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He wonders how he'll die this time, if the flowers will rot and fester in his lungs, taking him out in a feverish, delirious sepsis, or if their roots will simply suck up all of the oxygen in his lungs, depriving him of any kind of respite, until they suffocate him; after all, Jason is the universe's living, walking punch bag. The first time, he suffocated on hot, violent smoke that burned his nostrils, his throat, and his lungs; now, he will suffocate on flowers that make gardens out of them. At least they are pretty.
His throat was itchy, and something tickled the back of it, and no matter which position he assumed, it did not go away; his chest started to hurt with each breath, and soon enough, he started coughing. The fit itself was shorter than usual, but it still hurt like hell. There was a full bloom trying to get out. A pretty red chrysanthemum, tinted burgundy due to the little droplets of blood it took from him. Deep love, mixed with pain and sorrow.
There are stages to all of this.
First is the globus sensation. Like there is something stuck in your throat, and no matter how much water you take or how much you swallow, it doesn't go away. As it progresses, it starts to make eating difficult. Then, one day, you wake up, and it's gone, and you think whatever it was, it has passed. It didn't; it has just moved to your lungs. That is the beginning of the second stage. During the second stage, small sprouts start growing in between the lobes of your lungs, more specifically, inside your bronchus. Most people think lungs are hollow inside, but they are actually solid, filled with bronchus, bronchi, and bronchioles: passages that conduct air into the lungs. That's where the flowers start to sprout. Microscopic at first, they soon develop into little buds that, with phlegm, drag themselves out of your lungs, into your trachea, and out of your mouth. Each one with torturous, everlasting pain. As they grow, so does the difficulty with which they manage to get out, and soon enough, you are coughing blood. That is the third and final stage. Now, if you'd like, you could divide this last stage into two parts.
Part 1: The Blood. The taste is unsettling, a mixture of copper and grass. Iron and green. It tastes green, he doesn't know how else to explain it. The fact is, that at this point the blood does not come from the flowers, but from internal hemorrhage. During all this time, the flowers have been digging thin, deep roots that take their nutrients from your blood, and move around your body looking for more, creating deep gashes that continue to bleed out, unable to even coagulate, because the flowers are using your deposits of Factor XII, which is necessary to begin the clotting cascade. Add to that a reckless lifestyle, like say, a nighttime vigilante that constantly gets stabbed and shot at, and well— In other words, you are fucked.
Part 2: The Full Bloom. If you thought petals and buds were rough, you have another thing coming. The more layered the flower, the more it hurts, and it just so happens that chrysanthemums are highly structured and densely layered, with multiple rows of thin petals that radiate outward. It is said that once you cough up a full bloom, you have two weeks, at most. That was a week ago, for Jason.
Despite what you might believe about him, he did not take this sitting down. He actually tried to do something about it. He sought the people he thought might be the cause, figured rather quickly that they weren't, and who it was too, researched his flower from the moment the first petal showed up, looked up treatments and medical advances in the field, it's just— it was impossible. This was going to kill him. He'd known that from the first petal that had forced its way past his lips, but still, he had tried. He tried because if he didn't, he thought others might think poorly of him, more than they already did, and call him a coward. He doesn't think that giving up is cowardly; he fought, he lost, and he accepted it graciously. He'd accepted it without reservation.
The futile fight would tear his family apart; they were too soft and unwilling to let sick animals like Jason die. So, after coming to terms with it and writing notes and letters for everyone, he decided to just: Lie Still. There was no longer a reason for his continued existence, so he might as well just go and rest. He was given a second chance, and he had squandered it. He didn't help himself, he didn't help the Alley, and he didn't reunite with his family. No matter what he did, how hard he tried, he would never get what he wanted. It would never be enough. So he just gave up. Time was of the essence; better use it to plan for the future. The Alley's future.
He did learn something about himself, though, during his search for a cure. He learnt that if no one has touched you in a very long time, even the softest more tender of caresses feels like a stab.
