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1.
It starts, as all life-changing events do, in the most inconspicuous way. It’s a warm and bright summer’s day, one of the hottest in remembered history, and Tommy is sitting on the front steps to his house. His ice lolly leaks its sweet stickiness onto his hand, abandoned as he stares across the street instead. There, a moving truck stands, a few men unloading what seems to be second-hand furniture. Among the men is a boy, scrawny and short, who appears to be about Tommy’s age. The kid is stronger than he looks, carrying things with as much ease as the men more than twice his age, and Tommy can’t help but think that’s kind of cool. Just as he is about to go back inside, the kid starts moving towards the fence around Tommy’s house. Tommy stiffens, never having been good at making conversation and keeping people around. But either the other boy doesn’t notice his state of discomfort, or he doesn’t care, because he saunters through the gate to sit himself down next to Tommy like he belongs there.
Shoulders pressed together, the boy points to the leaking ice lolly still clutched in Tommy’s hand. ‘I’m Määnin. Are you going to finish that, or can I have it?’ Tommy doesn’t speak, mutely thrusting the cold treat towards Määnin instead. He’s not really in the mood for food anymore anyway, something jittery settling in his stomach. ‘I’m Tommy,’ he manages eventually after a few moments of silence. ‘Did you just move here?’ A mocking grin lights up the other’s face, but his eyes remain gentle: ‘How did you know? Was it the moving truck that gave it away?’ Tommy laughs, a brilliant and sparkling thing, even though the joke wasn’t that funny. ‘My parents just divorced,’ Määnin offers, ‘so I came here with my dad. Staying with mom would have meant staying in Helsinki, and I can’t be bothered with speaking Finnish all the time.’ That does explain why anyone would move here, Tommy thinks. Who would want to live in Helsinki anyway, when Vörå is right here, in his eyes the best place on earth. He voices this opinion out loud to Määnin, who just snorts. ‘Have you ever even been to Helsinki?’ Tommy hasn’t, but he can’t admit that now, not when Vörå’s reputation is on the line. So he nods, lies that his parents took him there on holiday once, and that he thought it was awful. He’d much rather spend his summers running through the fields and forests of his hometown than go to a city where no one understands him, thank you very much. ‘I’ll show you, if you want? Vörå is so much nicer than Helsinki, I promise.’ Määnin considers the offer, and Tommy wonders briefly if he’s been too eager. But then the other finishes the lolly, throwing the wooden stick on the ground as he stands. Across the street, a middle-aged man shouts: ‘Jean-Filip, a hand? You can’t expect me to do all the heavy lifting by myself.’ His tone is gruff, but his expression kind. Määnin (Jean-Filip?) heaves a sigh. ‘I’ll see you here tomorrow at 10? Then you can show me around your precious Vörå. You have a bike, right?’ Tommy nods, but Määnin is walking away already. At the fence, he turns around once more: ‘Oh, and never call me Jean-Filip, you hear me, Toms? It’s Määnin and nothing else.’ With that, he’s gone, back across the street to help his dad out. Tommy sits there, dazed, something pleased burning under his skin, until his mother calls him inside for dinner. He picks the wooden stick up as he goes, not throwing it away, but keeping it in a drawer instead.
The next day, Määnin waits for him outside his house, and that is how they spend the rest of their summer. Tommy shows Määnin his favourite places, and Määnin tells him stories of Helsinki in return. Out loud, Tommy might claim none of that can even remotely measure up to the beauty of his Vörå, but privately, he cherishes everything Määnin chooses to share. Tommy loves his new best friend, loudly telling anyone willing to listen (and those who aren’t) about how tough and cool Määnin is. The jittering in his stomach never goes away, and every morning he wakes up to a red and yellow petal on his tongue, confused as to how that happened.
2.
