Chapter Text
Xenon City always smelled like metal and ozone near The X, like the air itself had learned to taste speed.
Robin loved that smell. He told himself he did, anyway, because it meant he was close. Close to the towers that cut the skyline into an “X.” Close to the pro Bladers who made the stadium lights feel like a second sun. Close to the dream he’d dragged across half the country in a battered bag and a stubborn heart.
Close did not mean there, though.
“Focus, Robin!” Jaxon called, voice bright through the roar of the practice arena. “If you blink, you miss the fun part!”
Robin’s fingers tightened around his launcher. The grip bit into his palm. He didn’t blink.
Across from him, Jaxon bounced on his heels like the floor was spring-loaded. His mask was off for practice, dark hair damp at the temples, grin sharp enough to cut through Robin’s nerves. The kind of grin that said losing didn’t matter as long as the spin was good. The kind of grin that had ruined Robin’s life the day it appeared in front of him and offered him a hand when his Bey shattered.
Robin swallowed, eyes stinging from the stadium lights. “I’m focused.”
Multi stood between them with a tablet and a stopwatch, the picture of calm in her team jacket. “You said that last time. Then you launched half a second late and got eaten by his Xtreme line.”
“That was one time,” Robin muttered.
“It was three,” Multi corrected, not even looking up. “And your timing is consistently worse when you’re thinking about something else.”
Robin’s stomach flipped. He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right. “I’m not thinking about anything else.”
Multi hummed like she didn’t believe him, but she lifted her hand anyway. “Ready? Three… two… one…”
“Let it rip!”
Robin’s Scythe Incendio hit the stadium with a clean, angry clack. Jaxon’s Sword Dran struck a heartbeat later, and for a split second Robin felt it: the perfect alignment. The right angle. The tiny moment where he could pretend he was the kind of Blader who belonged here without borrowing courage from the people around him.
Then Sword Dran snapped into the rail and surged, an Xtreme Dash like lightning. The stadium’s Xtreme line flashed. The crowd of other trainees and spectators who’d wandered into the open practice area whooped like it was a pro match.
Robin’s Bey tried to respond. He’d practiced that move until his arms shook, until his wrists ached, until Multi told him if he snapped another launcher cord she would personally invoice him for the replacement.
He hit the line.
Scythe Incendio surged.
For a breath, he was flying.
Then Sword Dran smashed him from the side with the kind of cheerful brutality only Jaxon could make look like a compliment.
Metal screamed. Robin’s Bey wobbled, caught, spun, and then lost the rhythm. It skidded. The stadium lights reflected off the blade like a warning.
“No,” Robin whispered, and his chest tightened hard enough to hurt.
Scythe Incendio toppled. The round ended in a bright, stupid flourish as Sword Dran kept spinning like it could do this forever.
Jaxon threw both arms up. “Yes! Did you feel that? That moment when you hit it? That was it, Robin. That was the door. You got your fingers on the handle.”
Robin took a step back, dizzy. He tried to laugh again.
His lungs fluttered.
He covered his mouth on instinct, turning his head away from Multi and Jaxon, because he’d been doing that a lot lately, like he could hide a cough the way he could hide a loss.
The cough punched out of him anyway.
Something soft hit his palm.
Warm. Damp.
Robin stared down.
A sunflower petal, bright yellow, smeared with red.
His blood coated it like paint.
For one horrifying second, he couldn’t hear the stadium at all. He could only hear his heart, frantic and stupid, and the echo of a lesson he’d learned from some whispered rumor in a locker room. The kind of rumor that got passed between pro Bladers like a curse you didn’t want to say out loud.
Hanahaki.
No. Not him. Not here. Not now.
He curled his fingers tight around the petal until it disappeared in his fist.
“Robin?” Jaxon’s voice tilted, the grin fading into something sharper. “You good?”
Robin shoved his fist into his pocket like it belonged there. “Yeah,” he lied, because he’d built his life on lying about pain. “Just… swallowed wrong.”
Multi’s eyes flicked to him, quick and bright. She didn’t say anything, but Robin saw the note she made on her tablet with a single tap. Saw her mouth flatten.
Jaxon jogged over, still buzzing with adrenaline. “You almost had it! That was so close. If you keep doing that, we’re going to climb faster than you think.”
Robin’s throat burned. He forced air into his lungs like he was trying to restart them. “Sure.”
Jaxon leaned closer, hands on his hips. “Hey. Don’t look like that.”
Robin blinked hard. “Like what?”
“Like you’re already apologizing.” Jaxon poked Robin’s shoulder with one finger, gentle and annoying. “Stop. You did good.”
Robin almost said thank you. Almost let himself take it like warmth.
Then his lungs tingled again, a crawling sensation deep inside, like something had put down roots where it didn’t belong.
He stepped back quickly. “I’m going to get water.”
“Hydration is important,” Multi said, still too calm.
Jaxon waved like it was nothing. “Go! I’ll do another round with Multi. Watch and steal the trick.”
Robin turned before anyone could see his face.
He made it to the nearest bathroom with his heart trying to escape his ribs.
The stall door clicked shut. Robin braced one hand against the tiled wall and coughed.
Petals fluttered into the toilet bowl.
Sunflower petals.
Bright, ridiculous, cheerful yellow against white porcelain and red blood.
Robin stared like if he stared long enough it would change into something else. Something normal. Something that could be blamed on an allergy or dry air or the city’s pollution.
But he knew what sunflowers meant.
He knew who loved sunflowers.
Jaxon Cross stopped in front of flower stalls like they were sacred. He grinned at them like they were old friends. He once told Robin, offhand, while eating some cursed red bean and cream sushi Taisho had invented, that sunflowers were “the best flower because they look like they’re winning at being alive.”
Robin had laughed then, because it sounded like Jaxon.
