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It’s not a known fact about him, but Jason’s got rhinitis. This means that come spring, he’s got a mask on and an even more general distaste for being out in public.
While Gotham is not exactly the most nature laden place in New Jersey, Jason still has plenty of opportunities to come in contact with blooms. (Poison Ivy, not withstanding).
Jason can’t remember a day when he didn’t stumble across someone coughing up petals or walk past a pile of flowers damp with spit, left behind like a gross crime scene, leaving traces of their feelings that Jason would sidestep to avoid crushing. And while he’s no stranger to the hanahaki phenomenon, it does make his nose itch whenever he has to walk past streets littered with petals all around.
It’s one of Ivy’s biggest legacies, introducing a whole new disease that infected all of Gotham and has now made its rounds in the entire world. Hanahaki. Originally, carriers of the spawn would simply grow a flower in the lungs, fueled by people’s panic and rising emotions. Of course, Batman and the rest of the League managed to engineer a vaccine, but by then the virus mutated into an entirely new disease of its own.
Now, everyone’s body has evolved and adapted to show love—all kinds of love from romantic, platonic, unrequited—in a form beyond what would seem normal. It’s a world where someone literally coughs up flowers whenever they think about their feelings.
Most petals stay small, easily floating away into the wind. The love one feels for someone continues to grow and grow before it finally takes root and blooms the second you come to realize just what the heavy weight in your chest cavity truly is.
Those who are lucky (or unlucky to repeat it) few who have fallen in love say that the flowers vary from person to person. Scientists speculate that it’s different each time because the love you have for each person is touched by unique experiences, thus causing your chest to burst with an entirely new floral breed every time.
It’s saying something that even a city as bleak as Gotham still has numerous piles of petals on the streets. As Jason is running across the rooftops, he overhears the hushed quiet confession of a resident taking a call in their window.
“I just wanted to say that—” The hushed voice cuts off and a sharp cough interrupts their words. “Fuck, I am in love with you.”
The microscopic lenses of his helmet catches the bright spots of Geranium petals floating down the streets because he grapples across to the next building.
—---
“You’ve got petals in your hair,” Jason points out as soon as Nightwing alights on the building.
The pale blue spots pepper Nightwing’s dark strands, the vigilante’s fingers skillfully combing through his hair in an artful fashion. Jason averts his eyes, willing his heart to not skip, his chest to not itch.
“Huh, I must've missed them,” Dick muses. “Lots of nighttime confessions happening recently. Isn’t it sweet?” Dick has a sort of wistful look in the twist of his smile. Must be one of those nights then.
“For you, maybe.” He would rather crawl into his grave again and die if his feelings were made known. “I still find it weird as fuck. To think Ivy is smart enough to even make a plant that blooms according to one’s feelings…” Jason stops himself. “Whatever, I guess the composting community does well though all these petals are shit for the sewage system.”
Dick laughs at his words. “Yeah, Killer Croc always likes to gripe about that. Guess those petals don’t do anything for his scales.”
There is a small lull, and usually, this means Dick will turn the conversation back into work. Will settle into his Nightwing skin and Jason will answer as Red Hood. They’re meant to reconvene and exchange intel as they’re tracking the same cartel group but Dick must be feeling especially sentimental tonight.
“Have you ever experienced it?”
Jason blinks, and casts Dick a sidelong glance. He thought they were done with this. “No.”
“I did,” and at this, Jason rolls his eyes. Of course, he knows Dickhead's experienced love. Ivy released the toxin when Dick was still Robin. It’s been years. “With B, with Agent A, with the Titans, with—”
“You don’t have to list everyone you know, Dick.” In truth, Jason doesn’t want clarification that he’s not amongst that number. “Besides, the flowers bloom for both platonic and romantic love. Again, why are we hashing this out? Do you want my intel or not?”
“I was just making conversation! Jeez, I only wanna know what you think, Hood…” Dick grumbles, but his back straightens and he loses the sentimental air around him. Immediately, Jason shifts back into Red Hood and they schedule another stakeout after confirming the same key figure.
As Jason watches Nightwing leave, Jason feels something tickle his lungs, giving him a much-unwanted coughing fit. He reaches out for the newest addition to his kit, a small thermos, and downs it in hopes of dislodging whatever has caused the sensation in the first place.
