Archive of Our Own

Jon is eleven when he leaves to go off-world. He doesn’t tell Damian about it. He just leaves.

Damian still remembers seeing him for the last time a few nights before he went away. They’d teamed up as the Super Sons—who knew it’d be the last time—and the two had stayed up that night, talking away in Damian’s room, once the mission was over, and had fallen asleep on the plush carpet of Damian’s bedroom just before the sun rose.

Damian didn’t know he wouldn’t see his best friend again. At least, not in the same way he left—a chubby-faced boy, with too much to prove.

—

A week passes, and Damian finds himself feeling…nostalgic? He doesn’t really know how else to explain how he’s feeling at the moment, mostly because he doesn’t really understand it.

It’s been only a week since Jon had left. Damian didn’t expect his absence to make that much of a difference in his life. But Superboy had managed to worm his way into his heart without him even knowing or expecting it. Now, here he was, holding onto a framed picture of them after one of their missions together, as the Super Sons, and wondering about Jon—was he okay? Was he well? Will he be back soon?

Damian hasn’t missed anyone like this before. It almost hurts.

—

After two weeks, and being freshly thirteen, Damian begins to feel himself losing hope that Jon would ever return. He’s not being pessimistic, just realistic. His Father would agree. There was no point in keeping that kind of naive hope.

But a part of him still did. Still hoped that Jon was alive and well, and would return to Earth soon enough.

Because Damian’s spent the past two weeks thinking about him, even when he tried his hardest to block the memory of the other boy from his mind as hard as possible. Jon was still there in the recesses of his mind, with his big, dopey smile and bright Kryptonian-blue eyes. And Damian has also spent these past two weeks realizing that…maybe…maybe he felt more for Jon than he’d like to admit.

And this time? Damian was sure it did hurt.

—

Damian spends every day that Jon is gone trying to compartmentalize his feelings and keep them locked away in a box in his mind.

—

He’s still thirteen when Jon returns. But Jon isn’t eleven anymore. Damian is no longer the eldest of the two.

Damian’s standing on one of Gotham’s many rooftops when he feels a presence behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck raise, and goosebumps run down his arms. He knows this presence, but he also doesn’t.

He’d heard the rumors of Jon Kent’s return, only to have them confirmed when he overheard a conversation between his father and Superman. Apparently, Jon’s off-world trip had changed him in more ways than one.

“Damian,” the presence behind him says, and Robin tries his hardest not to tense up. He’s grateful he’s had years of training in keeping his composure. If it weren't for that, he would have keeled over instantly upon seeing his childhood best friend. He faced Jon, who was much older now—much older than him—and looked so mature. His face still had its boyish charm, but all the baby fat it had has been shaven off, making way for a sharp, strong jawline and dimpled chin. He looked so much like his father that Damian wondered for a short moment if it would be the same for him. Would he also end up looking like mini-clone of Bruce Wayne?

(Other things run through his head in the short silence that follows. Jon isn’t the same. He’s safe. He’s back home. He came back. He’s not the same. This isn’t my Jon. [Since when was he my Jon?] But this isn’t my best friend. This will never be the same.

We’ll never be the same again.

Damian pretends that his heart didn’t hurt a bit when he comes to that quick realization.

He tries not to dwell on it for too long.

“Jon,” he replies, voice even and not giving up what he truly felt at the moment. Superboy smiles at him. That big, bright smile that could rival the Earth’s sun—the one that Damian had committed to memory, but now it’s lost its boyish charm.

The two of them talk for a while, trying to catch up on each other’s lives. Damian learns a bit about what happened to Jon, what he had to endure, along with other missions he’s gone on since his return. Damian can’t say much about himself, feeling himself closing off more and more the longer Jon talks.

Once the conversation becomes stilted, the two of them say their goodbyes, and Damian watches Jon fly away for a while before grappling back to the Manor.

Damian’s heart is practically lodged in his throat when he returns, beating incessantly against his Adam’s apple. He can barely believe he’d seen Jon. His best friend. The boy he’s pined for for two years now. The only boy who’s ever been his true friend. The only boy he’s ever liked.

But he wasn’t his best friend anymore, was he? And he’s no longer a boy either.

Damian clutches the picture of them that he’s had hidden in his closet to his chest and cries, hoping no one can see or hear him.

—

They go on a few missions together, but it isn't the same.

They’re not the Super Sons anymore. The wavelength they shared has diverged and now they run opposite to each other in parallel directions.

Damian is unsure if they’ll ever meet again or merge along the way one day.

—

After that day when he saw Jon, Damian has done his damndest to bury whatever feelings he has for him even deeper.

He wants to keep them buried six feet under and have a tombstone nailed onto the top of the dirt bed to make the claim that his feelings for him were dead and gone.

Maybe throw a bouquet at the top to make it poetic.

—

Damian’s seventeen, going on eighteen, and wants to believe he isn’t the sort of person to be jealous.

Then Jay Nakamura came into the picture.

