chest like half a candy bar.
The thing is, John's hands were a sailor’s hands, strong and callused and clever, except for moments like this, cradling a guitar or paintbrush, when they were gentler than they had any right to be. They were, in short, good hands, and between their hypnotic power and the summer sun filtering through the window, Paul found himself being lulled to sleep.
That is, until John put his guitar down, and suddenly there was a cat in his arms, stretching and squirming in protest.
John was murmuring soft platitudes and scratching lightly against the dark fur. It struck Paul, in a distant sort of way, that it wouldn't look all too different if John were to drag his fingers through Paul's hair. He closed his eyes at the thought, imagining the pressure, the relief. John’s hands were big enough that his palms could rest on Paul's cheek while his fingers scratched at his temple, Paul's whole head cradled in John's grasp.
Paul’s eyes opened again, as lazily as he’d closed them. John had leaned back and spread his legs a little wider. The imaginary hand against his cheek pulled Paul lower, until he was kneeling on the carpet in front of John, nuzzling against the seem on his jeans—
Something in Paul’s chest twinged, chased quickly by a wave of revulsion. He didn’t— he wasn’t— he needed to go home.
Paul stretched in a way that he hoped came off as casual. John’s glasses were lying on the table between them, abandoned along with their songwriting session, but even without them John could spot— John was just the perceptive sort.
“I should get going.”
John’s voice took on a high, crackling quality, accented by the cat in his lap. “Give us a kiss before you go, Dearie.”
Paul’s chest twinged again, and fuck, how would he normally respond to that?
“Sod off, Lennon.” There, that would have to do. John’s answering laughter as he walked away seemed to imply he didn’t notice anything amiss, at any rate.
—
Two days later, Paul starts coughing up petals.
—
Paul skips school the three days, pleading a terrible cough. And, well, it’s not like he’s lying. Then again, it’s not like he’s telling the truth. The cough wasn’t all that bad, not yet. A brief fit in the morning mostly did the trick, and Paul was clear for the rest of the day. But Paul wasn’t stupid. He knew what coughing up flowers meant. Knew who they were probably for.
He scours his moms old medical textbooks anyway. There's not a lot about Hanahaki, nothing Paul didn’t already know on one level or another. He probably has another five good years in him, if nothing changes. The catalyst can fall in love with the afflicted (Paul’s stomach turns at the thought), but the afflicted are, for one reason or another, incapable of falling out of love with the catalyst. There's a surgery, but not one that most people survive. He pictures his mother— and then his chest seizes and he is running to the loo and coughing, and coughing, and coughing, and not a single petal comes out.
He agonizes over going to the doctor, in a distant sort of half-conscious way. They’ll… What, tell him about a surgery he has a coin’s toss at surviving? One that will numb his emotions for the rest of his life? Besides, he’d have to let his dad know, first, to make the appointment, and that’s just… best not to think about too closely.
Who would Paul even say they were for? He can't think of a single girl who would inspire such devotion, who was so out of his reach. What if word got back to her, whatever candidate Paul settled on? What if she wanted to go on a date? What if she fell in love? What happens when Paul kisses her, only to break it off a second later to choke out a bloody flower petal?
As for the other cure, there’s not a question of John returning— of John being— and even if he was, Paul's not sure if Paul would— Paul likes girls. The flowers didn’t take that away, Paul checked. He can still— he’s still normal, mostly, or at least normal enough that nobody has to know about the other stuff.
On the third day, Paul gets tired of his moping, decides not to overthink it. What’ll come will come, and until then, Paul will make do. He lights up a fag, stares out the window, and writes a song. A good one, he thinks. He’ll have to tell John about it.