Dick had come by that day, uninvited, and requested help with a case. He had sat down on his sofa and beckoned him closer, and Jason, touch-starved beast that he was, went easy. They were on the sofa discussing strategies when Dick's fingertips brushed the back of his neck, playing with the baby hairs there, and Jason felt like crying. It was so soft, and it felt so good, and it hurt so much. It felt like a burn, like an iron brand on his skin. He wanted to lean in and get away all at the same time, but he had gasped from surprise, and now the cough was coming. He ran away into the bathroom and hid himself there, fighting with all his might against the cough, trying fruitlessly to hide his sickness. Dick called out to him, but he could not answer. When he finally got out, the couch was empty, and Dick had left a note on the coffee table apologizing for crossing the line.
He didn't touch him again after that.
No one did.
Out of everyone in the family, he had thought it would be Cass who discovered him. The One Who Is All. He thinks she did, but that she had been gracious enough to leave him to it; and while one could see that as a clear sign of rejection on her part, Jason understands the gift that it is to be able to choose to let go. To have that choice respected. Since he won't do it himself and is only waiting for the inevitable, he is not breaking her rules, and therefore, he is free to let go. A small part of him is saddened by the confirmation that even Cass, who can read them all, knows it is futile to even try to save him.
But still, that doesn't mean he wanted Tim to get caught up in this.
Their routes were close to each other, and a pursuit had brought Tim into Jason's route. He had heard him cough once, and despite not paying it any mind at the moment, it quickly clicked together once he saw the full and bloodied flower. He confronted him at the top of Wayne Tower, far away from both their routes. Went as far as disconnecting both of their coms from the main channel and asked directly, so differently from their usual modus operandi that it caught him by surprise, "Are you sick? Is it Hanahaki?" No accusations, no blame game, just a straightforward question. He appreciated that.
"Do you think flowers will grow from the soil where I'm buried?" He leaned into the rail, watching the night sky from the highest point in Gotham; once, he had felt invincible here. At the top of the world. "I heard that sometimes that happens." But that child is long gone, and soon, so will this man be. "I must confess that I don't want to be buried, though. I'm terrified of coming back again, as far-fetched an idea as that may be. And of finding myself deep underground amid darkness, claustrophobic— no, I don't want that at all." He turns to his left to see Tim staring at the red chrysanthemum with zealous concentration, probably trying to remember its meaning. "Could you help me if that happens? Even though you don't owe me shit, and I certainly have no right to ask you for anything, you are the only one I trust to give me salvation." Tim quickly turns to look at him, eyes wide behind the domino mask, the flower gently held on his palm. "Don't let B bury me. Cremate me. And if the stubborn old man refuses, then can you steal me away?" Tim's chest is rising and falling quicker with each breath, and Jason feels a small pang of jealousy at his ability to do so. "Can you do that for me, Tim? I'm tired. I don't want to live anymore." Out of both of them, it shouldn't be Tim who is crying. "I don't want to come back. I welcome death, and it beckons me". Tim says nothing. He crushes the flower in his hand and throws it at his chest, then turns around and leaves him there. But that's okay. It was a selfish request, and a heavy burden on a young man, too. Still, he trusts that Tim will do it. If only so he can personally send him to hell.
Lately, the coughing fits have become more frequent, and they disturb his ability to do things as small as walking a few steps. Early tonight, he had almost let go of the grappling hook because of a coughing fit. Perhaps it is time to consider retiring. Maybe go with Roy and Kory. Disappear into their arms and die gently, surrounded by people who love him.
But he knows it's impossible.
As soon as they realize his condition, they will call Dick and demand that he help them save him, that he do everything in his power to rescue him from himself, and it won't change a thing. Roy would believe that Jason's love is for Dick, and Kory would believe that there is a chance that it's mutual, and when it all fails, it will only serve to destroy them all. Dick will blame himself for not being able to love him, while Roy will assign undue responsibility to Dick and hate him for Jason's death, and poor Kory— he will become another death that follows her. No. While Jason is not entirely sure what his feelings for Dick are, fraternal or romantic in nature, he does know he doesn't wish him any pain.