After his throat is calm and back to working order, Jason can feel the obstruction settle in the back of his throat. Grimacing, Jason begrudgingly digs it out, catching the hint of bright purple before crushing it in palm.
There’s no need for anyone to know.
—
Before he came to understand the history behind the appearance of Hanahaki, Jason thought it was just another aspect of puberty. You grow up, you fall in love, a flower blooms and you give those petals to your beloved.
His mama never coughed up flowers because she was already married to his dad. Catherine would spin taller tales of Hanahaki from the books she took home to share with Jason. On days when her mind was especially clear, when her hands didn’t shake, and she would read to Jason in the same lilt and diction that accompanies her day job as a librarian, she would pick Jason up and read him stories of knights and heroes and princesses and maids that end in a heap of flowers and bouquet.
“When will I start coughing up flowers then, mama?” Little Jason would ask.
“When you’re older, dear,” Catherine would smile, sadly. (Little Jason never understood why she was sad. Older Jason knows heartache all too well now.) “One day, you’ll fall in love and hopefully it’ll be safe to hold these feelings. You’ll be allowed to let them grow.”
Little Jason would nod at her words. In their home, Jason was still left unaware at the rising death toll, at the roads splattered with blood and thorns. Here, his image of love is still pure, simple, and untainted.
Here, he could still dream about soft petals falling from his lips.
Now, Jason would wake up to purple staining his lips, the phantom daydream of tanned skin, dark hair, calloused fingers touching and holding him until his pillow was damp with tears. His heart clenches and Jason turns to spit the evidence of his feelings into the basin beside his bed.
It’s intact this time: a heliotrope. Jason crushes it underfoot and moves to rinse his basin dry.
Jason’s been in love with Dick for years. Nothing would probably change that fact. Not his death, not his sudden rebirth, and not even time.
(It’s a pretty stubborn plant, all things considered. Jason’s apparently got a green thumb.)
—---
The next time Dick and Jason meet, they’ve finished their stakeout and are celebrating catching further intel on their mark over shared fries and burgers. They’ve got a date for the shipment bust and could do it the next week when it comes. Jason’s still riding off the productive high and he’s assumed that Dick’s curiosity from before was simply a one-time thing. So when Dick turns the conversation back to Hanahaki once more, Jason is left surprised.
“I’m coughing up petals again,” comes Dick’s low confession, sitting absolutely still for once on the rooftop.
Jason chokes a bit, eyes wide and he turns to face Dick unsure of what to say. They’re both unmasked, Jason’s helmet resting on the side, the solvent from the mask pinching his skin. Like this, he could clearly make out the sheen of Dick’s two toned eyes, the way the moonlight turns his lashes into liquid silver.
“It’s been going on for some time,” Dick says, a small trace amount of reminiscing lining his words. He’s looking directly at Jason for some reason, and Jason finds his hackles raising at the weight of his gaze, so he looks away, and willfully hopes that Dick does the same.
“Why you tellin’ me? I ain’t got any good love advice.”
Dick sighs, and shifts in his position. “Guess, I wanted to see your perspective on things. I haven’t had much luck.”
Jason takes another bite out of his burger, mulling over what to respond. Dick’s probably not asking how to court the person. He’s way too charming; who wouldn’t fall in love with him? If anything, he’s probably looking for reassurance, and from someone as straightforward (read: mean) like Jason.
“Do they make you happy?” That’s what Jason thinks is most important.
Dick nods, a helpless smile on his face. “So, so much. They don’t even have to do anything, just be there and I can’t help but feel full.”
Damn, he’s in deep. “Then, you confess,” Jason shrugs. “Unless you can’t tell if they feel the same.” He chuckles a bit at this because, once again, who isn’t in love with Dick Grayson?
At Dick’s pained look however, Jason stops laughing. “You serious?” Dick nods. What the hell. Jason crosses his arms, a steely expression on his face. “They don’t fuckin like you? What’re they, a civilian? Tell me.”
Dick snorts at his threatening tone. “They’re not a civilian, they’re in the community like us. And I won’t tell you, you’ll just… do something.”
