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When Driver first developed his cough, he had his workshop deep-cleaned and reorganised. He’d had allergies in his childhood, and was subsequently a little alert to how he reacted to his surroundings; and besides the workshop desperately needed the cleaning anyway. The cough subsided for the entire day that he was out of the place, a good argument for the dust allergy theory, dragged to run errands alongside Cassian.
But then he came back to the Vilzone in the evening and the coughing started again.
“Have you tried drinking honey water?” Crow asked, concerned. She was lounging on his newly cleaned couch and observing Driver from behind her mask. “Or gone to the doctor?”
“No, but I’ll give that a try. It’s probably the weather,” dismissed Driver with a wave of his hand. He was reluctant to speak to her on a good day—but now that the tickle in his throat had remained for a week, Driver was even less inclined to speak with anyone. She could usually carry a conversation by herself. He supposed the coughing was getting intrusive.
To get her speaking again, Driver rose and started mixing that honey water concoction she had mentioned. Better he does it himself than she try.
Monday came and went, and week two was when Driver knew what his problem was.
A bloody petal laid there, accusingly on his palm, after he’d spent a solid minute or two trying to breathe and dislodge whatever had stuck itself in his throat, smelling like a lily—death, rebirth, purity, innocence. He’d read that somewhere. His reserves of knowledge often came without a source.
He also knew this disease had a name, which was hanahaki.
It was Japanese in origin. A quick search revealed a lot of fun information such as its etymology, mythologies, symptoms, treatment options, and symptom management. There was no symptom management other than confessing and having one’s feelings reciprocated, and then being rid of the flowers taking root. There was one other cure for the disease, though—surgery that would rob the sufferer of their memories, their feelings. It was under-researched. Many of the people who had elected for surgical removal reported anhedonia and often took their lives anyway.
Well, Driver wanted to live, but he was a villain. Even with the dampening effect of his limit on his own abilities, it was ingrained in his soul to feel things more intensely than civilians or psykers do. It felt wrong to take away that ability permanently.
And how could he forget Cassian?
Of course it was Cassian. It explained a lot of things: how the cough settled around him, how Driver always felt this urge to make something for him, how distracting he was during meetings with his eyelashes too long for his own good. It was a momentary reprieve to be around Cassian, though, because it was only a matter of time before this love would strangle him and force a confession out.
See, Driver did what any person with an appreciation for knowledge would do. He did some research. And while hanahaki was overwhelmingly found amongst villain populations, making medical trials and any other kind of research practically impossible, Driver had the advantage of being cleared to access some Winterbell files.
He spent the entire day compiling information, restlessly, drinking hot water and collecting his bloody petals in an empty crate he’d found in one of his storage closets. They weren’t fully formed yet. The room smelled like iron and lilies.
This was what Driver found:
- Those affected by hanahaki refuse the moniker of “patient” or “sufferer”, and prefer to be called the “lover” in all medical literature.
- Stage one is the relentless cough. X-rays show up clear, throat swabs too. A physician may brush it off as allergies or the capricious changing of the seasons.
- Stage two are the petals, accompanied by blood if severe. A thoracic X-ray would reveal spots in the lungs, not unlike atypical cell growth, and throat swabs detect pollen if the flower produced any. If blood is present, it means stage three would reveal itself in a week or so. Normal hanahaki develops over the course of months or years. Rapid-onset develops over the course of a month or two.
- Stage three comes with partial bloom, little buds of the flower, and blood as the plant starts ravaging the respiratory system. Shortness of breath as well as the flowers being a choking hazard are common symptoms in this stage. The sufferer is recommended to get surgery, as most people confess in stage two. A thoracic X-ray would reveal the plants beginning to take root. Progression to stage four depends entirely on the lover.
- Stage four is terminal, with full bloom, and nobody has ever survived it, even with surgery. An X-ray would only see the plant, with most lung tissue obscured. An autopsy is customarily conducted after death to collect the flowers for the object of their affections (also known as the beloved.)