Perhaps he feels both, if he thinks about it. Perhaps he is just a little kid, wishing to hold his big brother's hand and kiss him on the lips.
"Must you die?" He is wearing olive green, and it reminds Jason of their times in the League.
"Everything dies." It is a truth, universally acknowledged.
"Yes, but must you?" He is a child. He knew it was cruel to tell him, but he had abandoned him once before, and without warning. He cannot do it twice.
"I hope so." He had decided not to lie to him, to be honest and straightforward. He thought he owed him that. Now, seeing him standing there, tears falling freely from his eyes, shoulders slumped— he realizes he made a mistake. "I must pay my dues, Habibi. Time comes for us all." Damian holds onto his shirt and doesn't let go for a very long time.
He doesn't ask him who they are, and doesn't promise to hunt them down for him.
He must already suspect.
Jason has been sleeping in more lately, and he doesn't patrol quite as often. Dick worries, so he goes to look for him.
He finds him bundled on the bed, looking warm and soft; his black locks unruly and wild. His blackout curtains are shut tight, and the ceiling fan fills the room with white noise. Jason doesn't wake up when Dick gets there, which is alarming. He checks him for a fever, thinking that he might be getting sick, but finds his skin cool to the touch. Jason, still asleep, nuzzles his hand like a little kitten, and Dick's heart melts.
Maybe it's just a bad day. Maybe it's seasonal depression, he hopes not, but maybe that's what it is. If he is right, then company and affection are the solution. He briefly remembers Jason running away from him and hiding in the bathroom, refusing even to talk to him. He hesitates, but in the end, he decides to stay with him. There is nothing urgent this week, no high-stakes mission or deal, and the Alley seems to be running like a well-oiled machine. Bludhaven is doing well, too. Nobody needs them. So he takes off his jacket and his shoes and gets in bed with Jason.
He hopes he doesn't wake up, and if he does, he hopes he doesn't push him away. That he doesn't get angry or look disgusted by having him so close by. Contrary to his fears, Jason doesn't wake, but turns in his arms and burrows deep into them, nuzzling his nose on his chest. Dick hugs him tighter, locks their legs together, and Jason lets out the softest sigh in the world.
They fall asleep just like that.
The problem for Jason is that he knows it's not Dick. If it were, it would still be impossible to fix, but he could at least try to do something. But it isn't. He did not get Hanahaki from his deep love, whatever type it might be, for Dick Grayson; and so, there is nothing Dick could ever do to save him. Still, waking up wrapped in his arms is a gift he did not expect, and he is not about to squander it. As morbid as it might sound, and as horrible as it would be for Dick, he wishes he could pass away like this. In between his arms, surrounded by his warmth and care.
Jason makes them breakfast, but seems too tired for much else. He bids him rest and stays with him in the apartment most of the day. He feels uneasy, leaving him alone. He seems frail, like a strong wind could blow him away, and Dick would never see him again. He cuts patrol short, excuses himself, saying he has a headache, and goes back to Jason. He finds him sleeping again, this time on the sofa. He sits next to him and just watches him. There's something wrong here, but he doesn't know what. Twice, he has found Jason asleep. Twice, he has not woken up. Jason, who used to wake up from Dick breathing too hard in his vicinity, now does not notice Dick sitting right next to him. If it had come from familiarity, Dick would not be so unsettled. There is something wrong here.
He finds out what a few minutes later, when a violent cough tears through Jason. He doubles down, coughing, crying from the exertion, and that's when he sees it. Blood. On his hands and on his lips. And flowers. Flowers everywhere. They're not even dipped in blood; they're drenched. He quickly reaches out to support Jason, who doesn't even have the strength to stay upright. He is still coughing, his lips turning blue, choking on his blood and spit and petals— each coughing fit lasts 40 to 50 seconds, with only a few precious moments in between to gasp for air, before he is coughing again. When it stops, his breathing is faint; his eyes are unfocused, his face is pale, and his lips remain blue for a very long time.
Later stage Hanahaki.