Now it sounded like a death sentence.
He pressed his forehead to the cool wall and tried to breathe through the panic.
Hanahaki didn’t care if love was actually returned. It didn’t care if the other person was standing right there, smiling at you, telling you you did good. It cared about what you believed.
And Robin believed, with the kind of bitter certainty he’d carried since his Bey broke and his first team disbanded, that someone like Jaxon Cross did not fall in love with someone like him.
Robin flushed the toilet and watched the petals spin away.
He scrubbed his mouth with paper towel until his lips stung. He splashed water on his face until his skin went cold.
Then he walked back out like nothing was happening.
That was what he did. He endured.
He just didn’t know how long he had left to do it.
Komaba Sushi was their base camp, their sponsor’s pride and joy, and the only place in Xenon City where the smell of rice vinegar could fight the constant metallic tang of The X.
Taisho Sushiya was behind the counter, gesturing wildly at a chalkboard menu like it was a battle plan. “Welcome back, my shining stars of Persona! Today’s special is my newest invention: double-fried tuna roll with sparkling soda jelly!”
Multi groaned softly. “I will eat plain rice.”
Jaxon’s eyes lit up. “Soda jelly?”
Robin smiled, because this part was easy. This part was normal. This part didn’t require him to think about flowers in his lungs.
“You’re going to poison him,” Robin told Taisho, voice steady.
Taisho beamed. “Innovation is never poison! It is progress!”
Jaxon slapped a hand on the counter. “I’ll try it!”
“Of course you will,” Multi muttered.
Robin sat at their usual table, back against the wall where he could see the door and the little TV that always played pro league replays. His hands shook under the table. He tucked them between his knees.
Jaxon dropped into the seat beside him, too close like always, knee bumping Robin’s. “You were quiet after practice.”
Robin’s throat tightened. He reached for his water glass and drank too fast.
Jaxon watched him, head tilted. “You sure you’re okay?”
Robin set the glass down carefully. “I’m fine.”
Jaxon’s gaze flicked to Robin’s mouth, like he was looking for something Robin had missed. “You look pale.”
“I’m always pale,” Robin snapped before he could stop himself.
Jaxon blinked, then laughed, unbothered. “True.”
Multi sat across from them, setting her tablet down. “Robin. When was the last time you slept more than four hours?”
Robin opened his mouth.
His lungs stuttered.
He swallowed hard, forcing it down like it was a thought he didn’t want. “I don’t know.”
Multi’s stare went flat. “That’s not an answer.”
Jaxon leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Multi’s right. You’ve been pushing.”
Robin’s chest felt tight. He hated that they noticed. He hated that he’d become something they had to worry about.
He tried to turn it into a joke. “Maybe I’m trying to catch up to you.”
Jaxon’s smile softened. “You don’t have to catch up to me. We’re on the same team.”
Robin’s heart did something stupid and hopeful. It made his lungs itch like they were laughing at him.
He looked away quickly. “I know.”
Taisho arrived with a tray. Multi’s plain rice, Robin’s miso soup, and Jaxon’s… whatever science experiment Taisho had created. Jaxon dove in with the enthusiasm of a man who feared nothing, not even soda jelly in sushi.
Robin lifted his spoon.
The miso steam warmed his face.
For a second, he could pretend.
Then the cough hit him mid-breath. He jerked, clapping a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he tried to keep it small, keep it quiet, keep it hidden.
He failed.
He felt the petal slide out onto his tongue like a cruel joke.
Robin shoved himself up so fast his chair scraped the floor. “Bathroom,” he croaked, and practically ran.
Behind him, he heard Jaxon’s chair shove back too.
“Robin!” Jaxon called, and there was a sharpness in it now that made Robin’s stomach twist.
Robin didn’t stop.
He got into the bathroom and locked the door with shaking hands.
He coughed into the sink.
A sunflower petal stuck to the porcelain with a smear of red.
Robin stared at it, eyes burning.
He turned the water on full blast and washed it away like he could erase the evidence.
He gripped the counter until his knuckles went white.
He tried to breathe.
A knock rattled the door.
“Robin.” Jaxon’s voice was too close. “Open up.”
Robin swallowed blood and panic. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.” Jaxon’s voice dropped, quieter. “And you keep running away.”
Robin pressed his forehead to the mirror, eyes squeezed shut. “Please.”
Silence. Then Jaxon’s breath against the other side of the door. “Are you hurt?”
Robin’s chest clenched. He could hear the honest fear in the question, and it made everything worse.
“I’m not hurt,” Robin lied.
Jaxon paused like he was deciding what to do with that lie. “Then you’re sick.”
Robin didn’t answer.
Jaxon exhaled hard. “Robin, if you’re sick, we go to a doctor. That’s what we do.”
Robin swallowed. “No.”
Jaxon’s voice sharpened. “Why not?”
Because if a doctor looks at me, they’ll tell me the truth I already know.
Because if you learn the truth, you’ll start trying to find the person I love and it will ruin everything.
Because the person I love is you and if you know that, you’ll look at me with pity.
Robin gripped the sink and forced his voice steady. “It’s nothing.”
Jaxon was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was softer, almost careful. “Robin… I don’t like not knowing.”
Robin shut his eyes. “You don’t have to know everything.”
Another pause.
Then Jaxon’s voice, barely above a whisper, like it was something he didn’t want to say out loud. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
Robin’s breath caught.
His lungs burned like they wanted to bloom out of spite.
He turned the faucet off, hands trembling, and opened the door before he could change his mind.
Jaxon stood there in the narrow hallway, shoulders tense, eyes searching Robin’s face like he could find an answer written in the lines under his eyes.
He reached out like he was going to touch Robin’s cheek, then stopped, hand hovering in the air like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
Robin hated how much that tiny hesitation hurt.