Driver understood why people wouldn’t want to be called a sufferer of hanahaki. It implied that the condition was negative, or in any way unwanted, and Driver knew his love could never be a burden. How could it be? How could anyone look at Cassian, headstrong, analytical, powerful, and not fall in love?
He smiled at the man coming into his office, closed his research tabs, and offered to whip up a latte.
“What did the doctor say?” Cassian asked. “About your cough?”
“They’re still figuring it out,” replied Driver casually. They’d stopped meeting in his workshop once he saw the first bud come out, and couldn’t hide the flowers anymore. Nobody was allowed in. Crow had looked at him knowingly, when he announced this, and left jars of honey in front of the door.
He coughed into his handkerchief and hid away the petals that came with it. Subtle. Not at all obvious.
Cassian glanced down to the pocket where the fold of fabric had disappeared. “Are you coughing up blood?”
“No,” Driver laughed, lying, blatantly lying. “I’m fine. Stop worrying so much, I’ll be sure to get you a replacement secretary-cum-intelligence gatherer when I die.”
“When you die?” Cassian said with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, I’m not immortal,” shrugged Driver, as if he wasn't sweating bullets with that slip-up. “Come on, you promised me a drink.” He yanked off his glove and took Cassian’s hand, where his gauntlets had been de-transformed, and tried to commit every callus and line to memory.
“You’re fucked,” Crow said, pointing at his crate of buds, partial blooms, and especially the one full flower at the top. Four weeks.
Driver shoved a hand under his goggles to rub at his eyes. “I know.”
Red Eye slipped a letter under his door at some point, when the full flowers were still rare.
Driver,
I mean no disrespect when I say this, to you or your beloved, but you need to get the surgery before it’s too late. Gadam will crumble without you.
Nobody else knows. Just Crow and I. Please think about it.
R
It was already too late, though, so Driver pinned up the letter in a corkboard he’d put up when he decided to die, alongside a keychain Cassian had won him at an arcade when they got side-tracked when running errands, and the receipt for the drinks Cassian did owe him and did buy him.
There were pictures there, too. Some taken by Shadow Ghost of Cassian kicking Driver’s ass in a duel. Some taken by setting the camera on a shelf and the ten-second timer. Crow wanted to go to one of those booths for couples that printed the images immediately, and Driver was dying, so he stopped pretending he didn't know she liked him, and said yes every time she asked for something. At least it wasn't love. Thank fucking everything that it wasn't love. Crow looked at him like she was seeing a particularly brilliant diamond ring, but Driver knew he looked at Cassian like he was the world.
He really was, in a way.
“You’re not getting them removed,” Crow stated, when she made her way into his workshop despite the ban, and eyed the crate half-filled with full blooms under his desk. It had only been a day and he was going to need to empty it soon; hanahaki truly ravaged, no holds barred. “Have you started planning your funeral?”
Driver turned to her and tilted his head. “You’d let me die?”
“Well, I’m obviously not your beloved. There’s nothing I can do for you.” She took a seat, in her usual spot on the couch, and took off her mask. Her eyes glimmered with exhaustion even under the shade of her hair. “Except leave honey in front of the door.”
“I’m sorry,” he offered.
“For what?” she asked. “This is why I love you. Even with everything locked away, you still feel more than the rest of us do. That and your face.”
This is why I love you. Driver gripped the edge of his desk and choked back a petal that wanted to come out—he could differentiate them, now, petals and flowers and buds. “Please don’t,” he told her. “Don’t love me.”
Crow’s eyes softened, though she didn't offer him a smile. The constant presence of her was grace enough. “Don’t worry, Driver. I don’t die for love.”
He laughed at that and had to vomit up the flowers after his fit of mirth died away.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cassian said, barging into Driver’s office in the early morning when his crate was still empty. Did nobody hear about his announcement, about how his workshop was off-limits to everybody, sans exception? He took out his handkerchief to hide a particularly bloody bloom and rose to greet the boss of his Vilzone, the man who had crashed into Driver’s life like a hurricane, his beloved. “It’s been over a month. Why the hell are you still sick?”