Life goes on, as it always does, and Tommy and Määnin grow steadily closer as the years pass. The red flowers still appear sometimes, most often after Tommy hung out with Määnin the night before. His leading theory is currently that someone, most likely Määnin, is playing a practical joke on him, but he’s yet to collect concrete evidence to support this. It really doesn’t matter that much either, compared to the fun stuff he and Määnin get up to. More often than not, Määnin skips school, and sometimes Tommy joins him, both of them drinking side by side in a field. They talk about anything on those days, the cars they are going to buy when they get older, the music they listen to, sometimes together. And if Tommy's heart sometimes skips a beat when they're lying there, side by side as the sun sets, he doesn't acknowledge it. Määnin doesn't either, so it has to mean nothing.
This past week, Tommy had come down with a fever, and as a result, spent more time in his bed than anywhere else, and Määnin has only been to visit him once. This is why, when he hears a knock on the door while his parents are both out, he immediately throws off the covers and runs down the stairs to the door. Unfortunately, his fever comes with dizziness, and instead of opening the door suavely, he unlocks it, and then immediately needs to slump against the wall to regain his balance. Real smooth. Pressing his fingers to his temples to banish the dark circles taking over his vision, Tommy throws open the door, expecting to see Määnin standing there. Instead, it’s his aunt Lilja. With a disappointed sigh, Tommy sidesteps to let her in as she fusses over him. ‘I heard you were sick, your mother called me in a panic, you poor thing.’ Leading her towards the sitting room, Tommy offers to make them both some tea. His throat has been awfully rough lately, probably another symptom of his illness. Lilja thanks him, chattering on about something he really couldn’t be bothered to care about. Busying himself in the kitchen, Tommy wishes his mom could come back quickly from doing the shopping. He loves his family, he really does, and Lilja is one of the better ones anyway, but the way she just never stops talking gets on his nerves. He told Määnin about this once, but he hadn’t seen the problem; instead, he’d just laughed in his face at a joke Tommy wasn’t able to see. Tommy hadn’t pressed, if Määnin thought something was funny, it simply had to be.
That doesn’t help him in his current situation, however. The kettle finished boiling, and Tommy has to make his way back to his aunt for more meaningless conversation. At least he can count on a sweet treat, as Aunt Lilja never visits without bringing some homemade pastries along. Choosing two cups from the cupboard, he hears the telltale sound of keys in the lock of the front door. That’d be his mom. At least he won’t have to face the chatterbox that is his aunt alone, and she’ll be more than happy to see her sister. He can hear them greeting each other enthusiastically in the next room, and, knowing he can’t delay any longer, Tommy grabs a third cup, loads them onto a serving platter, and fills them with hot water and a teabag each. Then, balancing the platter carefully, he makes his way back to his aunt, gently setting it down on the coffee table. His mom smiles at him, pointing at the bags of groceries still in the hallway. ‘If you feel well enough, do you think you could put everything away? Lilja brought something sweet for when you’re done.’ Grateful for a way out of the endless small-talk he would otherwise have had to endure, Tommy collects the bags and heads back to the kitchen.
As Tommy unloads the bags, the voices in the other room wash over him, exchanging stories about other relatives and friends. Then, his aunt pitches her voice lower, dipping into the conspiratory register reserved for only the juiciest of gossip. ‘Did you hear about Sören? Lavender, they say. His daughter was the one who found out.’ Sören, that’s one of his uncles, but Tommy never took him for the gardening type. His mom lets out a small shriek: ‘His daughter? His poor wife, having to find out like that…’ Lilja laughs, a mean edge to it, as she continues: ‘That’s the best part! Apparently, she knew all along, and she hasn’t been the most faithful either.’ Oh, so his uncle was cheating on his aunt, that Tommy understands. But what did flowers have to do with that? Before he can stick his head through the doorway to ask, his aunt presses on. ‘I think it’s disgusting, I’ve always said that. Our priest said once that the illness is a just punishment for that sort of people, to hold them accountable for their perversions.’