Damian doesn’t know why Jon never told him—ignoring the fact that he’s never told him much about anything personal in his life either, but that’s beside the point. Jon still called him his best friend, and Damian, looking for anyway to keep any semblance of normalcy between him and Jon, had held onto that. So, he was Jon’s best friend. Shouldn’t best friends tell each other something as important as getting into a relationship?

Once the mission they’re on is over, Jon still doesn’t say anything, but Damian was able to quickly deduce what their relationship is (he noticed all the little looks they gave each other, the hidden smiles, their limbs brushing up against one another, and that glint in Jon's eyes whenever he looked at the pink haired teen).

Despite telling himself that he no longer felt anything for Jon, that he could handle this like a normal person, and that he shouldn’t mope about it because he wanted Jon to tell him the truth anyway—he still feels a slight stinging sensation in his chest when Jon confirms it.

Damian congratulates Jon, tells him he's happy for him, tells him he'll always be there for him. Even though there's a sharp ache in his chest and stomach, running all the way to his back, and there's a lump in his throat and an itch at the back of it. He feels sick, honestly, and is thankful for his training once more or else it would have shown clearly on his face and body language.

He returns to the manor shortly after, still feeling sick, his chest still aching. He clears his throat, hoping that he isn’t be catching some sort of cold. Once he’s done filling in a mission report and leaving it at the Bat Computer for his father or Drake to look over, he makes his way upstairs and to his room.

And now that he’s no longer distracted, Damian finds himself running through Jon’s interactions with Jay over again. And over again. And over again. Wishing that could be him instead. Because apparently, killing and burying whatever feelings he had for the new Superman was not enough. He was still as in love with Jon as he had been before.

That same sick feeling makes its way back to him, causing Damian to double over, an unbearable pain taking over his upper body. He starts coughing, feeling something starting to come up. Panicked, Damian tries reaching into his mouth to make himself gag up whatever it is, but realizes it’s coming from his airways. He keeps coughing, holding onto the edge of his bed for purchase, until finally, finally, whatever was in his throat comes up and out.

It was something yellow, its colored dulled by phlegm and a few specks of blood.

Damian stares at it, panting and trying to catch his breath. A hand is clutched at his hurting chest, while the other one picks up the yellow thing between its forefinger and thumb. He inspects it closely, running through his mental catalogue of weird shit that he’s seen, experienced and read or heard about before to figure out what this is and what might be wrong with him.

He realizes that it’s a flower petal. Another run through his mental catalogue brings up the flowers on the Wayne Manor gardens.

It was a yellow hyacinth petal.

That night he coughed up more than just petals, there were a few blooms, as well.

—

“Hyacinths have come to symbolize many things. From forgiveness, to joy, and sincerity. Depending on the color of the flower, it can mean many different things. The yellow hyacinth has been known to represent jealousy—“

Damian shut his laptop forcefully, and tossed aside on his bed.

—

Damian has heard of Hanahaki Disease; a mysterious disease that ails anyone with an unrequited or one-sided love. It was incredibly rare and the amount of cases seen worldwide could practically be counted one one's hands.

The only "cures" available were confessing your feelings for the person and hoping they would reciprocate (if the person returns their feelings, the flowers “magically” vanish) or have them surgically removed, and have said romantic feelings removed with them. The chances of falling in love with that person ever again are completely null.

Damian knows he can just tell his father about the situation and get them surgically removed. It was quick, easy, albeit a bit painful, but it would get the job done and he wont have to worry about falling in love for his unreachable and unattainable best friend (deep down he wonders if he can even call themselves that at this point) anymore.

But he doesn't.

Because what if it removes all of his feelings for Jon? The friendship between them is already shaky enough after what's happened, what if he can never feel anything for him ever again? Not just romantic love? What if everything he’d worked so hard for would just vanish? He couldn’t have that. Even if they couldn’t be as close as before, he still wanted Jon around. He would always want Jon around.

(And a part of him tells him that admitting this to anyone at all is admitting a weakness, a vulnerability, that he shouldn't even have. Love made you weak. it made you stupid. The teachings in the League of Assassins told him as much, and yet.)
So, Damian chooses to deal with this on his own, in his own way. He would tolerate this for as long as he could and as long as he had to.

He could cough up as many flowers as possible, however many times, but he would deal with this on his own. He’ll just have to wipe his mouth of petals and blood, and move on. Like he always does.

(Or at least manages to).

—

A year passes since that first instance of coughing up flowers. Damian’s now nineteen, soon to be twenty, and Jon is twenty three and still going strong with Nakamura.

The youngest Robin hasn’t coughed up many flowers since then, managing to keep his illness in check. Or as in check as he possibly can. Since then, he’s coughed up more than just yellow hyacinths. There have also been red and white carnations. A quick Google search into the flowers meanings have Damian chucking his pillow against the wall. (The red carnations apparently represent heartache and deep love, while the white ones represent pure love. How romantic.)

The pain in his chest and back have slowly been spreading towards his belly, and he does his best to ignore it. He takes painkillers every now and then when it gets bad, but aside from that, he’s been managing it quite well.