“I’m not sick,” replied Driver. “Do you want coffee?”
Cassian’s eyes flickered to him, something like annoyance and exasperation there when their gazes met. “No.”
“Tea?”
“No, I want to know what doctor you’re going to that can’t fix your cough.”
Driver shrugged and turned to make his honey water, which didn't really help but didn’t burn going down like everything else did. His voice had gone hopelessly hoarse around stage three. There was really no helping it.
“It’s just unfixable,” Driver told Cassian, because it was easier to speak when he didn't have to look at the face of the man who had given him some kind of life even as he was standing there dying. “Can I help you with something?”
“So you know what’s wrong,” said Cassian, pouncing on the wording, ignoring Driver’s attempt at a topic change, seeing through him, like he’s transparent, like he’s not there. Driver had no plans of confessing. He had no hope of reciprocation. But as he stood there, looking at the coffee machine he’d put in his will as Crow’s and Crow’s only, he felt something bubble up in his chest other than the aching, violent feeling of love. “What’s wrong, Driver? Why is it unfixable?”
“Because it just is. Some things are that way, you know, Cassian, some of us are hopeless cases.”
Cassian didn't reply. Driver didn't turn around.
“Why won't you look at me?” Cassian whispered. Ah, so he’d noticed.
And Driver was weak, so he drank his water and turned around. Took his goggles off for good measure. The feeling of air against them was odd, but he blinked once and twice and kept looking at Cassian.
“I am,” he said, though it came out quieter than he meant for it to.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cassian asked again.
Driver felt his chest revolt and knew his time was up. He coughed into his hand, the free arm outstretched to keep Cassian away, until he felt the soft petals of a full flower tickle the back of his throat and expelled it onto his waiting palm. It came out bloody, with a bud squished against it.
Silence, for a second or two, seconds that lasted lifetimes. The workshop started smelling like iron and lilies again. It was right.
“Lilies…” Cassian looked back up at Driver. “It’s a full bloom.”
Driver shrugged. The pain in his chest was normal now, so he ignored it as he tossed the bloody flower and bud into the crate he’d designated for it. Then he opened one of the cabinet doors, since his secret was out. He couldn't bring himself to throw out any of the petals—he cleaned all of them, from the first one to the most recent ones, and they never decayed. It was overflowing. “Yeah.”
“Who? Since when?” An emotion like concern colored Cassian’s voice, and it was nice to hear, in a sick way. He was so hell-bent on ignoring this problem—the object of his affections being human shouldn't make him fold. The world wouldn't mourn. He had his will and everything else in place.
“You,” he said anyway, curse his stupid mouth, his stupid heart. “Always.”
When he still felt the tickle of the petals in his throat, the silence was enough as an answer. Driver coughed out whatever needed to be coughed out, tossed it into the bin, wiped his hand, and reached for his honey water thermos. With death as the final deadline, he had work to complete.
As he turned away to pull up his latest project, Cassian spoke.
“Why?”
He sounded anguished. Driver turned around and found the man standing in the same pose, but with tears glittering in his eyes and wet cheeks.
“Oh, don’t cry on my account,” said Driver softly, taking out a clean handkerchief to wipe off what had spilled. “I always knew my heart would be my downfall, Cassian. Why else did you think I kept it under wraps? I’m still a villain—my emotions still control me.” He managed a crooked smile. “No matter how many limiters I put on them.”
“You won’t—” Cassian’s voice broke— “you won’t get surgery? People need you. The Vilzone needs you. What about Crow, Red Eye, Winterbell? I’m not going to be around for long enough for this to be worth it.”
Driver shook his head. The omission of Cassian from the groups of people who needed him didn't go unnoticed, but he was happy to ignore it, since he already knew. “I’ll never outlive you, anyway. I want to go out remembering you. Selfishness is carved into my DNA just like with any other person.”