“I’m fine,” Robin repeated, softer, because he couldn’t keep snapping at Jaxon like it was his fault Robin was falling apart.
Jaxon’s jaw clenched. “You’re lying.”
Robin’s throat tightened. “I’m… tired.”
Jaxon’s eyes narrowed, then flicked down to Robin’s hands.
There was a smear of red on his thumb.
Robin shoved his hands behind his back too late.
Jaxon’s face went very still. “That’s blood.”
Robin’s heart hammered. “I bit my tongue.”
Jaxon didn’t look convinced. “Again?”
Robin’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t realized. He hadn’t paid attention.
Jaxon stepped closer, crowding him in the hallway without meaning to. “Robin.”
Robin’s lungs twitched, the roots inside him tightening like they were listening too.
He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not with Jaxon looking at him like that.
He slid past Jaxon quickly, heading back toward their table. “I’m fine. Let’s just eat.”
Jaxon followed, silent.
Multi looked up when they returned, eyes flicking between them. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Robin said too fast, sitting down and forcing his hands to stop shaking.
Jaxon stayed standing for a second longer, staring at Robin like he was trying to see through him.
Then he sat, slow.
He didn’t touch his sushi.
For the first time since Robin met him, Jaxon Cross looked like he didn’t know what to do.
Robin hated himself for causing it.
The next week turned into a pattern.
Practice at The X. Robin pushing until his vision blurred. Jaxon cheering him on like the sound of his voice could keep Robin upright. Multi correcting Robin’s form, handing him water, watching him like she was waiting for something to crack.
Komaba Sushi. Taisho shouting about sponsorship strategies. Fans sometimes wandering in to catch a glimpse of Persona. Jaxon eating every weird sushi invention like it was a dare.
And Robin coughing.
Petals at first, easy to hide if he swallowed them and endured the scratch. Then buds, heavier, slick with blood, harder to pretend were nothing.
Robin started carrying tissues everywhere. He started leaving practice early. He started pretending his throat was sore from shouting, that his stomach was upset from Taisho’s cooking.
Jaxon watched him more.
Multi watched him closer.
On the eighth day, Robin woke up choking.
It wasn’t a gentle cough. It was violence, his lungs seizing like they were trying to rip themselves out.
He rolled out of bed, hitting the floor hard, and coughed until his ribs screamed.
Something landed in his palm with weight.
A bud. Thick. Green at the base, yellow starting to break through.
A sunflower bud, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Blood soaked it until it looked like it had been dipped in paint.
Robin stared at it, panting, and a horrible, calm thought slid through him.
‘I’m running out of time.’
He cleaned himself up, hid the bud in a plastic bag at the bottom of the trash, and went to practice anyway.
Because if he stopped, then what was the point of any of this?
At The X, the stadium lights were too bright. The Xtreme line flashed like it was laughing.
Robin launched. He lost. He launched again. He lost again. He launched again, and this time he hit the line and surged and for one glorious second he felt the rush he’d been chasing since he was a kid watching pro matches on a cracked screen.
Then the cough came mid-spin.
Robin stumbled back from the stadium edge, hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to swallow it.
He couldn’t.
He coughed, and petals burst through his fingers like a confession.
Yellow and red, fluttering down onto the stadium floor.
The practice arena fell silent in a way that made Robin’s skin go cold.
Multi’s tablet clattered onto the bench.
Jaxon’s voice cut through the hush. “Robin.”
Robin’s heart slammed against his ribs. He stared at the petals on the floor like he’d never seen them before, like they weren’t the thing he’d been trying to hide for days.
A girl in the corner whispered, “Hanahaki…”
Robin’s stomach dropped through the floor.
Jaxon stepped forward slowly, eyes locked on the petals, then on Robin. His face was blank in a way Robin had never seen, like his brain was trying to catch up to reality.
Multi moved first. She scooped the petals up with a cloth like she was erasing evidence, her hands steady despite the tightness in her mouth.
She looked up at Robin, and her eyes were sharp enough to hurt. “How long?”
Robin couldn’t breathe.
Jaxon’s voice cracked, just slightly. “What is that?”
Robin’s throat closed. He tried to speak, but the air caught in his lungs like thorns.
Multi exhaled through her nose, controlled and angry. “It’s Hanahaki, Jaxon.”
Jaxon’s head snapped toward her. “That’s not real.”
“It is,” Multi said, flat. “And he’s been hiding it.”
Robin flinched.
Jaxon looked back at Robin, and something raw flashed across his face. “Robin.”
Robin wanted to run. He wanted to sink into the stadium floor. He wanted to become anything else.
Instead, he stood there shaking, petals still on his lips, and whispered, “I’m sorry—”
Jaxon’s hands curled into fists. “Don’t.”
Robin blinked. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the floor.
Multi grabbed Robin’s wrist and pulled him toward the exit. “We’re going to a clinic.”
Robin stumbled. “Multi, wait, we can just…”
“No,” Multi snapped, and it startled Robin because Multi didn’t snap. Not like that. Her voice dropped, fierce and controlled. “You don’t get to ‘just’ anything. Not with this.”
Jaxon followed them like he was moving on instinct, eyes fixed on Robin like if he looked away, Robin would disappear.
Robin’s chest burned with every breath.
He’d wanted to hide it forever.
Now the world knew.
And the person who mattered most was looking at him like he didn’t recognize him.
The clinic smelled like antiseptic and cold air.
The doctor, a tired woman with a tablet and a sharp gaze, didn’t waste time. She listened to Robin’s lungs. She asked questions Robin tried not to answer. She didn’t look surprised when he coughed a petal into a tissue.
“Petals,” she said, flipping through something on her screen. “That’s consistent with your symptoms so far.”
Robin stared at the floor.
Multi sat beside him, knee bouncing for once, hands clenched in her lap.