He’s had a few slip-ups here and there, but nobody has pointed it out yet. Damian knows a few of the other Bats can tell that something is wrong with him, though none of them have asked or confronted him about it. Because despite almost all of them being non-biologically related to Bruce, they all have somehow inherited the same emotional constipation the man carries and god forbid any of them actually talk things out, especially about feelings.

Except Grayson, of course, bless him, who has tried talking to Damian and asking him what’s wrong. He just shrugs and tells him everything is fine before walking away, wanting to avoid this kind of conversation as much as possible. He meant it when he said he didn’t want anyone finding out about this, even if it hurt him a bit to shrug Grayson off like that.

Aside from the two new flowers beside the hyacinths, and the everlasting pain, Damian has been able to fare this off better than other cases he’s read about. A lot of them caved in and got the surgery after just a few weeks or months. Maybe this was a testament to his determination or, some would say, stupidity.

Damian would like to beg to differ.

—

The amount of times that Damian and Jon have seen each other outside of work can be amounted to six. And when they do hangout outside of missions and some patrols, they always end up having to cut their time together short to go save the world or something. Although Damian misses spending time with him, he isn’t really complaining either.

Damian doesn't really text or call as much, and neither does Jon, too busy taking on the mantle of Superman and hanging out with his boyfriend and his new friends.

Robin is happy for him, of course, but that hasn’t done anything to subside the chronic pain in his chest nor the flowers from coming up every once in a while. Because it's plural. It's not just one flower, it's a bouquet of them. (An amount that Damian doesn’t wish to disclose. The more he thinks about it, the more that pang of fear starts becoming a full blown thing).

But—Damian has realized—the least amount of time he spends interacting with Jon, the less they grow and multiply, the less he coughs up petals and buds laced with blood and phlegm. The pain can be tolerated as long as he has to. He’s done it for this long, after all. Maybe the less time he spends with Jon, could also help his stupid crush die off, taking the flowers with it.

(He’s never heard of the flowers dying off on their own, leaving their owner intact. The owner of the dead flowers almost always goes, too. Damian hopes he can be the first case that doesn’t die off with them.)

—

Sometimes he can feel the blossoms blooming inside his lungs, inside his heart, covering every surface of his organ tissues. He can feel them stretching over the inside of his chest, reaching all the way to his back and wrapping around his organs with a vice-like grip. It hurts, it’s uncomfortable, and he feels like he’s been ripped and opened and torn from the inside out. He feels like his body isn’t his own anymore. It belongs to the flowers, and it’s his fault. It’s all his fault. It’s always his fault.

—

Damian is twenty and the flowers are still there. The pain hasn’t subsided either, not one bit. It’s actually gotten worse, to the point of intolerability. The pain meds aren’t helping him either, and it’s becoming almost impossible to go about his day to day without doubling over or having to sit or lay on the floor for an indefinite amount of time so his flare ups can calm down.

He can’t go through the Cave’s medical supplies or else that would ring far more alarm bells than he’d want. So. He just has to keep sucking it up.

Everyone has already noticed by now that he’s definitely not okay and have tried to intervene, including his father and even Todd, but he won’t let them. As long as he can keep patrolling and doing his job as Robin, and going to class every now and then, he doesn’t need any intervention or any help. He can do this on his fucking own. He can.

—

Except. He can’t.

Because, of course, as his luck would have it, this stupid disease did end up interfering with his job as Robin. The universe truly was out to get him.

—

He’s in the middle of fighting some goons off and restraining them, when the pain in his chest and back heightens and he's sure he's having a heart attack, until he realizes it's a completely different matter of the heart.

One of the fuckers manages to punch him square in the jaw, in his short moment of weakness when he doubles over suddenly clutching his chest, snapping his head back, and he's almost certain the blood pooling in his mouth is from biting his tongue.

It’s not.

Damian stumbles back before righting himself only to double over and vomit onto the floor. Blood, the last meal he ate, bile and flower petals. So. Many. Flower. Petals. Fall onto the floor. The goon that had landed the punch on him saw the disgusting blood bath and immediately ran away from the warehouse. Damian tried shouting and running after him, but was stopped by another wave of pain washing over him. His vision went white and became dotted with stars as he fell to his knees in agony.

Robin hacked up again, tears starting to form under his eyes and spilling past the domino mask, mixing with blood on his mouth.

Flower bulbs and petals mixed up again with bile and blood. The pain radiated from his chest all throughout his body seismically. It felt like his entire organ system was trying to expel itself from his own body as he continued coughing and vomiting.

He clutched at his middle and chest and coughed up again, and again, and again, blood splattering over the cement floor. Someone was gonna think someone was killed in here. And Damian feels quite close to death at the moment to prove them right.

Of all the things that could take him down. A fucking crush. Fucking unrequited love. What a bitch, huh.

In the pool of blood and vomit, Damian could distinctly see petals of red and white carnations; bulbs and pieces of red chrysanthemum, alongside daffodils; and—Jesus Christ, there’s more, what the hell—daisy petals, stained red with blood. Amidst all of them, the most offensive one of all the flowers, because the irony isn’t lost on him, the bits of thorny stems and petals of a red rose.