Ouch. “I won’t kill them or anything.” Jason’ll probably just curse them and wonder what it feels like to be on the receiving end of Dick Grayson’s love.
“It’s not about you hurting them,” Dick is now gritting his teeth. “I just, I’m not ready yet.”
Jason is starting to get frustrated. The older man has a horrible habit of trying to fix every problem he has until the last minute. “I thought you wanted my perspective. Just fucking kiss them or something.”
“I do! It’s just—fuck,” Dick curses, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t know if they feel the same. Or if my feelings are welcome. And I don’t want to lose them if they find out.”
Well. There’s that.
“You can always take the vaccine to kill your feelings if you want.” Jason can feel his own throat tighten at his words. Life loves to fuck with him especially. To be punished by having his own beloved sit beside him and encourage Dick to confess to some unknown person, completely ignorant of Jason’s own feelings. He should probably take his own advice but Jason is a fool when it comes to love.
“I don’t want to. These feelings are mine.”
Dick is a fool as well.
—
When it comes to love, it’s best described as “complicated” for the rest of their family.
You have Bruce with a never ending list of lovers. The Dark Knight's endless crusade on crime has seen many women grace Bruce’s heart (and bed). Honestly, Jason’s surprised that Bruce has only ever fathered one son. If he were any less paranoid and attentive, if he were more like the notorious playboy of his public persona… Jason shudders at the thought.
There’s Dick and whatever he has going on. Jason’s seen him with Babs, with Kory, with Roy, with Wally, Zatanna, Helena—god. The point is, Dick falls in love hard and fast. A whirlwind romance meant for the stars, and he comes back crashing down immediately after.
Tim’s a serial cheater. The whole shitshow between him, Steph, and Ariana Dzerchenko was a whole soap opera. Though, maybe the kid was just confused because ever since he came out as bi and started dating that Bernard kid, he’s been somewhat stable. Jason still maintains that he’s a bit fucked up since he lost the bet on Tim and the superclone.
(The less said about Jason’s own unrequited feelings, the better.)
At least, Steph did herself well and got together with Cass. They’re good for each other, keeping up the relationship even when Cass is off at Hong Kong. Even Duke has a stable girlfriend, that he shares updates about or posts selfies with on Instagram. Jason remains disgusted enough at the thought of Damian ever falling in love that he’ll willfully ignore the demon brat making moon eyes at the super brat.
The point Jason is making is that there are better people for Dick to go to advice when it comes to love. Alfred is right there, ready to sit you down with a cup of tea to go alongside his sage, old wisdom.
So to have Dick crawl in through his window during Jason’s day off to talk about feelings is enough to make Jason consider showing Gotham an entirely new incident.
Unlike Dick, romance had never been high on Jason’s list of priorities. Perhaps he’s a bit of a masochist in this regard, or perhaps he’s lived with the experience of being in an unrequited love for Dick Grayson for so long that it’s become a baseline mode of existence.
Jason’s relationship with Dick is complicated. There’s no denying his younger self looked up to him, with all the weight and attention of a young Robin and his brand of hero worship. Nightwing was just too cool and Dick Grayson is one handsome young man. What else could Jason do if not fall? Even if Dick was mean, was curt, and would ignore Jason in favour of fighting with Bruce… He still shone so brightly in Jason’s point of view.
And then, Jason died. And then, he wasn’t.
And then, he grew up as a man. Bled and has blood spilled on his hands. Moved back, plotted the Joker’s demise and his revenge, torn Crime Alley apart and built it up in his hand. Cut his brother's throat and had his father slit his, hearing maniacal laughter echo as his greatest nightmare continued to live one day more.
And then, something changed. He’s not sure why Dick stuck around, why Tim chose to forgive him, why Damian still treats him like their history in the League matters. Why Alfred never stopped caring, why Bruce says he still loves him.
Jason feels petals bubble up in his chest and it burns. All his lingering feelings for his family erupting and it spills, spills, spills. Why can’t he contain it? Why can’t he stop?
He’s rinsing his mouth, the petals already rotting in his compost bin, when he hears Dick break in. The rot of flower petals must be especially strong because Dick looks at him strangely when he emerges.