Jaxon stood behind Robin’s chair like a shadow, arms crossed tight, jaw locked. He hadn’t said much since the practice arena. His silence felt heavier than shouting.
The doctor’s voice was clinical, practiced. “Hanahaki progresses. Petals become buds. Buds become blooms. At full bloom, your lungs will fail.”
Robin’s hands trembled. He squeezed them together.
Multi’s voice came out thin. “How long?”
The doctor looked at Robin. “How often are you coughing buds?”
Robin swallowed. “Sometimes.”
Jaxon made a sharp sound, like a laugh that didn’t have any humor in it. “That’s not an answer.”
Robin flinched, and Jaxon’s expression twisted like he’d hurt himself.
The doctor sighed. “If it’s at the bud stage already, you’re past early intervention. You’re looking at weeks, not months, without treatment.”
Robin’s vision blurred. Weeks.
Jaxon’s voice was rough. “Treatment means… what.”
The doctor lifted two fingers. “Two options. Reciprocity, which means the person you love confesses their love to you, clearly, and you accept it. The flowers stop.”
Robin’s stomach twisted painfully.
“And the alternative?” Multi asked, her expression betraying that she already knew the answer.
“Surgical removal,” the doctor stated. “We excise the root system entirely. Once the physical roots are gone, the emotional attachment is erased along with them. It is irreversible.”
Robin’s throat closed up, suddenly choking on air.
Jaxon’s breath hitched, just once.
Multi’s eyes squeezed shut for a second, then opened, bright with anger that didn’t know where to go.
Robin’s hands shook so hard he had to press them under his thighs to stop.
The doctor’s voice softened slightly. “You don’t have to decide today, but you cannot wait too long.”
Robin’s mouth tasted like blood. “If I do the surgery… I’ll still remember them?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “You’ll remember. You just won’t feel love for them. Not like before.”
Robin’s chest tightened, and for a second he couldn’t tell if it was the flowers or his own fear.
The doctor stood. “I’ll give you information. Think about it. And please, stop pushing yourself at The X. Physical exertion can accelerate symptoms.”
Robin nodded without looking up.
When the doctor left, the room went quiet.
Multi’s voice came out small. “Robin… who is it?”
Robin’s heart lurched violently, and the roots in his lungs tightened like they were listening.
He couldn’t say it. If he said it, he’d make it real. He’d put the burden on someone else’s shoulders. He’d make Jaxon look at him with pity or disgust or awkward sympathy.
So he did what he always did.
He lied.
“I don’t know,” Robin said, voice barely above a whisper.
Jaxon made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob. “That’s impossible.”
Robin stared at his hands. “I don’t know.”
Multi’s gaze was sharp and suspicious, but she didn’t press. She just reached over and squeezed Robin’s wrist, hard, like she was anchoring him.
Jaxon stepped around the chair until Robin had to look at him.
Jaxon’s eyes were bright, too bright, like the stadium lights had gotten stuck in them. “Someone did this to you,” he said, voice low. “Someone is hurting you.”
Robin’s throat tightened around the bitter irony.
Jaxon leaned in, so close Robin could feel his heat. For a breath, Robin thought Jaxon might touch his face—might bridge the gap and save him just by reaching out.
But Jaxon didn't reach out. His hands clenched at his sides, trembling slightly. “Tell me who.”
Robin’s lungs prickled, the phantom scrape of petals rising. He whispered, “I can’t.”
Jaxon stared at him like he was speaking a different language. “Why not?”
Because if I tell you, you’ll look at me differently forever.
Because if I tell you, I might start hoping for a miracle.
And hope is exactly what kills people like me.
Robin swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Because… it’s stupid.”
Jaxon’s jaw tightened so hard it looked painful. “It’s not stupid if it’s killing you.”
“You can’t force someone to love you back,” Robin said. The words tasted like ash. “That’s what’s stupid.”
Jaxon flinched as if Robin had struck him. His face twisted with a helpless, furious grief, like he wanted to break the world just to fix this one thing. Then he turned away sharply, raking a hand through his hair, unable to even look at Robin anymore.
Multi whispered, “We’ll figure it out.”
Robin wanted to laugh. Figure it out. Like love was a puzzle with a clean solution.
He wanted to tell them to stop trying.
Instead he just sat there, hands shaking, and thought about sunflowers and weeks and a surgery that would cut something out of him he wasn’t sure he’d survive losing.
And the worst part was this: Robin wasn’t sure he even wanted to survive if it meant living without the very feeling that was destroying him.
After the clinic, Jaxon became a frantic, suffocating storm. He refused to leave Robin alone. He hovered in doorways, his eyes tracking the ragged rise and fall of Robin’s chest like he could force him to keep breathing through sheer willpower.
He constantly shoved water bottles into Robin’s hands, desperate and demanding, as if basic hydration could somehow flush out the roots burying themselves in Robin's tissue.
But every soft look, every lingering touch, every terrified act of care was just another drop of water.
Jaxon was desperately pouring affection into Robin’s starved brain, entirely blind to the fact that he was flooding his lungs in the process.
His warmth was the exact sunlight the seeds needed; the harder Jaxon tried to save him, the faster he choked him.
At Komaba Sushi, Taisho tried to maintain his loud cheer and failed miserably. He pivoted to rolling “immune-boosting sushi” that tasted like pure despair. Robin forced it down his scratched throat anyway, just to give Taisho the fleeting illusion of being useful.
Multi was a quieter kind of desperate. Robin often caught her scouring medical forums in the dark, reading articles and messaging contacts in the Blading community for an impossible cure.
And Jaxon… Jaxon stared down the universe like he was ready to beat it into submission.
He was prepared to fight the whole world to save his teammate, completely oblivious to the cruel fact that he was the only thing Robin needed saving from.