There’s a bit of the yellow hyacinth in there from the very first time he started coughing up flowers—when the disease began manifesting itself. He thought it would’ve rotted by now.

The coughing fit stops, and Damian is left slumped on the ground, with the taste of acid and bile and iron in his mouth. He gags as he spits out more pieces of the bouquet of flowers that’s grown inside him and grimaces at the taste. It starts mixing with the saltiness of tears that don’t stop running down his cheeks. His breaths are shallow. Damian knows he’s going to lose consciousness soon. The amount of blood he’s lost, the endless months of restless sleep, the exhaustion of having to live his day to day in endless pain—it’s all catching up to him at this moment.

From a distance—wait, actually, no. It’s coming from his comms. Of course he left his comms on and everyone had to hear him practically choking on his own blood and the flowers he’d created. The universe truly had it out for him today.

“Robin? Robin, what was that? Robin!” The yelling continues. Damian’s pretty sure that’s Grayson. A gruffer voice follows, but he can’t hear well anymore. It’s all muffled to him. He’s pretty sure it’s Batman, though.

More voices join the cacophony, more words and bits and pieces of conversation, but he can’t understand any of it. He lies still there on the pool of his blood and sick. It’s disgusting, and he’s slightly aware of it, but he feels so weak right now. His entire body feels like it’s rejecting itself.

And then.

There’s nothing.

—

When Damian comes to a while later, his vision is still hazy. He can barely move is limbs, his entire body aching and sore. His face is clean now, but there's a bit of blood that’s still trickling down his mouth and onto the cot in the medical bay.

Oh. He's back in the Batcave.

There's a lot of people around him. They’re moving and talking aloud. Someone’s shouting, and someone else is calming that person down.

(In that brief moment of consciousness and slight clarity, Damian’s thinks about how glad he is that he started wearing a lead-lined suit. When he remembered that Jon could hear his heartbeat, he immediately made preparations to hide exactly that.

Or else Jon would have been able to hear his heart stuttering, maybe in fear that this would really be it for him. Or else Jon would have been in this very room with the rest of his family, panicking, like he always does [or was that something he only did when their ages were reversed? When Damian was the eldest? When they were best friends?] and he would have found out the truth about Damian. About the flowers. About his feelings).

Damian doesn't say anything. He just lays there, trying to track everyone down with his eyes and register them. He’s pretty sure his entire family is here, when they should be out still patrolling. And now they were all here instead, worrying over him. Fuck. He really fucked up this time. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This is why he didn't want anyone to know, and look at him now. Maybe he should have said something earlier, instead of letting it get to this point. He should’ve just gotten rid of the stupid flowers when he had the chance.

“Damian? Damian?" It’s Drake’s voice he hears this time. Has he always sounded that concerned before? ”Baby bat, can you hear me?" That was Grayson. "Oh, Damian..." And that was...that was his father.

His mouth feels like cotton and before he can even utter a word out, he passes out again.

—

The next time he wakes up, he's in his bed, in his room.

His throat hurts like hell and his body aches. Slowly reaching up to touch his face, Damian feels a slight raise against his jaw where that asshole had managed to land a good hook on him. There must be a pretty nasty bruise by now. Tt. This sucked.

His chest was still hurting from last night and his stomach felt worse for wear. Damian had only ever gotten sick once and that was when he first came to Gotham—he was so unused to the smoggy air, he got sick only a month after becoming Batman's Robin and had to stay back with his father because his fever had gotten worse—and even then, he hadn't felt this bad. He was for sure going to get benched. Damn.

The worst part about all this for Damian? Is probably the fact that his family now knows about his illness. And they must’ve already figured out what it means to have Hanahaki Disease. For who the flowers are though? They might not know, but considering they're a family of vigilante detectives raised by the world's best detective, they'll figure it out sooner or later, whether he wants them to or not. Besides, they're nosy. They won’t rest until they figure this mystery out.

He’s so stuck in his own head, that he doesn’t hear the door to his room opening.

“Master Damian”. He hears Alfred's voice, laced with relief, as the old butler walks into the room. Damian lets out an inward sigh of relief upon seeing him, knowing the butler won't pry despite how worried he must be (a knot of guilt ties itself beside the flowers in his stomach).

“I'm so glad to see you're awake." Alfred says, stepping over to his bedside. He sets the tray he was carrying on the nightstand, and goes on to help Damian into a sitting position, making sure he’s as comfortable as possible.

“Pennyworth..." Damian's throat felt like it got scratched up by sandpaper from the inside out. His voice was rough and scratchy, barely above a whisper. (This must have been the work of the rose’s thorns. They must’ve done quite the damage as they traveled up his esophagus and out of his mouth.) "What time...how long—“

“It's alright, Master Damian. Don't speak too much lest you hurt your throat further,” Alfred sighed. "It's been roughly 32 hours since Master Jason brought you back. You were lucid for a few minutes, but passed out soon after. you've been asleep since then."