Understanding crashes over Tommy like a wave. He knows about gay people in the abstract, mostly from hearing his parents talk about them negatively, and from the jokes on the playground. Not once did he think someone he actively knows would be like that, and the idea doesn’t sit well with him. The jitters in his stomach intensify, and, before he knows it, he’s in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, coughing up a handful of green petals. Probably just another symptom of his fever. A nagging voice in his head reminds him of the conversation he just overheard. Lavender, they had said. Was his uncle coughing up flowers too? And did doing so make Tommy gay?
3.
Tommy does a little bit of research, but there’s only so much one can find out in a small village where everyone can follow everyone else's actions with a hawk’s eye. He can’t really ask anyone, because, judging by the conversation he overheard, coughing up flowers isn’t a positive thing. So he holes up in the small school library one afternoon, ignoring all of Määnin’s questions. In the end, he finds two relatively small books which make a mention of an illness that makes the afflicted cough up petals or entire flowers. The first book only mentions the disease in passing, but the second has a detailed description of the symptoms and causes. The illness –hanahaki, as it is apparently called in the medical field– manifests itself as a result of repressed emotions and feelings. Symptoms include, but are not limited to, weakness, dizziness, headaches, nausea and chest pain. And throwing up flowers, apparently. The disease is, in rare cases, fatal, as the sufferer’s lungs fill with plant roots. The simplest cure just involves telling the object of your affections about the way you feel. In the past, doctors used to believe that the infatuation had to be reciprocated in order to cure the afflicted, but that theory has been disproven in recent years.
Just as Tommy goes to study the diagram of lungs filled with roots more closely, a sound behind him shocks him out of his concentration. Head swivelling around, he spots a boy he’s seen in class before but never paid attention to. He’s tall and lanky, with a face so open and honest, it reads to Tommy like an invitation for bullies to pick on him. The kid honest-to-god waves at him, bounding over with an enthusiasm frankly unfitting for a library. In his outstretched hand is a book with flowers on the cover. The Language of Flowers, the title reads, confounding Tommy even further. Flowers can’t talk, everyone knows that, so what would they need a language for? The boy smiles widely, now in front of him, gesturing with his head to Tommy to take the book. As Tommy continues to stare unresponsively, his smile falters slightly, and he shuffles in place sheepishly as he retracts the hand holding the book. ‘I’m Fredrik. We’re in the same class.’ Tommy nods back, not offering his own name as he’s still confused. ‘I saw you looking at books on flowers, so I thought you might like this one. It has the meanings of the most common flowers, and even some rarer ones!’ Tommy flushes, worried this kid –Fredrik– has figured out why he’s looking up flowers in the first place. ‘I’m not looking at flowers, do I look like a girl to you? I don’t need your stupid book, that’s gay.’ Tommy puts as much heat as he can muster into his retort, but Fredrik, to his credit, hardly looks fazed, instead turning his eyes to the opened book in Tommy’s lap. ‘Oh, you’re reading about hanahaki, that’s even cooler! You know, if you don’t know why you’re getting the flowers, looking up their meanings might actually give you a clue. I could help you if you have any petals with you?’ Tommy closes the book with a hard thump. Research over. He fixes Fredrik with a hard stare: ‘I don’t know what you mean. I was just looking for a book on...,’ he searches for a reasonable subject he might read about for fun, ‘Cars! A book about cars, yes. I’ve never even heard of that hana-thing you mentioned.’ With those words, Tommy gets up, leaving Fredrik and the books behind, not really sure if he learned anything new at all.