Despair fills him. He feels chills to his core, and he feels terrified, terrified of losing Jason, and angry towards whoever did this to him. He wants to demand their name, seek them out, and force them to accept him. Brainwash them if he has to, torture them if they refuse, take everything that has ever made them happy, and threaten to destroy it if they don't comply— skin them alive if he loses Jason.
Then he wonders if it's him.
He tells Jason that he loves him and kisses him on the lips, and Jason, who has barely just regained consciousness, smiles tiredly at him and says not to push himself. He kisses him again, harder, despite knowing that Jason does not have the air to spare, and he tells him, firmly and without a single doubt, "I love you. I love you with all of my heart. I love you." Jason smiles softly and tells him that he loves him too, but then apologizes and says—
"But it isn't you, Dickie." He tries fruitlessly to sit up, so Dick helps him, carefully as if he were made of glass. "I love you, in all the ways a man can love another man, but you did not do this to me, Dick. Nobody did, really. I did this to myself." His voice is thin and barely a whisper. He wipes the blood from Jason's mouth with the back of his hand, watches him try to take a shaky breath and fail—
Jason passes out again, and Dick brings him to bed. That's where Tim finds them. His face brightens when he sees them and asks animatedly "Is it gone? Did you tell him you love him back? I tried to tell him that you did, but he didn't believe me, I was just about to tell you and—" he stops when he notices Dick's grief-stricken face with tears still falling freely, and his face falls.
"It isn't me. He said it isn't me." He turns to look at Jason, breathing softly and superficially, still too pale for Dick's liking and looking way too small on the bed. "How long has he been like this?" Tim doesn't answer. Instead, he says what he feared the most.
"I think it's Bruce." He wants to curse that man and force him to accept him. But he also knows that even if he did, even if they managed to convince him to say the words— to go outside and kill the Joker for Jason and bring him his head, to beg forgiveness on his knees and tell him that he loves him. That he still loves him. That he has always loved him. That he never stopped.
It would all be for naught.
Jason would not believe him, and therefore, he would not be cured.
They are running out of time.
The situation was hopeless.
He remained on the sidelines, as he was asked. Watching his brother's health decline, and being unable to help.
He knew it wasn't him. He knew it wasn't Drake. And he knew it wasn't Richard. If it were any of them, his brother would not be so sure of his own demise. The culprit was obvious then, and it made the whole situation all the more infuriating.
A treatment has been developed recently in which the flowers are removed surgically, only sometimes having to excise a part of the lung, and there is a very interesting myth surrounding the procedure that says that removing the flowers surgically also takes away your feelings for the one who caused it, even going as far as to say it also takes away your memories of them, or your entire capability for love.
If it were true, Jason would gladly go through with it. But the truth of the matter is that the surgery is neither a cure nor as infallible as they paint it. It has a high mortality rate, a higher still recurring rate, and it does not even take away the source of the problem: your feelings. It just frees space in your lungs for the exchange of gases to be possible. In essence, it prolongs one's life, but does not save it. At this point, his brother's lungs must be so damaged that even if he freed enough space with the surgery, the tissue would not be able to work properly. He might even end up losing a good chunk of his lungs, at which point the quality of life would be minimal. He wants a dignified death.
Even if his love was returned at this very moment and the disease was cured naturally, his brother is already incapable of standing up without suffering from hypoxia, much less walking. The time has passed.
Hanahaki is a disease of the soul, and it has a genetic predisposition. It is not contagious, and the workings of the disease are still rooted in mysticism, but it is well known that people in the same family bloodline have higher chances of developing Hanahaki than those who have no family members with it, and that once a person develops Hanahaki, their risk of contracting it again is higher than that of the normal population. There is only one way left to fix it, albeit temporarily, and while he knows that his brother will resent him for it, he has been left with no other choice. He loves him.
Jason cared for him as a child, in the league. Even while catatonic, he would protect him and even take punishments meant for him, even though he knew he would be beaten for it.
Damian cannot lose him must repay a debt.
He calls Richard.
There is something wrong with his children.