“Are you in love, Little Wing?” he asks.
Jason can’t help but laugh. “No.”
Dick sniffs the air, and stares pointedly at the bin containing all the evidence Dick needs in Jason’s kitchen. “It’s rude to snoop in one’s home,” Jason says, voice scratchy from coughing. The older man just raises his eyebrows. “Stop sniffing at my trash.”
“Who is it?”
Damn, this nosy fuck. “I ain’t telling you shit, Dickhead. Now what’re you here for?”
Dick smiles, then, but it’s an awful smile; it looks like he’s hurting. Or maybe it’s just Jason’s own wishful thinking getting reflected back at him. “Can’t I visit my little brother without having to need something? Maybe I just miss you.”
Nobody misses Jason.
Dick still doesn’t let the subject go, however, immediately making his way to the bin. Jason barely manages to shoulder check him outta the way, but the former gymnast has always been one sneaky fucker and he twirls around Jason, pops open the lid and just—stares.
“Heliotropes,” he notes aloud. And of course, Dick knows the flowers by sight alone. Probably knows a whole bunch of facts and will repeat them out loud to cement the knowledge in his mind. “Of the Boraginaceae family. Most popularly known from Ovid’s Metamorphosis following the myth of the sun god Helios and his nymph lover Clytie, who he left for another. Flowers that bloom facing the sun.”
“Thanks for that Wikipedia search. ‘Course I researched the hell outta the flowers growing out of my lungs.” There’s no use in denying his Hanahaki affliction to Dick. Not when he’s got this much evidence. Maybe Jason’s tired of pretending he isn’t in love with the man. Maybe he can share this much with the world, even if the flower’s beloved is kept secret from the man himself.
He steps forward and closes his bin, wrinkling his nose as the rotten smell of petals decaying lingers. “Don’t you think it’s gross? Like, fuck, you just stared at a bunch of flower petals covered in my own bile and spit. That’s a whole new low of freakishness from you, Dickface.”
“Gross?” Dick shakes his head. “...I don’t think so.”
Jason turns around and he looks at Dick, something in the spectrum of wistful and longing twisting in his eyes. Jason’s chest itches. “No?” he questions.
“No,” Dick confirms. Something sad passes through him as he lowers his gaze, “Guess we’ve got flowers.”
“Yeah.”
“Would you tell them?” Jason huffs. God, why is he asking this? He needs a drink or something. Anything to distract him from the entity that is Dick Grayson.
“No.”
Dick frowns, “Why not?” He turns around to fully face Jason, and his angle positions him right where the sun passes through Jason’s living room panes. It’s sunset, and as the sky slowly fills with colours, Dick Grayson is painted with the warm hues of the sun. The oranges and reds of the light kisses the gold of his skin. He is so, so incredibly beautiful and so humanly unattainable.
(Jason loves him so.)
“He doesn’t love me back.”
The look Dick gives him at his admission makes him want to jump.
He blames the sun for painting Dick in such a light. He blames Dick for looking at Jason with his blue, blue eyes. He blames the dream he had that morning of a life where Dick loved him back, held him dearly, and kissed him sweetly only for him to wake up and remember his current life. He blames a lot of things but his own self-hatred can only do so much to distract him.
Distract him from the pinch of skin in between Dick’s eyebrows as he parses through Jason’s statement. Distracted from the puff of breath Dick lets out, between his glossy lips and the way his eyes are still annoyingly sparkling in the sunlight.
Dick’s just always been beautiful. That’s a fact anyone with eyes can plainly see.
He’s got an easy smile and high cheekbones and swoopy dark hair, but Jason has seen the times where Dick is beautiful because of a glare making his eyes glow, mouth set in a grim line as he fights. How beautiful Dick is with his hair in disarray as he works sleepless nights, fingers running through it in a frenzy as he pushes himself thin. The beauty that is Dick when he laughs his heart out, eyes squinty and smile lines creasing as he snorts and tries to play another prank that’ll end up with more bruises across his shins.
Jason finds Dick beautiful no matter what facial expression is on his face. And that’s a fact Jason doesn’t want anyone to see.
“He doesn’t love me back,” Jason repeats, closing his eyes. “And I need you to leave right now.”