After the encounter in the library, Tommy starts to notice Fredrik more often. They’re in the same class after all, and while he’s not rowdy or outgoing, Fredrik makes no attempt to make his presence less noticeable either. He answers questions in class, and he works quietly when he’s supposed to. He never sneaks out for a smoke, he never skips school, and he doesn’t seem to ride a moped either. In other words, in Tommy’s eyes, he’s as boring as anyone can get. Definitely compared to Määnin, who is always up for anything daring. Like the time the two of them set off the fire alarm on purpose, Tommy more than grateful to take the fall for Määnin as well. So when Tommy finds Määnin talking to Fredrik one day, he cannot believe his eyes at first. Why would the toughest man in Vörå want to hang out with someone like him? But if Määnin likes the kid, Tommy’s own opinion is probably wrong. It helps that Fredrik –Freppa, as they start to call him– isn’t all that bad. He’s nice, if a little weird, but his mom makes the best sandwiches Tommy has ever eaten, and his brother is Tony, the only guy who might get somewhat near Määnin’s level of cool. So Tommy shakes off the uneasiness he felt when he first met Freppa in the library and instead treats him like a real friend (which mostly involves telling him stories about Määnin). What Tommy can’t shake off is the knowledge that Freppa knows something about him that even he himself doesn’t fully understand yet. A haunting thought in the back of his mind to simply ask for help rears its head whenever a new petal makes itself known. But Tommy resists, throwing the white and red things away at the first chance he gets. He doesn’t need to know what they mean, what it all means. This is simply a phase he has to get through.
Tommy thinks things might get better when he first proposes the idea of starting a band, but this quickly turns out not to be the case. Band practice means being around both Freppa and Määnin at the same time, and that makes Tommy feel all kinds of weird, albeit in a different way depending on which man he makes eye contact with. Catching Freppa’s eye, all Tommy can read is concern, and, underneath that, a hint of judgment that makes Tommy’s blood boil. He doesn’t need someone to be concerned about him; he is fine, and he wishes Freppa would stop looking at him like that, as if he can telepathically tell him to man up and ask for help, simply by means of puppy eyes. Määnin’s eyes on him make Tommy feel strange as well, his cheeks heating up and pulse stuttering in his ears. It’s probably thanks to the way he looks so cool and manly with his bass slung over his shoulder, fingers deftly plucking at the strings. Tommy is simply jealous of the way Määnin can get a girlfriend in an instant, because of his looks, his musical abilities, and, if he has to believe all the stories he’s heard, his skills in bed. The air in Freppa’s garage is tense with an ever-growing pressure only Tommy seems to be able to feel. The flowers keep coming, almost daily at this point, and a scratchy throat is Tommy’s constant companion.
4.
Tommy stares at his own reflection in the bar’s bathroom mirror, hoping the dark circles under his eyes might simply vanish if he stares hard and long enough. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, choosing to blame it on the stress of combining the band’s ever-growing local fame with his job as a supermarket clerk. Band practice consumes most of his time, alongside work and helping out his parents. This leaves Tommy with little time to think about anything other than their band and how things will proceed with it. His voice is getting worse every day, throat so dry that no amount of water can soothe it. On bad days, instead of the words he wants to say, all that comes out are petals and buds and stems, scratching up his airways and forcing their way past his tightly closed lips. He has had to cancel some rehearsal time to cover up for this inconvenience, unwilling to let anyone, especially Freppa and Määnin, see him struggle like this. The bags under his eyes could just as well be permanent tattoos, a reminder to everyone he comes across that his life is on the brink of collapse. Tommy can’t keep singing like this for a long time, he knows this, but totally losing his voice would mean losing the band. He doesn't want to face a life without his band, which would mean a life without his friends, without Määnin. The worst part of it all is that he doesn't know why this is happening to him, or so he’s been telling himself for months. By now, he has accepted he must be suffering from hanahaki, though he'd never say it out loud to anyone, much too busy carrying on like nothing is wrong, proudly treading water as long as he can. But the deep-seated longing that is supposedly the cause of his illness is something Tommy hadn’t been able to place for so long.
