Chapter Text
Robert didn’t realize how truly fucked he was until a single orange flower was resting on his open palm.
He had come home from Friday night drinks with the Z-team on the wrong side of tipsy. Though the offer was mainly for Prism’s benefit, Flambae had volunteered to be designated driver, citing an early-morning start to his weekend plans with his sister and niece.
“I can’t get too fucked up, Bob Bob,” he had said, when Robert asked. “‘Mina would kill me if I showed up tomorrow hungover. And since I’m sooo nice, I’ll even drive some of you back. So go on and get fucked up for me, will you? God knows you need it.”
Then Visi had pressed a shot into his hand, and the rest of the night blended together in a warm haze.
Robert had sobered up enough on the drive back, squeezed in between a sleeping Phenomaman and nervous Waterboy, while watching as Prism sang along to the music. Malevola had opened a portal to escort the other half of the Z-team, who lived in the other direction (with the exception of Invisigal and Mandy, who had suspiciously disappeared an hour earlier). Prism was the first to be dropped off, with a “thank you, Bae!” and a blown kiss at their driver. Waterboy followed soon after, quickly taking the towel he had laid onto the backseat and waggling it at the remaining party in some semblance of a goodbye before running back into his grandma’s house. Phenomaman had finally woken up about 10 minutes into the highway, deemed himself awake enough to fly himself the remainder home, and made Flambae pull over so he could exit the car and take off into the balmy night sky.
“Alright, get your flat ass up into shotgun,” Flambae said. “I feel like I’m your Uber driver, and it’s kinda weird.”
Robert complied, sliding into the front seat with as much grace as one could muster after a night of drinking. “Well, this Uber driver keeps talking about how flat my ass is. One star.” He snarked back, fumbling with the seatbelt buckle.
Flambae kissed his teeth in annoyance. “I just call it like I see it. You’re a flat assed little normie, who needs a big strong hero to help him.” He batted Robert’s hand away and buckled the seatbelt on the first try. “There. Like that. Jesus Christ.”
“Thanks, you’re my hero,” Robert replied drily.
“Oh, fuck off.”
The remainder of the drive was spent in a tense silence they had spent several months crafting. Flambae had stopped his revenge-punches after month three, and they hadn’t had a real screaming match over work in three and a half weeks. So any conversation made was usually hidden behind petty insults, but increasingly it was getting more playful, as if they were actual friends ribbing each other. But strangely, on some occasions when they were left alone together, an awkward tension would grow, as if they had forgotten any worthwhile avenue of conversation when left unattended. Well, at least they didn’t want to kill each other anymore. Robert would take the win.
Robert saw his apartment complex loom closer, and frowned at the… disappointment? Why had his heart sank a little at the thought of finally being home?
Must be the alcohol, he had thought.
The thought of a drunk, naïve man. Not that he would realize this until later, of course.
“Thanks,” Robert said, unbuckling and stepping out of the car before he could dissect that further. He turned back to shut the door and blinked in surprise when he saw that Flambae had stepped out of the car, too.
“I’m not driving you all the way back to your stupid little shoebox apartment just for you to drunkenly trip on the stairs and die,” Flambae muttered, eyes darting in every direction but Robert’s.
“I’m not that drunk.”
“Go walk in a straight line, right now.”
“What are you, a cop? I’m not gonna do that.”
Flambae quirked one eyebrow. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with me walking you to your door.”
Robert had summarily lost that argument. Now why was he fighting a goddamn smile?
Flambae had snatched the keys out of his hands and unlocked the door for him– “Bobert, I am not going to watch you waste my time and fail again”– and then Robert was greeted with the sight of his slightly-less barren apartment, cast in shadows save for the streetlight trickling in from the open door behind him and a gap in his balcony curtains. He had a media console table with no TV (yet), and a square bookshelf in the corner. Unlit mismatched lamps littered every hard, flat surface.
Flambae subtly shifted from one foot to another, almost uncertainly. Robert scratched one arm, unsure what to say next. There was a pregnant pause before anyone spoke.
“Well. Bye. Don’t get sick and choke on your vomit or… whatever,” Flambae gritted out, then turned to leave.
“Wait!”
Flambae slowly looked back, curiously.
“Uh… I don’t know. I’m still drunk… sorry, fuck, you can go. Thanks again for the ride.”
An incredulous look flashed across his face before Flambae had spun on his heel, walked down the corridor and turned the corner out of sight, muttering angrily in another language on his way out.
Robert waited for his footsteps to fade out before shutting the door. He had no idea what he wanted to say and what that itching feeling was that compelled him to stop Flambae from leaving, but he didn’t know much at all at that point. The warm haze of his inebriation crept along the edges of his consciousness, and he wobbled across his small living room before it threatened to swallow him whole. He only just managed to flop down face-first onto his sofa before he let sleep consume him, wholly and swiftly.