One night, after Multi went to bed and Taisho finally stopped pacing, Robin sat alone in the dim restaurant, staring at the dark TV screen that reflected his own face back at him.
He looked older than he should. His eyes were too tired. His lips were stained faintly red even after he scrubbed them.
He heard footsteps and didn’t look up, because he knew the rhythm.
Jaxon slid into the seat across from him, quiet.
Robin’s chest tightened. He braced for questions.
Jaxon didn’t ask one. He just set something on the table between them.
A small bouquet of sunflowers.
Robin’s breath caught so hard it hurt.
Jaxon’s face was unreadable. “I saw them outside. Thought they’d… brighten the place.”
Robin stared at the flowers like they were a weapon.
The petals were clean. Bright. Alive.
Not slick with blood.
His hands shook. He curled them into fists under the table.
“You shouldn’t,” Robin whispered.
Jaxon’s eyebrows pulled together. “Why not?”
Robin swallowed. “Because…”
Because they’re killing me.
Because they’re you.
Because I can’t look at them without wanting to cry.
Robin forced his voice steady. “Because Taisho will use them as decoration and it’ll look weird.”
Jaxon blinked, then huffed a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
Robin looked away. “I’m worried about everything.”
Jaxon leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped tight. “I’m worried too.”
Robin’s throat burned. “You shouldn’t be.”
Jaxon’s voice went sharp. “Don’t tell me what I should be.”
Robin flinched.
Jaxon immediately softened, like the sharpness had cut him too. “Sorry. I just… I hate this.”
Robin stared at the bouquet, heart hammering. “Me too.”
Jaxon’s fingers tightened together. “You really don’t know who it is?”
Robin’s lungs prickled like the roots were laughing.
He swallowed. “No.”
Jaxon held his gaze for a long moment. ‘How could you not know who you love? Not know the person who is killing you with love you crave.’ Then he looked down, jaw working like he was chewing on something too big to swallow.
“Okay,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Then we find out.”
Robin’s stomach dropped. “Jaxon, stop.”
Jaxon’s eyes snapped up. “Why?”
Robin’s hands shook. “Because it doesn’t matter.”
Jaxon stared at him, incredulous. “It matters because you matter.”
Robin’s chest tightened. He wanted to shove that sentence away. He wanted to believe it so badly it made him sick in a different way.
He whispered, “You don’t understand.”
Jaxon’s voice was rough. “Then help me.”
Robin shook his head. “I can’t.”
Jaxon exhaled hard, leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling like he was trying to find patience hidden in the cracks.
When he looked back down, his expression was different. Determined, but quiet.
“If you don’t want to tell me,” Jaxon said slowly, “then we do it the other way. The surgery.”
Robin’s blood went cold. “No.”
Jaxon’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Robin’s voice cracked. “Because it’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Jaxon snapped, then immediately took a breath and tried again. “Robin. You’ll die.”
Robin’s throat closed. “Maybe that’s better.”
Jaxon’s chair slammed back so hard it screeched. “Don’t say that.”
Robin flinched, heart pounding.
Jaxon stood over the table, hands shaking. His eyes were bright again, and Robin realized with a shock that Jaxon was fighting tears.
Jaxon’s voice came out strangled. “Don’t say you’d rather die than… than lose a feeling.”
Robin’s chest burned. He whispered, “It’s not just a feeling.”
Jaxon’s breath hitched. He stared at Robin like he wanted to grab him and shake sense into him.
Then, slowly, he sank back into his chair, shoulders slumping. “Okay,” he said, voice softer now. “Then what do we do?”
Robin stared at the sunflowers, throat burning, and had no answer that didn’t end in someone getting hurt.
So he did what he’d been doing since the first petal.
He endured.
And the flowers kept growing anyway.
The first full bloom happened in the middle of a match.
It was supposed to be a small event, one of the steps up The X, a chance for Persona to claw their way higher. The kind of match Robin used to dream about before reality got heavy.
The stadium was packed. The lights were brutal. Cameras hovered like insects. The crowd chanted “Persona!” like it was a promise.
Robin stood at the edge, launcher in hand, trying to breathe like a normal person.
Jaxon stood beside him, mask on, energy vibrating under his skin. Multi was on Robin’s other side, calm as always, but Robin could see tension in her shoulders.
“Remember,” Multi murmured, “timing. Don’t chase him. Let him come to you.”
Robin nodded, because it was easier than admitting he wasn’t sure he could survive three rounds.
Jaxon bumped Robin’s shoulder lightly. “No apologies today.”
Robin forced a smile. “No promises.”
Jaxon’s grin flashed under the mask. “Robin.”
Robin’s chest tightened at the way Jaxon said his name, like it mattered.
The announcer shouted. The crowd roared.
Robin launched.
Scythe Incendio hit the stadium, spinning hard, clean. Robin’s arms shook with adrenaline. For a second, the world narrowed to metal and speed and sound.
Then his lungs clenched like a fist.
Robin staggered, hand flying to his mouth.
The cough ripped through him, violent and unstoppable.
He tried to swallow it.
He couldn’t.
Something heavy surged up his throat.
Robin coughed, and a full sunflower bloom tumbled into his palm.
It was bright and huge and coated in blood, petals sticking to his fingers, stem slick.
The crowd’s roar turned into a confused murmur, then a hush that felt like falling.
Robin stared at the flower, horrified.
His lungs screamed. His vision blurred.
He heard Multi’s voice, sharp, urgent. “Robin!”
He heard Jaxon’s voice crack through the noise like a blade. “Robin!”
Robin’s knees buckled.
Hands caught him before he hit the floor.
Jaxon’s arms. Strong, trembling. Robin’s face pressed against Jaxon’s chest and all Robin could smell was sweat and stadium air and the faint soap Jaxon used at Komaba Sushi.
Robin coughed again, blood splattering. More petals clung to his lips.