Or had refused to place. Something momentous had flickered just out of reach of his consciousness, the few times his hand brushed Määnin's when putting away instruments and equipment. Or on the nights they get drunk together, collapsing on a double bed next to each other, only a sliver of space between them. Or when he catches Freppa's eyes again, flicking rapidly between Määnin and him, his gaze trying to tell him something that could be the largest and most important secret of Tommy's entire existence. But he had pushed it away for so long, day after week after month after year. It had to catch up to him at some point, once he’d run out of lies and excuses and loudly uttered statements on how everyone thinks Määnin’s ass looks great in jeans. It just so happened that some point apparently meant tonight, because here Tommy is, in a bathroom after a gig, having just seen Määnin run offstage to make out with some girl. And Tommy had seen his world crumble to pieces, with only the shards of truth lying on the floor. He's in love with Määnin, and he's been repressing it for years.
The door behind him opens and closes with a quiet click. In the mirror, Tommy sees Freppa come in, eyes full of that ever-present worry. Briefly, he wonders if Freppa ever falls asleep without overthinking problems that should never be his to begin with. Then his learned behaviour kicks in, the façade of cruelty he’s mastered through years of practice, and he swivels his head round to glare in Freppa’s direction. 'I'm fine,' are the first harsh words out of his mouth, but they seem to fall on deaf ears as Freppa raises an eyebrow. Sure, Tommy doesn't look fine, but he doesn't need Freppa to make him aware of that. The mirror did a decent job all on its own. Then Freppa walks closer, casting a glance over Tommy's shoulder, spotting the yellow blossoms still lying in the sink. Tommy knows Freppa has known forever, that this isn't some big discovery that will lead to the end of their friendship, but to his racing mind that means nothing. He stills involuntarily. Sure, Freppa might have known about his affliction in the abstract, this confrontation underneath the harsh and sharp led-lights feels more dangerous. Tommy feels like Freppa might lash out, tell him to just get over it or tell Määnin what he feels. But of course, that's not Freppa's way, and his friend is emotionally intelligent enough to know what to say. 'I'm sorry, Tommy. I can't imagine how you must feel right now. I didn't think he'd do that to you.' A joyless laugh. Of course Freppa can't understand what he's feeling, Tommy barely understands it himself, all the pieces of the puzzle that is his life still falling into place. Freppa's eyes seem sympathetic, though, so Tommy bites back any rude and hurtful retort. 'How is your throat feeling? I noticed your voice being a little rougher than normal.' Oh great, commentary on his performance from a guy who can barely make it through even the easiest of guitar solos. Tommy wants to say that out loud, wants to see Freppa flinch and leave him alone as he has done so many times before, but the words don't come. His breath is stuck in his windpipe; all that comes out is a cough. A singular yellow petal frees itself from where it was lodged in his throat, landing on the floor between both men. They stare at it together, mutely.
'What does it mean?' Tommy's voice is no more than a whisper, a lonely exhale of breath that takes both of them back to the day they first met. Freppa has to know what this flower means, he's a nerd like that, and it's clear that its meaning isn't pleasant as he winces slightly. 'Jealousy, probably. Yellow hyacinth. Why do you suddenly want to know?' He says it kindly, but Tommy feels the barb underneath, the silent reproach at him for always declining any help in the past. 'I don't know. I've never-' He's never what? Tommy doesn't know how to go on. I've never accepted what was happening before? That makes him stupid, staring at so many clues without piecing them together. I've never cared before? That makes him a liar, obviously, he must have cared. If he didn't care, this whole thing wouldn't be happening, and he'd be more than happily cheering Määnin's romantic endeavours on from the sidelines. 'I've never allowed myself to feel it,' Tommy settles on in the end, and Freppa's eyes go wider by a minuscule amount.
‘You didn’t know.’