This brings Robert to Saturday afternoon, phone still buzzing a hole into his pocket from several incoming texts, and a tiny, sweet-smelling flower that he spat out of his mouth.
Dread creeps up his throat– or maybe, that’s just the flowers that are apparently growing inside of him. Robert knows he’s no stranger to dodging his feelings, but to contract this rare disease and not know how, or why, or when…
He started liking Flambae.
He may be avoidant, but he’s not stupid. It has to be Flambae. It’s probably related to whatever he wanted to tell him last night, and why he was sad when he had to leave the car, and why he was happy that Flambae walked him to his door, even if he stole five more minutes…
Okay, so maybe he’s a little stupid for not noticing it sooner.
He digs his phone out of his back pocket– miraculously, left on 2% battery– and plugs it in before checking his messages. Most of them are from the Z-Team group chat, which he ignores for now, and a few from Chase. He smiles at a picture of Beef from last night, curled up and snoozing under the blue glow of TV light, and one from roughly an hour ago, tongue lolling out of his mouth next to some little moppy-looking brown dog.
Chase
[sent 1 image]
Jeopardy reruns apparently aren’t interesting enough for him.
[sent 1 image]
See, Beef makes friends too
Robert
[liked 2 photos]
Thanks for taking good care of him, unc. He’s still good with the diet dog food?
Chase
Boy are you just now waking up? I take your kid for the weekend and you really let loose, huh
Yea he’s still eating it. Honestly I don’t even think he noticed the change. Dog will eat anything
Robert rolled his eyes, as if Chase could see him through the phone, and closed his messaging app. He opened a new private tab on his web browser and typed in “Hanahaki disease”.
The first time he encountered it was when he was first starting as Mecha Man, back when he was barely an adult and running himself ragged trying to learn how to be a proper hero. A woman he rescued had coughed up a rivulet of dark red over the front of his flightsuit as he carried her out of a destroyed house. He had panicked, and started asking about internal injuries immediately, but she had weakly stopped him and said it was a disease. That’s when he noticed the petals mixed in with the blood, the same rich red as the blood.
The disease is so rare, he’s not quite sure that he would have even heard of it were it not for her. It was caused by unrequited love, the doctors had explained when he brought her to the hospital. For some unknown and mystical reason, a one-sided love can grow flowers in someone’s lungs until they can't breathe.
He had checked in on her after the doctors cleared her of any other injuries from the incident, besides some minor scrapes and a sprained ankle. She had smiled wanly as he fiddled his thumbs in the uncomfortable plastic chair by her hospital bed, and told him that she fell in love with a man that became a villain and didn’t love her back. Her attempts at getting him to turn away from crime had been met with anger and a bomb planted in the foundation of her home. Lucky to escape an explosion with no major injuries, she had remarked bitterly, but cursed to have rose thorns scrape up her insides.
She died the next day.
Robert shook his head to dissipate the daze of his memories, and returned to the task at hand. The scant articles published on the subject had enough medical jargon that made his hungover head spin. Lots of genes that looked more like keysmashes, and medical studies that seemed inconclusive. Skimming all the abstracts returned the same few facts:
- There were no known causes besides unrequited love.
- Patients often had unhealthy relationships or scored low on mental health assessments, which may correlate positively with onset of disease.
- The incubation period varied so greatly that the full course of the disease could last anywhere from over a year to just one week. Once someone started coughing up blood, it signified late-stage Hanahaki disease, and the decline in the patient’s health would accelerate rapidly.
- The only cure was to surgically remove the flowers from the lungs, roots and all, which would also remove any feelings towards the object of their affection.
- 80% of patients refused to undergo the procedure.
With shaking hands, he raised his phone and snapped a photo of the flower, which he had gingerly placed on the arm of his sofa. Google image search told him it was an osmanthus flower. Another search told him they symbolized several things, one of them being love.
He closed his eyes and tipped his head heavenwards. Maybe it’s a fluke. Maybe he drank fucking, I don’t know, some kind of botanical infused liquor last night and that’s why fucking flowers are coming out of his goddamn throat–
His phone buzzed again, and a new message banner flashed across his lock screen.
(3 new messages)
Chad
hope you didnt choke on vomit in the middle of the night
bitch.
but seriously are you alive yes or no its like 3pm and you havent read the gc yet
He coughed once, then twice, surprised, and another orange bloom flew out of his mouth. It landed next to Flambae’s name before the screen went dark once more, reflecting his tired eyes back at him.
God damn it.