There must’ve been something on his face that compelled Dick to not listen. Because the next thing he knew, the older man was hugging him.
“I’m sorry for that, Little Wing,” he says, softly. Sorry, he says. For what? For Jason’s beloved not loving him back? What else could he do? Jason’s eyes burns as he buries his face into Dick’s shoulder, lets himself have this for a while.
“...Shut up.”
(And Dick does.)
((Jason is glad he doesn’t say anything more.))
—
Both Nightwing and Red Hood underestimated the cartel bust.
Jason had slept fitfully the night before. He woke in stops and starts, throat burning all the while as flowers, petals, thorns tumbled down from his lips, leaving him quietly gasping for breath each time, hands aching and reaching out for something he couldn’t quite reach. The remnants of the scattered dreams he saw whenever he managed to fall deep enough into sleep left him with an aching sense of loss.
And while that’s not sufficient enough of an excuse for Jason’s own carelessness, there’s something off about Nightwing during the operation. It was supposed to be quick and easy, a total of 20 men and they divert the shipment down to where Red Hood’s contacts could disassemble them and for the GCPD to apprehend the villains tipped off by Nightwing’s own connections in the police.
Red Hood twists his head and unloads a new magazine (rubber bullets, because he’s working on Dick’s terms) into a goon cocky enough to sneak up on him.
Sometimes, Jason wonders if he simply liked fighting. After so many years of training, it’s hard for him to imagine doing anything else. He’d grown used to fighting by himself — preferred it, to having someone around him underfoot, to having someone close who could hurt him, who could get hurt because of him.
It was smooth sailing for most of the night.
Until one remaining goon apparently had a bright idea and decided to blow up the warehouse they’re in without any warning or regard.
As the place went down in flames, the thick smoke began to spread and soon, the GCPD had to call in the fire department for aid as well. The sounds of gunfire and the shouts of angry men meshed together, creating a wailing cacophony that twists and twines in Gotham’s air.
Red Hood had vanished at some point during the explosion, obscured by the smoke and explosions that erupted as soon as their mark realized what had happened. In between enemies, Dick often found himself distracted, eyes automatically searching for a flash of red, for the flash of gunfire. Red Hood often wove in and out of sight, near enough for Dick to ascertain his position but far enough for Dick to feel assured that nothing’s wrong. It’s only when he heard the crackling of his comms as Nightwing alerted to his position that Dick’s head snapped up and started scanning the area.
It was only then that he spotted the other man. The Red Hood was covered in blood, his own judging by the way he’s cradling his side. A large gash decorates the entire right side of his torso, the kevlar blend of his suit doing nothing to hide his charred flesh.
In an instant, Nightwing’s got a burn spray and bandages, tucking himself against the fallen vigilante’s side and cleaning his wounds.
“Little Wing,” Nightwing can’t help the tremble in his voice, concern lining each word. He tries for humour. “You couldn’t think of dodging the explosion?”
Jason merely tilts his head, a dry laugh escaping him. “I’m fine.”
“You need medical,” Nightwing snaps. “Stop picking at the wound.”
Huh. Jason lowers his arm, his chest itches. His eyes flutter and he touches the side of his head gingerly, as if remembering what had happened. “Oh yeah,” his voice is slurring. Damn, now Nightwing’s extra worried. “My head hurts.”
Nightwing was kneeling before him, but Jason could only see half of his body. He’s applying pressure to Jason’s wound, mouth moving but no words reach his ears. Shit. That explains the ringing in his ears. With morbid curiosity, Jason dips his fingers into the pool of blood beneath him. His fingers get cradled away but he wants to touch, to feel.
((He blacks out.))
Jason feels a hand on his shoulder.
Someone was shaking him, moving him? A stinging sensation on his side, followed by the scratch of cotton sheets.
Someone was saying something. They sound familiar. Jason makes out one, two, three… All the voices overlapping but he couldn't hear them clearly over the ringing in his ears.
His chest hurt.
(Something is growing)
He couldn't breathe.
(It’s growing.)
His stomach twists.
(It’s coming out.)
He couldn't swallow.
(He doesn’t want it out.)