Jaxon’s hands tightened, like he could hold Robin together by force.
“Stop,” Jaxon whispered, voice shaking. “Stop, please.”
Robin’s throat burned. He wanted to say, I can’t.
He wanted to say, It’s you.
Instead, he choked out, “I’m sorry.”
Jaxon made a sound that broke Robin’s heart.
Multi’s voice cut through. “We’re leaving. Now.”
The match was abandoned. Cameras chased them. Voices shouted questions. Someone yelled “Hanahaki!” like it was entertainment.
Robin couldn’t breathe enough to care.
He only knew Jaxon’s arms around him and the terrible warmth of loving someone who didn’t belong to him.
The hospital room was too white.
Robin sat propped against pillows, oxygen tube under his nose like an insult. He felt fragile in a way he’d never felt in a stadium. In a stadium, he could at least pretend the pain was worth something.
Here, it was just pain.
Multi sat in the chair beside the bed with her tablet, eyes tired. She hadn’t left much. She kept adjusting the blanket like she could tuck the flowers back into Robin’s lungs.
Jaxon paced.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a Bey trapped in a bad spin.
He’d taken his mask off at some point. His hair was a mess. His eyes were red-rimmed.
Robin watched him, throat tight.
Jaxon stopped suddenly, turning on Multi. “Tell me you found something.”
Multi didn’t look up. “I found statistics. I found timelines. I found stories that end badly.”
Jaxon’s jaw clenched. “That’s not helpful.”
Multi’s gaze snapped up, sharp. “I’m being honest.”
Jaxon’s hands curled into fists. “Honesty doesn’t fix him.”
‘I wish it could,’ Robin’s chest tightened. “Stop.”
They both turned to him.
Robin swallowed, throat sore. “Stop fighting.”
Jaxon’s expression twisted. “We’re not fighting.”
Multi’s mouth flattened. “We’re stressed.”
Robin let out a shaky breath. “I know.”
Jaxon’s shoulders slumped. He walked toward the bed, stopping just close enough that Robin could feel his presence without having to look up.
Jaxon’s voice was quieter now. “Robin. The doctor said you’re at full bloom stage.”
Robin’s stomach turned.
Jaxon’s hands clenched at his sides. “So we pick. Either you tell us who and they confess, or you do the surgery.”
Robin stared at the ceiling.
Multi’s voice came soft for once. “Robin… please.”
Robin swallowed, and his throat burned with blood and something like grief. “If I do the surgery… it’s over.”
Jaxon’s voice went rough. “It’s over if you die too.”
Robin’s hands shook. He gripped the blanket.
He thought of sunflowers.
He thought of Jaxon’s laugh.
He thought of the way Jaxon looked at him when Robin did something right, like Robin had hung the moon.
He thought of losing that feeling like it was being ripped out of him while he stayed alive to watch.
He whispered, “I don’t want to forget.”
Multi’s eyes softened. “You won’t forget. You just…”
Robin’s throat tightened. “I’ll never be able to love them again.”
Jaxon’s breath hitched. Robin looked at him then, really looked.
Jaxon’s face was pale. His eyes were bright. His hands were shaking like he was trying to hold back a storm.
Jaxon swallowed hard. “Then… then you find someone else.”
Robin’s chest hollowed out.
Someone else.
The idea was impossible, a hollow joke. Love wasn't a Bey you could just neatly redirect by changing a launch angle. It was a track he was locked onto, hurtling toward a drop he couldn't survive.
Robin laughed softly, the sound bitter and scraping against his ruined throat. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“It has to.” Jaxon’s voice didn't just crack; it shattered.
Robin stared at him. For a fleeting, selfish second, the truth sat right on the edge of his tongue, shaped exactly like a poisonous petal. He almost said it. He almost opened his mouth and let the bloody, desperate honesty spill out to finally end this.
But then he saw the fear practically choking Jaxon. It wasn't the fear of an unwanted confession or awkward rejection. It was the sheer, paralyzing fear of losing Robin entirely.
And Robin realized the cruelest truth of all: if he confessed, if he finally shaped his mouth around Jaxon’s name, everything would change. Jaxon would know. And Jaxon would look at Robin differently forever. Even if Jaxon couldn't force himself to love Robin back, he would shoulder the blame for Robin's inevitable death, carrying that knowledge like a crushing weight. Robin would become a heavy anchor, dragging Jaxon's unstoppable spin down from the grave.
Robin couldn’t do that to him. He couldn't be the thing that broke Jaxon Cross.
So Robin clamped his jaw shut, swallowing the confession and choking on the thick, metallic taste of his own blood.
“I’ll do the surgery,” he whispered to the sterile room.
Beside him, Multi’s eyes squeezed shut, unable to watch him rip his own heart out.
Jaxon went very still. “No,” he said, like denial could change reality.
Robin’s voice shook. “I don’t have a choice.”
Jaxon’s face twisted. “You do. You could tell them.”
Robin looked away. “I don’t know who they are.”
Jaxon stared at him like he could see through the lie. Then his shoulders sagged, like he’d been punched.
Multi’s voice was quiet. “We’ll schedule it.”
Jaxon’s eyes snapped to her. “No.”
Multi’s gaze didn’t waver. “Jaxon. He’s dying.”
Jaxon’s hands trembled. He looked at Robin like he wanted to beg, like he wanted to scream, like he wanted to do something impossible.
Robin’s chest tightened with love and grief and the cruel knowledge that it would be gone soon.
Jaxon’s voice came out broken. “Robin… please.”
Robin swallowed, throat burning. “I’m sorry.”
Jaxon flinched at the apology like it hurt.
Then, very carefully, like he was afraid Robin would shatter, Jaxon reached out and took Robin’s hand.
His palm was warm.
Robin gripped back like it mattered.