It’s a statement, not a question, and Tommy feels seen in a way he’s never felt before, like Freppa looks through his eyes and the carefully constructed layers of denim and bravery, straight into his soul. ‘I thought you were just being, you know, you, but you actually didn’t know you are in love with him.’ It stings, even though Tommy has come to terms with the fact his affections have in fact been glaringly obvious for anyone but him to see. But Freppa has to go and make it even worse: ‘You could just tell him, you know? That would fix it. Or you could get an operation.’ From the look on Freppa’s face, Tommy can tell that second one isn’t the option he’d prefer, and Tommy has to agree. All he knows about the operations occasionally used to cure people like him, is that they tend to remove all emotions towards the object of the sufferer’s desire, even platonic feelings. Tommy could never lose Määnin like that. But the first option seems equally bad, there is no way that telling Määnin what he feels will have a good outcome. Freppa should honestly know this, he's the only one apart from Tommy who knows what Määnin is truly like. He’d pretend not to mind, he’d say he understands where Tommy is coming from because who wouldn’t fall for him, but unfortunately he’s not gay, so sorry. And things would be somewhat normal for a bit, but then Määnin would start withdrawing more and more as he notices that Tommy’s feelings aren’t going away. So no, Tommy can’t tell him. He’ll stick it out, until he falls out of love, until it kills him. Freppa looks worried as he tells him this, but he doesn’t protest. He turns on the tap as Tommy stalks out of the bathroom, flushing the petals down the drain.
5.
Things spiral out of control from there, even though Tommy had thought things couldn’t get worse. But as always, even when you hit rock bottom, you can still dig deeper if you try hard enough, and that’s exactly what Tommy did by rejecting Freppa’s idea. Next to the constant ache in his throat, Tommy now walks, or staggers, through life with a deep-seated nausea low in his stomach. Talking becomes a struggle, more and more often his voice just refuses to work. He tries to save himself for rehearsals and gigs, but that just leads to everyone around him, and Määnin in particular, noticing the change in his behaviour. The questions sound concerned, almost similar to how Freppa talks, but Tommy brushes it all off, saying he’s just been feeling under the weather lately. It’s not a lie per se, enough of the truth to get Määnin to back off. The exhaustion creeps into his bones, sleep escapes him and the bags under his eyes grow impossibly bigger. But Tommy holds on to what he promised himself, he will tough it out. Sure, apparently, he’s been in love with Määnin for years without noticing. But now that he knows, he can get over this silly infatuation, he’s sure of it. He’ll get over it, get better, find a nice girl to settle down with and never ever have to think about Määnin like that. Never think about the way the muscles in Määnin’s arms look when he lifts their equipment into Mrs. Börns’ trunk when they get ready for gigs. Never think about the way he smells, an intoxicating mix of cheap cologne and sweat, something that’s so deeply Määnin and always leaves Tommy craving more. Because that’s what realising his feelings has reduced Tommy to: stolen stares and hidden glances and trying to keep his distance in a way he wouldn’t even have thought about before. And he notices things now, small things that Määnin does that drive him completely insane. He sways his hips in a certain way during their gigs that makes it even harder for Tommy to force words out of his nearly overgrown throat. He winks at the crowd to make them go wild, unaware of the effect his actions have on Tommy next to him. After every show, Tommy has to run to the bathroom as fast as he can before the petals come cascading out, hearing Freppa make up excuses for him behind his back.
The day it all comes crashing down starts similarly enough to the ones leading up to it. Tommy wakes up from a night of fitful sleep, not needing a mirror to see how bad he looks. The sun is coming through the blinds already, indicating that he doesn’t have time to eat before heading to Freppa’s garage, from where they’re all driving to another gig together. What does it matter anyway, it’s not like anything he eats stays down for long. He does take a big sip of water, though, a recent habit to keep the ache in his throat at bay for as long as possible. Filling up a huge water bottle, he heads downstairs to start the walk to Freppa’s place. Today won’t be a good day, he can feel it in his bones, and this twenty-minute walk won't help at all.
The bar is too crowded for Tommy’s liking, the audience alive with the sort of energy that would get him excited in a past life, but is now too much for his fraying nerves to take. He avoids Määnin’s eyes at all costs as they set up, knowing that any eye contact might set him off. He just has to make it through this one gig. That’s become his mantra over the 2 months since he found out what was wrong with him, always telling him to get through one more show, never planning or acknowledging what would happen afterwards. It’s worked so far, he insists, but he knows by the increasingly concerned looks on Freppa’s face that he is deteriorating quickly. His voice knows that too, as he barely makes it through their warm-ups before excusing himself to a bathroom, pretending he doesn’t notice the way his bandmates all look at each other.