“You don't understand,” insisted Cassian. “I won’t be leading this Vilzone, or any others. If you’re counting on me taking your place, I can’t do that. I never wanted for you to get caught up in my life, let alone die for it.” The unspoken last sentence echoed in the room anyway: I’m not that important.
You are. “I want to, though,” Driver replied, smiling again, eyes dry, facing the truth and the near future he had accepted. “I want to die for it. I want to die for you. I’ve always been living on borrowed time.”
A hurt, strangled little sound forced its way out of Cassian, but this time he stepped back from Driver’s attempt at wiping his tears away. “Driver, I should be comforting you,” he said stubbornly.
“You need it. I don’t.”
Cassian moved closer again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Driver murmured back. This close, Cassian’s minty toothpaste was clear, so he knew Cassian could smell the blood and flowers in his breath. But Cassian didn't flinch or move away again. “There are worse ways to go.”
Usually hospitals smell of sterility and the undercurrent of decay that no amount of cleaning products could get rid of, but Driver’s cork board and cupboard were full, so his room was filled with cleaned lilies, now. Crow had gone home for the day. She was transitioning into the role Driver previously occupied, and it was clear she couldn't stand this place for longer than an hour, and Driver did not begrudge her this.
Somebody knocked on the door. Driver didn't speak if he could help it, so whoever it was let themselves in.
“Hey,” Cassian greeted. He had a new ornate vase in his hands, and a forced neutrality on his face. Whenever he visited, he’d started bringing a vase—because there was nowhere else to put the lilies, and Driver still couldn't throw out any of them—and the colorful glass containers painted colorful rays of light onto the white floors, bedsheets, walls, when the sun hit them right. Today’s vase was an ultramarine blue like Cassian’s eye in his villain form. He always came in his civilian form.
Driver smiled and waved.
“I’m going to fill this with water,” said Cassian.
He waited for Driver to nod an affirmative before going into the bathroom and turning on the tap, which gave Driver some time to think and compose himself. He suspected Cassian treated the moment much the same way. Doctors had agreed that Cassian staying away was worsening the pain, and despite Driver’s protests that Cassian didn't have to do anything, the physicians and Cassian himself had agreed that daily visits would be fine. Necessary, even, for palliative care. Driver didn’t have it in him to resist, so he didn’t.
Any day now…
Driver coughed up a particularly beautiful, intact flower, with a stem now, and wiped off the blood gently with his thumb.
Cassian came back, took the flower, and placed it in the vase.
“I like it,” rasped Driver. “The blue is nice. Thank you.”
“There's a new furniture store near my apartment,” Cassian said.
“Have a seat,” Driver replied. Cassian did. They’d exhausted whatever words they could have for each other, and as Driver leaned back against the raised section of his bed and looked up at Cassian, he knew.
Any day now.
“I’m sorry I can’t love you,” Cassian murmured, because it seemed like he knew, too. “If I could still feel it, I think the one person I’d want to feel it for would be you.”
“I know. That’s enough for me,” smiled Driver, though his voice was barely above a whisper now.
Cassian met his eyes, and Driver saw clarity there, nothing clouding them over, just clarity, just honesty. Their hands met. He wasn't sure who moved first.
“I’ll miss you,” said Cassian.
“I love you,” Driver exhaled.
“The bouquet,” said the doctor who had done the autopsy, presenting lilies wrapped in pink-purple holographic cellophane like Driver’s power. “Customarily given to the beloved. They won’t die.”
The others had when Driver did. All of them, in his workshop, in his hospital room, wilting into nothingness immediately, a better indicator of whether or not those roots had taken his life than any hospital monitor or equipment could. The freshest one—in Cassian’s newest vase—had held out the longest, but then withered, too.
Cassian felt his hand reach out and wrap around the handle of the arrangement. It was beautiful.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
He was on his way to the funeral when the morgue called.