Damian frowned and let out a deep sigh through his nose. So it was Todd who’d brought him back. Hm. He wondered…

“Alfred? Is—" Dick stood at the doorway, his eyes widening upon seeing Damian awake. “Baby bat.” He let out a big sigh of relief and rushed over to Damian’s side. The youngest Robin was about to protest that he wasn't a baby, far from it, anymore, but his throat hurt to much to snap at him, and he was too busy getting enveloped in Grayson's almost crushing hug to say anything at all. Even though he's come far throughout the years when it comes to physical affection, even from his family, he was still a bit iffy about physical contact. Considering the scare he gave them all, though, he would allow it. (And maybe he enjoyed the comforting embrace of his older brother. But he would never admit that aloud.)

Damian managed to put one hand on Dick’s back, his body still too sore and tired to move.

Grayson pulled away a moment later when Damian groaned in pain. "Sorry, Dames...but you had us so worried." He let out a sigh and ruffled Damian's hair, earning an annoyed grunt from him.

"I thought—we thought..." Dick swallowed hard. He was always the most open out of all of them, not afraid to actually have the tough conversations when necessary—the glue of the family. Damian's hand clenched around his blanket. His older brother was the next closest thing he had to a father figure. And now here he was, giving Dick the absolute fright of a lifetime by almost dying. Over a stupid fucking crush no less.

“Sorry..." he murmured.

Upon hearing the commotion, the rest of the family appeared at his door. At the head was his father. His skin looked pale and sallow, eyes bloodshot and framed by dark circles (far darker than they usually were considering how little he slept). "My boy," Bruce breathed out. Damian watched as his shoulders lost their tension and the lines on his face softened with relief. Bruce made his way over to him and enveloped him in a hug so tight it rivaled Grayson’s.

Behind him, Damian saw that Jason was leaning against the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face, arms crossed over his chest. Tim was beside him, while Cass stood against the other doorframe. Stephanie lingered behind her with Duke at her side. Pretty much every one of his siblings was here (sans Steph—although at this point she was as much an older sister to him as Cass was).

His father's hand ran through his hair, caressing him. Damian mustered up as much strength as he could and managed to wrap his arms around him for a brief second before letting them hang limply at his sides. Bruce pulled away a moment later and took his face into his hands, inspecting him. Damian stared back, trying to put up a tough front despite being so vulnerable at the moment.

“What happened out there, Damian?” He heard Drake ask. Damian sent him a glare once Bruce stopped inspecting every inch of his face. He knew they knew, so why ask? Why make him humiliate himself further?

“Don’t bother asking. He won’t answer,” Jason said, his voice strained. “Besides, judging from what we saw, we already know what happened.”

Damian glanced away. He didn’t want to have this conversation right now. He knows he owes it to them. But not now. Just…not now.

He signed as much. Talk later. Not now.

Jason scoffed at this and shook his head. “Do you have any idea how worried we were? Do you even fucking care?”

Damian glared at him, gritting his teeth.

“Jay, let’s just wait until he’s better—“

“What if he doesn’t get better? You read the articles, too.”

Dick pursed his lips, glancing between Jason and Damian. “Jay—“

Before the conversation could continue any further, Alfred cleared his throat. “I believe it’s best if we give Master Bruce and Master Damian some time alone, for now. Besides, the young master needs to rest more.” Damian sent the butler a grateful look, earning a wink in return. Jason and Dick were the first to walk away, followed by Tim and Cass who’d given him worried looks before leaving, and finally Duke and Steph left, expressions of similar concern etched onto their faces. Alfred followed them out and closed the door behind him.

Bruce let out a sigh before looking over to Damian. "May I?" He asks, gesturing to the space beside him. Damian nods, moving a bit to the side to give his father more room. Bruce sits beside him, staying silent for a while, staring at the wall in front of them.

"Hanahaki disease", Bruce starts, breaking the silence. Looking down at his hands, he continues, "an illness that stems from unrequited love..." He turns to Damian with a meaningful look. "So, who is it?"

Damian chewed on the inside of his cheek, still tasting the metallic taste of blood from the past night. "Do I have to tell you?" he rasps out.

Bruce huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. "No, you don't have to, but I'd like to know who's lucky, or unlucky, enough to have you making such a stupid decision as keeping the flowers."

Damian said nothing. Just crossed his arms over his chest and looked away, stubborn as ever.

“Damian..." Bruce sighed and rested his hand on Damian's shoulder. "Son, you really frightened us back there. We thought you'd—all that blood...you lost a lot of blood last night and I’m sure you’re aware of all the internal injuries you’ve sustained. Not to mention how much the illness has been affecting you. I’m guessing it’s been quite some time since it started.”

He could only nod at his father’s words, afraid of telling him the full truth. That he’s been dealing with this for almost a year now, and how badly it’s been affecting him.

“There must be a logical reason as to why you chose to keep this to yourself. Why you chose to keep the flowers when you could’ve undergone surgery to have them removed. You wouldn’t have had to suffer this much.”

Damian and his father rarely had any heart-to-heart conversations. the both of them were so scared to bare themselves open, and after a few difficult years where their relationship was rocky at best, it wasn't easy to be honest and open with each other.