Jason wakes up with flowers tumbling down his throat. He’s on a bed, no basin right beside him to catch his sick. Where is his basin? Where can he hide his shame?
Jason continues to spit up. It’s so wet, stickiness filling his mouth and Jason can’t help but gag. It dripped down from his lips, disgusting rivulets leaving his hands tacky with spit as he tried to wipe it away. It’s pink. Is that blood?
Bile continues to rise up in his throat, the acid burning on its way up. It’s much worse this time, his chest heaving and causing Jason to bow under the force of the coughing fit that’s wracking his frame.
“Jason?”
Oh, of course, he’s here to witness this.
Dick comes into view, flower petals raining down from Jason to welcome his beloved in a sick parody, trailing down and touching the tops of Dick’s shoes, his legs, Dick coming close and kneeling on the disgusting rot of Jason’s feelings, cradling him and looking at him like. Like…
Jason chokes, curling in on himself. His fingers digging into the cotton sheets of the bed in their medbay. Whole heliotrope flowers have emerged, but they don't fall down to the ground, or to his lap; they're still attached to something inside of him. Jason’s hands rise to his mouth, it’s been so long since he had to pull and pull and pull. There’s the tell-tale scrape of the stems against the walls of his throat as he struggles to breathe, gagging all the while until he could feel the roots tickling his tongue as it finally leaves.
Finally, the pain has subsided. And Dick is still there, staring at him with soulful, two-toned eyes. And Jason is here, looking back at him, tired, wan. His hands fisted around a shitty bouquet of heliotropes wracked with blood and spit and all the ugliness born from Jason’s own heart.
“Hey.” The copper tang of iron decorates the stems, leaving Jason aware of the itchiness in his throat.
“Hi,” Dick whispers back.
God. Jason stares at Dick Grayson, feeling the hollow ache of the garden within him. Here he is, clumsily growing flowers for a boy and this boy is growing flowers of his own. Perhaps the biggest joke in life is that this disease is no longer lethal. Jason would’ve preferred having to die than to live with his feelings.
For some reason, Jason’s hand moves upwards, up to Dick, and he smooths Dick's hair down using his hand. Strangely, Dick doesn’t seem to mind, even with the blood and spit sticking to his strands from Jason’s own sick. Instead, he leans in, eyelashes fluttering, and he clutches Jason’s hands to his cheek with fervor.
This makes Jason laugh, a quiet one. A sad one. It’s always been so easy to love Dick.
“Did you figure me out?” He asks.
Jason is prepared for rejection. Just something quick and sharp so he could close his little garden up for good. Dick’s always been good at efficiency, at keeping things from being too complicated.
He doesn’t expect for Dick to start coughing himself, covering his mouth daintily with a fist, until he draws back and presents Jason with something on his palm.
He looks down blearily, at the dark spots on Dick’s hand, which — when his vision focuses — turned out to be petals. Rose petals so red that they’re nearly black. They’re shiny and slick, perfectly formed and dewy. Something crawls its way up his spine. Jason glances up at Dick once more, lets his gaze meet the hopeful smile blooming on his face.
Dick’s face is stretched wide; his eyes sparkle and there’s wonder within.
“Couldn't you at least give me a whole rose?” Jason asks him. He wags his own makeshift bouquet in Dick’s face. “Look what I’ve got for you right here.”
“I’ll give you real ones. Real proper ones with bows and chocolates and cards. I’ll buy out the entire shop and we’ll have a flower crisis in Gotham.”
What the hell. Jason is so fond. “I have rhinitis.”
Jason tastes flowers blooming in the back of his mouth. Dick is already reaching for him when Jason decides to draw him near, tangling his remaining hand around Dick’s waist. It’s a whirl of sensation: Dick nimbly setting himself astride Jason’s lap, mindful of his stitches, Jason tugging at him to feel his warm skin, hands splayed securely on his back.
Dick ducks his head, eyes flickering as if searching his face for something. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d say that the older male almost seemed scared. Almost unwittingly, Jason’s eyes fall shut and he tilts his head up, taking initiative.
“Okay. No flowers then.”
Dick kisses him, fingers gentle and lips petal-soft against his.
And Jason—
(Jason breathes.)