The petals have been from the same flower for a while now, since his talk with Freppa: daffodils, in all the shades one can imagine. In a moment of weakness, he’d looked up their meaning, unrequited love. The book he found his answer in had been shut quickly and finally, without giving himself a chance to mourn what could have been. The flowers are right, after all. There is no way that the toughest man in Vörå would feel even remotely the same. Once he’s done emptying his stomach of its contents, Tommy takes a moment to compose himself in front of a mirror. One more gig. He looks so much paler than the last time he checked. One more gig. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his face, giving him an even more translucent appearance. His lips are chapped, his eyes have sunken deep into their sockets. No wonder people are concerned, he looks eerily like a ghost. The door to the bathroom opens slightly as he grips the sink with all of his remaining strength. Freppa. ‘We’re supposed to be on stage in five minutes. I told them you ate something bad.’ A beat, as he debates between leaving and saying something else. Tommy turns to look at him. ‘Are you sure you’re up for it?’
If he’d had the energy for it, Tommy would have gotten angry, letting a torrent of insults hail down onto Freppa. But now he just sighs, slumping down slightly. Who cares if he’s up for it or not, he will do it anyway, as long as he can. One more gig. Freppa turns and leaves when he figures out he won’t be getting a response, let alone the one he wants. Tommy waits a few moments longer, staring at the stranger in the mirror, before joining Freppa and the rest of the band. He has one more gig to get through.
The gig goes fine, as all of them do lately, though even that might be stretching the truth too much. Everyone else is wonderful, leaving Tommy struggling to keep up. He’s out of breath more often than not, his mellansnack less energetic than ever. He can feel the way he’s disappointing his friends like a physical force, the heavy weight of their gazes on his back as they make their way backstage. Määnin is the first to speak, Tommy’s worst nightmare coming to fruition: ‘Are you okay, Toms? You’re looking awfully pale, I’d hate to catch something.’ He's playing it off as a joke, but the concern is evident. The others nod, even Gambämäänin. All Tommy can do is stop himself from uttering a brusque reply: all Määnin has to worry about catching from him is the deathly disease that is homosexuality. Freppa is next, the traitor. ‘You know we can help you solve a problem if you talk about it, right Tommy?’ It’s so pointed and clever, a remark that might seem utterly harmless to the rest, but feels like a blow to his stomach for Tommy. He knows what Freppa is implying, what he thinks Tommy should do. The gig is over, no goal remains in Tommy’s head for the time being. He could just confess…
But no. His body might be giving up on him, giving in to this weakness, his soul and mind are still strong. He swivels on his heels, points a finger in Freppa’s direction and spits out his final words on the matter. ‘I don’t need anyone else, if there is a problem, which there isn’t, I can deal with it myself like a real man, for fuck’s sake. And if you don’t like that, Fredrik, you can just fuck off.’ He means to storm off, leave the room in thunderous silence as his bandmates sit in the truth of what he just said. Instead, a wave of nausea crashes over him, and there is no way he’s making it to the bathroom in time. The abandoned alleyway behind the bar will have to do. Once alone, the flowers spill forth, coming up through his already aching lungs, past the hands he presses against his mouth to stop the flood. They’re yellow again, he registers. Roses. He’d always thought those were supposed to be romantic flowers. Heaving, he attempts to catch his breath when he hears footsteps behind him.
‘Holy shit,’ Määnin voices emphatically, and Tommy winces.
+1.