But...but after what happened, didn't Damian owe him at least this? An explanation?

"I didn't want to lose him," he whispered, too quiet for anyone to actually hear. But his father did. "Oh, Damian..." Bruce wrapped his arm around his son and held him close. "He was my first friend. He was my best friend.” Damian’s voice was hoarse, and the words sounded watery and choked up.

It clicked for Bruce then. Damian didn’t have to say anything else, he already understood. Pursing his lips, he ran his hadn’t up and down Damian’s back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to keep talking. I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner, how much pain you were in.”

Tears start slowly streaming down Damian's cheeks. Bruce says nothing and only holds his son in his arms as he cries into his shirt, gripping onto it like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.

—

5 missed calls from Jonathan Kent

Jonathan Kent | Saturday, 9:10AM:
hey dames, i heard from dick that you were sick. i tried calling but i guess you're resting. i hope you feel better soon, call me when u can 😁🌟

—

3 missed calls from Jonathan Kent

Jonathan Kent | Monday, 1:27PM:
hey sorry to bother you but im starting to get a bit worried. i know you asked me not to, but i listened in to your heartbeat and it sounds muffled, like something is wrong. call me when you can

Missed call from Jonathan Kent at 1:30PM

Missed call from Jonathan Kent at 2:16PM

Jonathan Kent | Monday, 3:00PM:
alright i wont bother you anymore, but please let me know you’re okay whenever u can

—

Jonathan Kent | Wednesday, 5:13PM:
hey damian, i heard batman had you benched for the week :/ im gonna miss you on patrols

Jonathan Kent | Thursday, 10:56PM:
i hope you feel better soon! missed you tonight :'(

Jonathan Kent | Tuesday, 3:34AM:
if i did something wrong, the least you could do is tell me

Damian Wayne | Tuesday, 4:07AM:
I'm sorry

—

“We really are the worst, aren’t we?”

“How did we not notice?”

“Well, we know now, and seeing as how stubborn the demon brat is, we’re gonna have to help him somehow.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle this.”

—

Damian feels like someone is stabbing him repeatedly through the chest. His throat feels like he's swallowed a bundle of barbed wires (well, he sure has coughed some out—the roses did have thorns on their stems), and his insides feel like they're being torn and cut apart little by little.

The coughing had stopped for a while after the Incident. The moment was only a short-lived reprieve.

He’d started getting calls and texts from Jon (who’s number he should’ve blocked ages ago to avoid any reminders of him, but couldn’t bring himself to do so) after that night two days ago, and each one has been a terrible reminder of his current predicament and of Jon himself, which in turn has caused the flowers wrapped around his organs to make their way back up again.

Damian forced himself not to answer or reply to any of them. But just knowing Jon was worried about him, that he missed him, made his insides hurt all over again. He found himself doubled over on the bathroom floor coughing up blood, spit and those goddamned flowers. Buds and petals of roses and carnations littered the floor, the blood staining the marble tiles. Just thinking about Jon made him like this. It was pitiful and pathetic, to say the least.

Damian doesn't know when he passed out, but he found himself back in his bed a after his last coughing fit. His throat hurt so badly, he could barely swallow. The taste of iron from his own blood on his tongue, along with the acrid taste of bile and vomit wasn’t all that pleasant either. Damian grimaces. He must have vomited from the pain before blacking out and didn't even notice it. Disgusting.

A knock sounded at the door just then. "Damian? Are you up?" Grayson's voice asked. Damian sighed, resting his head back against his pillow. He tried to speak up but what came out was a whispered "Yes". He grimaced at the pain even just a short whisper caused him. He truly was in worst shape than before.

After a few seconds of silence, the door opened. Grayson stood there with—Jon?

What. 

What.

Damian quickly sat upright, his heartbeat picking up and the pain in his chest expanding. He looked between the two of them with wide eyes. Jon wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to see him like…this. He wasn’t supposed to know. What the hell was he doing here?

Jon stood there, frozen at the doorway, and stared at him with wide eyes, probably not being able to believe what he was seeing. Damian looked weak, frail and feeble, far more than Jon had ever seen before. His skin looked sallow and pale, the tan brown of his skin now washed out. His eyes were blood shot and hollowed with dark purple stains under them, cheeks gaunt. hHs lips were cracked and bloodied. Ever since that episode during a stakeout, Damian has been having a hard time keeping food down and swallowing it overall. He's had to stick to a certain diet so he doesn't die from starvation or dehydration, but the damage was already done.

Damian gripped the sheets harder, feeling even sicker watching Jon study him.

“What…is he doing here?" He rasped out with difficulty, pausing between each word. "I called him," Grayson said, arms crossed over his chest. "You can't keep going on like this."

Damian grit his teeth. "You had no right—“

"I had every right as your brother. B also agreed to this, if you must know," Dick scoffed. "I wont watch you kill yourself like this when something can be done about it. So talk." Dick pushed Jon forward, the latter stumbling into Damian's room, having yet to recover from the shock of seeing Damian. "Dick—" he started but Grayson had already left and slammed the door on his face.