Jaxon’s voice was barely there. “I’ll stay.”
Robin closed his eyes, and the flowers in his lungs tightened like they were laughing at him for wanting this moment to last.
The surgery was scheduled for a week later.
Robin spent that week in a strange limbo between living and waiting.
He wasn’t allowed to practice. Multi enforced it with the same grim determination she used when tuning Bey parts. She stayed in the hospital room during the day, laptop open, building plans for Persona like planning for the future could keep Robin in it.
Taisho visited with food Robin couldn’t eat. He tried to be upbeat. He failed. He left behind a little Persona charm and bowed like he was apologizing for not being able to sponsor Robin out of death.
Jaxon visited every night.
He didn’t always talk. Sometimes he just sat, elbows on his knees, staring at Robin like he was trying to memorize him.
Sometimes he talked too much, filling the room with stories about The X, about matches, about what they’d do when Robin got out.
“When we hit Slash Tower again,” Jaxon said one night, voice almost normal, “we’re going to do that combo move Multi suggested. You’ll launch first, I’ll take the line, and Multi will control the center. It’ll be perfect.”
Robin smiled faintly, chest aching. “You’re planning like I’m going to be there.”
Jaxon’s eyes snapped up, fierce. “You will be.”
Robin swallowed. “Jaxon…”
Jaxon leaned forward, voice rough. “Don’t.”
Robin’s throat tightened. “You don’t have to keep coming.”
Jaxon’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Yeah, I do.”
Robin stared at him, heart pounding.
Jaxon’s gaze flicked down to Robin’s chest, to the oxygen tube, to the way Robin’s breathing still hitched sometimes like the roots weren’t done fighting.
Jaxon’s voice came quiet. “I hate that someone else gets to be loved by you.”
Robin’s blood went cold.
Jaxon kept going, like he didn’t realize he’d just cracked something open. “I hate that they’re out there, and they’re not here, and you’re coughing up flowers for them while I…”
He cut himself off, jaw clenched.
Robin’s lungs tightened like they were listening.
Robin whispered, “While you what?”
Jaxon’s eyes flicked to Robin’s face, and for a second Robin saw something wild and raw there, something that made his heart jump.
Then Jaxon looked away hard. “Nothing.”
Robin’s chest hurt. “Jaxon.”
Jaxon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Robin almost laughed. The words echoed.
It doesn’t matter.
Robin swallowed, voice shaking. “It matters to me.”
Jaxon’s hands clenched on his knees. He didn’t look at Robin. “Robin. If you do the surgery… you’ll be free.”
Robin’s stomach twisted. “Free.”
“Free,” Jaxon repeated, his voice rough and uneven. “From them.”
Robin stared at him, his throat burning with the violent urge to confess.
Jaxon kept talking, and each word was another jagged knife Robin couldn’t stop from sinking in. “I know it’s selfish,” Jaxon whispered, leaning closer. “But if you’re not stuck loving them anymore… maybe you can love someone who’s actually here.”
Robin’s eyes burned. Maybe Jaxon knows, a frantic, hysterical part of his brain supplied. Maybe this is his way of giving me permission to let go.
Jaxon finally looked up, and his expression was painfully complicated—hopeful, but furious at himself for daring to hope.
Robin’s lungs screamed, the roots wrapping tighter around his ribs. He forced his voice steady, though it came out as a fragile rasp. “You think there will be someone else out there who will love me?”
Jaxon’s laugh was sudden and bright, but it sounded like it was breaking. “They’re already waiting for you.”
Robin’s heart hammered against the thorns.
He wanted to say it.
He wanted to reach out, grab Jaxon’s hand, and spill the truth like blood across the sterile hospital sheets.
But he couldn’t.
Because Jaxon still thought the mystery person was someone else. Jaxon was trying to comfort him with a hypothetical stranger in a hypothetical future. But Robin didn't want anyone else. He wanted Jaxon. And in Robin's mind, Jaxon did not want him.
‘Not yet,’ something stupid and fragile whispered within him with a final spark of hope.
But time was up.
The surgery meant Robin wouldn’t be able to love Jaxon afterward anyway. Even if a miracle happened—even if Robin confessed right now and Jaxon somehow loved him back, curing the Hanahaki—Robin couldn't risk it.
He had already made the decision. The surgery was scheduled. The roots had grown too deep into his chest, and the fear had already won.
If he gave himself even a sliver of hope in this last week, it would utterly destroy him before the doctors even picked up a scalpel to cut his own heart out.
So Robin swallowed the blood, forced a small, tired smile, and said, “I’m going to sleep.”
Jaxon’s face fell immediately, the complicated hope shattering like he’d been expecting something else entirely.
He nodded anyway. “Okay.”
He stayed until Robin’s breathing evened out.
Robin listened to Jaxon’s quiet presence until he drifted, and somewhere in his half-dreams the sunflowers bloomed and bloomed and bloomed, bright and hungry.
The morning of the surgery, the doctor explained everything again.
Risks. Recovery. The cost.
Robin signed the form with shaking hands.
Multi stood beside him, eyes glassy. She pressed her fingers to Robin’s wrist once, like she was trying to imprint the pulse there into her memory.
“You’re going to be okay,” Multi whispered.
Robin wanted to believe her.
Jaxon arrived late, breathless like he’d run the whole way from Komaba Sushi.
He looked wrecked.
He grabbed Robin’s hand before anyone could stop him, squeezing tight. “Hey.”
Robin’s throat burned. “Hey.”
Jaxon’s eyes were bright. “I hate this.”
Robin forced a weak smile. “Me too.”
Jaxon swallowed hard, leaning closer like he wanted to say something. His thumb rubbed over Robin’s knuckles in a small, frantic motion.
Robin’s lungs tightened. He coughed once, small, into his shoulder, tasting blood.