Neither man speaks as Määnin comes closer, Tommy still trying to get his breathing under control. How is he supposed to explain this, his voice, the flowers that litter the ground? Why the fuck didn't Freppa stop Määnin from following him? A hand lands on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around. Määnin's face is so close to Tommy’s, too close, as far as the latter is concerned. He isn't wearing his sunglasses, his blue eyes boring into Tommy’s soul at full power, a puzzled look on his face. 'What the fuck is going on with you? You don't look well, you're acting weird and now I find you here surrounded by flowers of all things?' Another wince. Tommy tries to move away, to put some distance between them so his brain can start working again, but his back hits brick almost immediately. There is nowhere to go, nothing to say that could make this situation go away now. 'It's nothing,' he attempts to deflect. 'I'm just a bit sick, nothing to worry about.' He knows it's a weak excuse, he's been behaving strangely too long to simply be caused by a normal illness. Still, Tommy hopes Määnin might buy it, might leave him alone in his misery, to pick up the pieces of himself once again. But Määnin looks sceptical, glancing from Tommy to the flowers and back to Tommy again, and Tommy knows the jig is up. They know each other too well to lie and hide things from each other like this. 'Freppa said the same. When you left, just now. Only when I asked him what you had, he refused to answer me. I didn't think you'd tell him things you wouldn't tell me.' The disappointment in his voice is evident, even though he tries to play it cool. Tommy hadn't realised how he'd been betraying Määnin’s trust. Määnin speaks again when Tommy remains quiet: 'But now this, the flowers... I'm not stupid, Tommy. Your voice is fucked, you can hardly look me in the eye anymore. All the clues are there.' Tommy inhales sharply. In all his fantasies, this is never how things went. Either he gets over this dumb crush, or he ends up telling Määnin what he feels. Never once has he considered that Määnin might figure things out by himself. 'So,' Määnin finishes his little speech, 'do you have something to tell me, or are you going to wait until I have to come visit you in the hospital?'
That hits Tommy like a brick to the gut, all the remaining air being punched out of him. Määnin wants him to confess? His brain short-circuits, head spinning. Maybe this is all a hallucination, caused by this goddamn disease. No way in hell that Määnin is actually queer like him, let alone likes Tommy the way he so desperately wishes. Tommy wants to laugh, but the air remains stuck in his windpipe, where a singular flower remains firmly lodged. Määnin is still looking at him expectantly, a flicker of concern in his eyes as Tommy doesn't respond as enthusiastically as he'd expected. Tommy feels his throat going dry, and he feels worse than ever. How many one more gigs will there be for him if he keeps going the way he has so far? Even if this is a hallucination, or Määnin's terrible idea of what a joke is supposed to be, what is the worst that could happen? Before he can spiral and overthink it further, Määnin has one more thing to say. 'You should know I'd be more than amenable to whatever you want us to be.' He smirks and waggles his eyebrows in a way that makes Tommy’s face go red, for once not from a lack of air. He really can't and shouldn't think about what that could possibly mean. Okay, so he's going for it, he's finally following Freppa's advice. He coughs, once, twice. The flower breaks free, landing on Tommy's outstretched palm as the air flows freely through his lungs again. It's a tiny thing, virgin white with a vibrant yellow center. Then the words come, without Tommy knowing what he's going to say before he says it. 'I'm in love with you. Have been since we were kids, apparently. I- I didn't know for so long and then I figured it out, because of the flowers, because of Freppa. You don't need to feel the same way, I know it's kind of pathetic and definitely not something the toughest guy in Vörå would care about, but-' Whatever his brain would have come up with next gets cut of, as Määnin lunges forwards to press their lips together in a searing kiss. Suddenly, Tommy can breathe again, his throat growing less dry and scratchy in an instant. The nausea vanishes too, but Tommy doesn't notices, doesn't care, because Määnin's lips are pressed against his and the world has never felt more right. As he goes to tangle his hand in Määnin's hair to deepen their kiss, he remembers the tiny flower he's still clutching. He pulls away just a second to look at it, Määnin's eyes following his. Then he throws it down with the others. He doesn't need Freppa or some book to tell him what this means. Määnin captures his mouth again, pressing Tommy's back against the wall. This is their happy ending.