Jon turned back to Damian. Or what was left of him.

Damian’s hackles rose as Jon studied him once more. The horror on his face made the bile in his stomach rise back up again. He was a pathetic sight to behold, he knew. And now Jon was seeing him like this. He's been injured on duty before, Jon has seen it and has taken him back to the Cave or to a nearby safe house to get treated. He’s seen him get kicked, punched, stabbed, whatever—but this? This was worse than all those other times.

Maybe because it was alarmingly obvious what was happening to Damian.

Damian was actively dying.

(And all for what? Why was he doing this really? He and Jon were barely even friends anymore. Why would he want to even keep those feelings of friendship, of liking, of camaraderie, alive? What was the fucking point?)

Damian had spent so long cultivating this garden in his body, the garden that grew and flourished by killing him in the process, all while avoiding the man who planted the seeds in the first place.

(No. No, he can’t blame Jon for this. Damian himself planted the seeds, he watered and nurtured them, toiling at the soil every day while telling himself that nothing would bear fruit, until it eventually did and killed him along the way).

But here Jon was. In the fucking flesh. Seeing him at his very worst. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

(Then how was it supposed to happen? Would Jon see him when he was already six feet under? Damian had really fucked up.)

This was the lowest Damian's been since...well. Since Jon left.

"What are you doing here?" The walking garden asked. The pain in his chest was starting to flare up again. Jon's presence was going to be a problem. He was going to start hacking his lungs out any second now. Damian doesn’t think his body could take another coughing fit like that. And he doesn’t think Jon, despite how tattered their relationship is, could handle witnessing something like that if seeing Damian’s weak state was enough to put him in a state.

Jon stood there, still stunned. It took a moment for him to reply, slowly walking over to Damian. In response, the latter moved backwards, pressing his back to the headboard. He looked up at Jon, still not used to how much he towered over him.

"I—" Jon swallowed and frowned. "I called you like a hundred times. Texted you even more, and you never replied. I was starting to get worried because it's been two weeks since you got benched and when I asked either Dick or Tim if you were alright, they all said the same thing: that you were still sick."

"I couldn't believe you were still sick—and then—and then your heart—it sounds wrong. It's not beating as it should. It’s slow and quiet. It’ not supposed to be like that. You’re not breathing properly either, it’s like there’s something there. Like-like there’s something inside you that’s not letting your body do things properly.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, finally making his way over to Damian's bedside. He grabbed one of the chairs nearby (the one his father or one of his siblings or Alfred had been sitting in almost every night and day since the Incident) and sat down in it, hands steepled together on his lap. He looked at Damian with furrowed brows and a deep frown. His face was so scrunched up in worry and concern, it almost made him ugly.

"It's nothing," Damian whispered, keeping his eyes on his lap, not wanting to face Jon. If he did, he knew that the inevitable would happen. Jon scoffed, incredulous. "Nothing?? Dames, you—frankly, you look you're dying.”

Damian scoffed at this. He didn't only look it, he was.
"And—Fuck." Jon ran a hand over his face. “All of this is just wrong. Look at you. You’re all skin and bones, and I can practically hear how hard your body is working to even keep you awake right now.”

The shorter of the two stayed quiet, still avoiding his gaze.

“Tell me the truth, Damian. What is going on with you? What is making you this sick? Why have you been avoiding me? Just tell me. Please.”

Jon’s voice cracked at the end.

“What…what did my family tell you?” Damian asked, voice barely audible.

“They wouldn’t tell me. Just that I needed to talk to you. They said you’d tell me.”

Damian grit his teeth and shook his head.

“I can’t do this.”

“What—“

Jon didn’t even get to finish his sentence when Damian doubled over and started coughing. His entire body shook with the effort of trying to expel more flowers from his system. The pain became worse as he coughed, spreading from his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes and all the way to his head. His bloodshot eyes became even more bloodshot as the capillaries burst from the force of the coughing.

“Damian!” Jon stood up quickly and placed his hand on Damian’s back, watching as Damian kept coughing and specks of blood littered his bedsheets.

Damian gagged as a particularly strong cough forced out a bundle of petals from his mouth. Red and white carnations, bits of red chrysanthemum, stems from the daffodils, and daisy petals are all falling from his mouth, falling onto the bed in a bloodied heap. Tears are spilling from Damian’s eyes over the pain and exertion, mixing with the petals.

Jon stares at the mess, horrified.

“What—What is this—Damian—“

“Don’t you get it?” Damian grits out, trying hard to keep himself from coughing again. It hurts so badly to talk, but he can’t do this anymore. He can’t take it.

“These—“ he points at the red carnation petals, “heartache and deep love. And these ones,” he points at the white ones, speckled red with blood, “pure love”. Damian picks up a stem and practically shoves it in Jon’s face, making him step back. “A stem from a daffodil—the flower of unequalled love. And this,” he picks up a daisy petal, shows it off as well, “loyal love and secrecy”.