Tim is anxious and in constant movement and refuses to share why, and while this might seem normal, it is the fact that he shares the findings on his laptop, whatever they may be, with Damian, that clues him in on the irregularity. Damian, who is nowadays often lost in thought, is sitting still in quiet contemplation next to Tim. He tries to pry with the Batcomputer, but gets blocked by Barbara, who protects Tim's investigation with zealous intensity, keeping him away. Steph's eyes are red; she has been crying and is now talking in hushed whispers with Cass, who listens to her intently with pursed lips and tired resignation. Duke has also deviated from his normal patterns. He has changed patrol routes, now spending more time in the Alley with Steph, which raises the question: where is Jason, and why is he not patrolling his own territory?
It is not unusual for Bruce to go days without seeing Jason, but he always knows where he is, which is why he knows he is still in Gotham, and yet there have not been any reports on the Red Hood lately.
Something is wrong. Something urgent. And they are deliberately keeping him away.
He is proven right when Dick shows up.
The hatred in his eyes is overflowing and all-encompassing. It has been a long time since he was the object of such hatred from Dick. He demands the keys to the Batplane, and when he asks why, he threatens to take them by force. Whatever he has done to earn Dick's reproach and incite such aggression, he does not appreciate the insolence, so he refuses. Dick bares his teeth at him and prepares for a fight. He doesn't understand what he has done wrong, but if Dick wants a fight, a fight he will get.
The keys jingle on Cassandra's hand on the opposite side of the cave. Tim grabs his laptop quickly, and Damian, his cat, and they leave with her. Dick, who turns around as soon as he sees the keys, abandons the fight. He has never known him to give up a fight with him when he is mad. Before they all fully disappear from sight, Dick turns to him and says with a cold and furious tone, "I'm putting everything on the line to get you another chance. To get you more time. Not because you deserve it, but because he does. You will grovel at his feet, and it will not be enough." He turns around and leaves, giving no context and no explanation.
He hurries to follow them, but Alfred holds him back and shakes his head; he looks somber and tired. "He has his reasons, they all do. And when you know them, Master Bruce, when you realize what you have done and what they are risking for you, you'd better be prepared to say Thank you." He walks away then, leaving Bruce terrified and cold.
All of his children have left on an unknown mission, presumably, to give him another chance. A small, scared voice, so similar to an eight-year-old, whispers in his head, 'Where is Jason?'
He gasps, takes a deep breath, and shudders.
He doesn't want to open his eyes.
He hasn't been able to breathe so easily in months.
He is afraid of what he'll see.
The cool water that swirls around him is telling enough.
He hears the worried voices of his siblings and feels hands grabbing at his clothes, trying to pull him out, to check him for injuries or changes, he doesn't know. After a while of this, he decides to bite the bullet and finally opens his eyes, but he doesn't get the chance to see the world drenched in green again, because Dick is pulling him closer, grabbing his face, and smashing their lips together. "Had a good dream, Little Wing?" Dick is right there, and the world is not green; it's blue.
He laughs, his voice strong and his breathing stable, then cries. This is not what he wanted. He wanted to rest. Dick whispers sorrys, and I love yous on his ears, and he feels small arms hugging his back. Tim tells them to hurry, they have to move, they've been here too long—
They are halfway there when Jason gets a coughing fit. There are petals on his mouth.
Dick quickly inspects them for blood, finds none, and sighs in relief. Pulls him towards the exit by the hand, and Jason wonders.
Is this it? Are they gonna throw him in the pit each time death draws near? Will he suffer this over and over until finally they don't get here in time?
Inside the Batplane, he is hugged and kissed, and greeted by everyone. Dick sets the course back home, towards the cave, and reassures him that he will fix it. He will fix it.
Jason sits down where they put him and looks down at his feet.
Dick's eyes are wild and determined. He holds his hand and kisses his knuckles. He repeats, like a mantra, "You will be okay, Little Wing".
How much longer will he have to live like this?
Back in the cave, Barbara has finally allowed Bruce to read Tim's investigation.
Dick's words echo in his mind, punitive and cold:
'You will grovel at his feet, and it will not be enough.'
The Batplane is coming home.
'Jason is coming.'