Jaxon’s face went pale. “Stop coughing,” he whispered, like an order could work.
Robin’s eyes burned. “I’ll try.”
Jaxon’s grip tightened. “Robin.”
Robin looked at him.
Jaxon’s gaze flicked over Robin’s face like he was memorizing him, like he was afraid of what would be left after.
Jaxon’s voice came out rough. “When you wake up… I’ll be here.”
Robin’s chest ached. “Okay.”
The nurse called Robin’s name.
Robin squeezed Jaxon’s hand one last time, then let go.
He let them wheel him away.
He stared at the ceiling tiles as they passed, each one a square of white nothing.
He thought, briefly, of sunflowers.
He thought of Jaxon’s laugh.
He thought of the way love felt like standing on the edge of the stadium with the world rushing past and your heart launching anyway.
Then the anesthesia pulled him under.
Waking up felt like crawling out of deep water.
Robin’s chest hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt.
The oxygen tube was back. The room was blurred at the edges.
Multi was there, eyes red, hair messy like she’d been awake for a day.
She saw Robin’s eyes open and let out a shaky breath. “Hi.”
Robin’s voice scraped. “Hi.”
Multi’s mouth trembled. “You made it.”
Robin blinked slowly. “Yeah.”
The doctor came in later, calm and efficient. “The surgery went well. We removed the root system. You’ll be sore. You’ll cough blood for a while as you heal. But the flowers are gone.”
Robin stared at the ceiling.
Gone.
He waited for the relief to crash over him.
It didn’t.
He felt… empty. Not numb exactly. More like someone had taken a warm blanket off his shoulders in winter and told him to be grateful because now he could move freely.
Multi watched him closely. “How do you feel?”
Robin searched himself.
He remembered Jaxon. He remembered the way he looked in stadium lights. He remembered sunflowers and laughter and late-night strategy talks and the way his name sounded in Jaxon’s mouth.
But the feeling that used to surge with those memories wasn’t there.
No rush. No ache. No desperate, shining pull.
Just… memory.
Like reading about someone else’s life.
Robin swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
Multi’s eyes softened, and her voice went quiet. “That’s… normal.”
Robin stared at his hands, bandaged and shaky.
He should have been devastated.
He was.
But the devastation felt distant too, like it belonged to a version of him from yesterday.
Multi squeezed his hand, gentle. “Jaxon’s outside. He’s… he’s been a mess.”
Robin’s chest tightened, reflexive.
He waited for love to follow.
It didn’t.
Robin whispered, “I should see him.”
Multi hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Robin nodded, slow. “I should.”
Multi helped him sit up. His ribs screamed. He breathed through it.
The hallway outside the room was quiet, dim. The hospital felt like it held its breath.
Robin shuffled, unsteady, toward the water dispenser, because his throat was dry and he needed something to do with his hands.
He heard voices around the corner.
Multi’s, low and urgent.
And Jaxon’s.
Robin froze.
He couldn’t see them yet, but he didn’t need to. He knew Jaxon’s voice the way he knew the sound of his own launcher cord.
Jaxon sounded… broken.
“I thought…” Jaxon swallowed, and Robin heard the shake in it. “I thought the surgery would fix it and then he’d be okay and I could just… I could just keep being his teammate and it wouldn’t matter.”
Multi’s voice was quiet. “Jaxon…”
Jaxon’s laugh was raw. “It does matter.”
Robin’s heart beat hard, steady.
He waited for the old ache.
Nothing.
Jaxon kept talking, words spilling out like he’d been holding them back for weeks.
“I love him,” Jaxon said, voice cracked and honest. “I love Robin. And I know it’s stupid because he was dying for someone else and I’m not the one and I don’t even know who it is, but…”
Robin’s fingers tightened around the paper cup, crinkling it.
He felt a strange, distant shock, like watching a stadium screen from far away.
Jaxon’s voice dropped, thick with something that used to make Robin’s lungs bloom. “But now the flowers are gone. He’s not stuck on them anymore. He’ll be free.”
Multi didn’t answer.
Jaxon whispered, almost like he hated himself for it, “And I know it’s selfish, but maybe… maybe now he can look at me instead. Maybe now he can fall in love with someone who’s actually here.”
Robin stared at the wall.
He tried to feel something.
He tried to feel joy, because the person he loved—once upon a time—loved him too.
He tried to feel anger, because it was too late.
He tried to feel grief, because it should hurt more than this.
He tried to feel love.
There was nothing.
Only the quiet knowledge of what had been cut out of him, clean and irreversible.
Robin’s throat tightened anyway, and he wondered if he could still cry without love.
Behind the corner, Jaxon took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to pressure him. I don’t want to be like… like a vulture waiting for him to get over someone. But I can’t stop feeling it, Multi.”
Multi’s voice was soft, careful. “He’s going to need time.”
“I’ll give him time,” Jaxon said immediately, fierce. “I’ll give him anything. I just… I needed to say it out loud to someone, because if I say it to him and he doesn’t… if he doesn’t feel anything…”
His voice broke.
Robin’s chest hurt, and he couldn’t tell if it was surgery or the ghost of flowers.
He couldn’t tell if the emptiness was mercy or punishment.
He held the cup until his fingers ached.
Then he stepped back quietly, moving away before they could see him.
Before Jaxon could look at him with hope.
Before Robin had to face the truth in Jaxon’s eyes and the nothing inside his own chest.
Robin returned to his room and sat on the bed, staring at his hands.
He remembered Jaxon Cross.
He remembered loving him.
He remembered sunflowers.
And he felt nothing at all.
Outside, down the hall, Jaxon laughed once, shaky and wet, and Robin couldn’t even bring himself to hate the sound.
He just listened to it fade.
And in the hollow space where love used to live, there was only silence, bright and unbearable as stadium lights.