“And this, if you haven’t gotten the point already,” Damian reaches into his mouth, not even caring how disgusting this entire scenario is, and pulls out a rose petal that got lodged behind his gums. “Love. I love you.”

He drops the metal onto the heap on his bed and let’s out a sigh, suddenly feeling out of breath.

“I love you, Jon.” Damian whispers out. “And this is the proof.”

There. He said it. He told Jon he loved him. He finally confessed.

And it hurt.

It hurt so fucking much.

Damian doesn’t really cry. And he can excuse the tears streaming down his face on the coughing fit all he wants, but it was obvious he was crying. From how tired he was, from the pain, from the exhaustion of it all, from the futileness of the situation, and knowing how this would end. He confessed but to what end? What would happen now? Jon would just reject him and he would die with the garden of his own selfish wants and desires.

Strong arms wrap themselves around Damian, holding him tight in a warm embrace. Damian’s eyes go wide as he glances at Jon, who’s face is buried in his shoulder. Wet tears are falling onto his shirt from Jon’s eyes and the arms around him shake from the force of Jon’s own sobs.

“What…” What was going on? Did Jon feel so bad for him he had to do this? What the hell?

“Damian,” Jon’s voice is strained and quiet, but just hearing the emotion behind it, and the way he said his name, as if it were his lifeline, made Damian’s heart stop.

“I love you, too. Damian, I love you. I love you.”

Had he…had he heard him correctly?

Jon loved him?

Jon loved him?

He reciprocated?

Damian took in a big gulp of air, as if he was finally able to reach the surface after drowning for days, weeks, months, years, and sobbed.

He wrapped his trembling arms around Jon and held onto him, his body serving as an anchor, and sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed.

Jon tightened his grip around him, crying into his shoulder as well.

The two of them stayed like this for as long as they possibly could, afraid either one of them would disappear at some point.

—

Once the two of them had calmed down enough and dried each other’s faces, they began cleaning up the mess of petals and flowers.

Damian felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and though his body was sore and ached, he felt a hundred times better.

It seems that it was true what those articles had said. Hanahaki could be cured if the feelings were reciprocated. Huh.

“So,” Damian started, his voice still barely above a whisper and hoarse, “you love me?” Jon scoffed, scooping some petals into his hands and throwing them into the small trashcan in the room. “I thought I made that pretty clear. Yes, I love you.”

He looked up at Damian, who blushed in return, glancing away.

“I didn’t…I didn’t expect that,” he admitted.

“Is that why you kept this a secret for so long? Why you’d been avoiding me?”

Damian nodded, picking up the rose petal and twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. “I thought you wouldn’t reciprocate. You were—“ Damian stopped for a moment and looked over at Jon. “Jon, what about Nakamura? Aren’t you two together?”

Jon sighed and let out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's the thing—we actually broke up a while back. He realized before even I did how I felt about you. I was so worried about you, bringing you up in every conversation, and whenever I got the chance—he kind of got sick of it. Which, fair, but yeah. We talked about it, and…yeah. I didn’t realize how much I actually wanted you until then.

But you and I haven't really gotten a chance to talk at all...and well, then you got...sick. So. Yeah. I thought there wasn’t really ever a time or place to tell you."

Damian's face went slack. "Oh." He seriously couldn’t believe this right now.

Jon couldn't help but laugh a little. “Yeah. Maybe if you'd texted back..."

Damian chucked the rose petal at him. “I was too busy dealing with this.” He gestured to the mess of petals and flowers. Jon raised an eyebrow at him. “Dames—“

“Don’t say it,” he groaned. “I know. I was an idiot.”

“Glad you said it for me.”

“Shut up.”

—

Once the mess was cleaned up, Jon sat down beside Damian, and rested his head against his shoulder.

“Does this mean you’ll be better now? From what you told me, Hanahaki gets cured if the love is reciprocated, right?”

“Yeah,” Damian replied, cozying up next to Jon, realizing how much he’d actually missed the warmth and woodsy smell of his body. He slowly closed his eyes. “I feel a lot better now…”

“Good…”

Damian began to feel himself drifting off, finally feeling at peace after months and months of endless pain, of suffering in silence, and forcing himself to deal with something he didn’t have to go through alone. Something that could’ve been avoided. God, he really was an idiot.

“Dames?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you.”

Damian smiled and sighed, content.

“I love you, too, Jon.”

—

“Do we wake them up?” Steph peeked into Damian’s room after Cass had her turn looking at her youngest brother sleeping peacefully next to Jon on his bed.

“No, let’s leave them be,” Cass signed. “Yeah, Damian’s already had a rough time. He deserves the rest,” Duke agreed, nodding.

“I’m just glad this is all over,” Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the tension ease off.

“About time he confessed,” Jason scoffed. “I can’t be the only one who always thought he had a bit of a crush on Superman Junior.”

“Yeah, no, it was obvious from miles away,” Tim said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You were no better with your little crush on Kon,” Dick chuckled, poking Tim’s cheek.

“What? No!”

“Okay, okay, quiet. Let’s leave them alone now,” Bruce said, looking into his son’s room one last time before closing the door quietly, smiling.