Archive of Our Own

Harold had always loved George, since the day he helped him with those bullies. The day it turned romantic, however, was something he hadn't expected. Or noticed, really. Despite Dressy pulling him aside several times to line up their lives to her favourite queer romantic graphic novels during primary school.

(Never ever ever tell her he kinda liked them)

The Hanahaki disease was said to be an old story. A cautionary tale for loving someone you can’t have. Or, that’s what Harold always assumed. His mom had spoken wistfully about the tragic stories she’d read–painted many of the disease visualised. As a child he couldn’t appreciate the beauty or symbolism, the flowers falling from red-dotted lips, and the knowledge of something growing inside always left Harold uncomfortable. 

The thought still made him squirm, but he'd comforted himself with the fact it wasn't real. Just a story.

Though, that was all, wasn’t it? A tragic story, a beautiful, symbolic message. A made-up fable. Like the Melviathen (technically). Or their comics. Nothing to be afraid of.

And no, you will not mention the fact more often than not their comic villains came to life.

That should've been his first sign.

He knew when his heart jumped gazing at his friend and his face burned to think about him when he wasn’t around that this was bad. Any one-sided crush was a recipe for a doomed friendship.

But the day he stormed into the boy's bathroom, coughing harshly, with a delicate pink petal stuck to his tongue?

He knew this was disaster.

The disease wasn’t something he’d thought about since he was eight, and wasn’t his worry. If he loved George, not like a friend, their relationship would be over.

That had always been one of his biggest fears. If George left...

he couldn't handle another person in his life leaving.

George and Harold have been friends since they were 6, they'd been through everything together (monster attacks, the almost destruction of Earth, school). Throughout their entire schooling, they'd been inseparable. Even when they moved to high school for year 7 and had those stressful major puberty teen years, they hadn't scared each other off. If anything, they were drawn closer together, being able to laugh easily at their pimple covered faces and cracking voices.

They were halfway through year 11 now, and nothing had made Harold question them.

Until that day.

He'd always admired George–how could he not? Their first meeting he stood up to bullies for him, and even helped him get revenge. There had been moments where he stared half-lidded at him, he had no idea when that admiring stare turned to desire though.

It was probably gradual. Harold always assumed he'd fall head over heels for a pretty girl, like his dad would say when he was little. He knew he'd be bored with her, he'd always wanted to spend his time with George. So much, that he didn't think there'd be room for a 'her' in his life. But growing up, he was told that was supposed to happen. He would marry a pretty girl and have snot-nosed kids, and live happily ever after.

He hadn't looked for love, but had to awkwardly reject girls throughout primary and middle school. By the time the boys got to high school, they had left him alone. Harold internally questioned the stares they would give him while he stood next to George, his arm slung around Harold's shoulders.

It was in middle school he found out he was gay, his first sign should've been his Mooscle Beach dream. Nothing crazy, he just realised the way his boy classmates saw girls didn't match up with how he did. He just saw them as friends, being with a girl romantically made him uncomfortable. 

I mean, he wouldn't be with the boys in his grade either. They were the wrong kind of loud and often mean, the way they spoke about women made him upset on their behalf (the duo had pulled pranks on their behalf too), and they weren't as funny as they thought they were. Like the kind of bullies Harold used to have.

Though, whenever he watched shows and movies he always gravitated towards the male actors. Often for their personality, but they were usually nice to look at.

Picturing himself with a girl always felt wrong. Honestly, it made him feel a little anxious. But coming to terms with who he was attracted to... thinking boyfriend and husband instead of girlfriend and wife felt good. He hadn't been able to imagine what that 'he' might look like, but in his daydreams George was always there, sometimes playing with kids that looked nothing like either of them. He was probably watching Harold's kids with him or something. If he ever wanted kids he'd have to adopt.

By the time they were in year 10, George seemed to have his own sexuality figured out too. 

‘By the way, I'm pretty sure I'm Bi’ he'd said casually one day, he already knew about Harold being gay from the earlier year. And that was that. They remained best friends, and honestly, besides from a few jokes here and there, it never came up.

George flirted with some of the girls sometimes, or that's what it looked like. Whenever he would wait for Harold outside his separate classroom (they chose different electives) someone got close enough to strike up a conversation. Sometimes Harold would leave his late-dismissed class and watch as George talked easily with whoever. Maybe he watched a little sadly. Maybe a hint of jealousy. Shush. It's no one's business but his.

Sometimes whoever he spoke to would glance over in Harold's direction and point George over to him. He would say bye immediately, almost jogging over to Harold.

"How long have you been there?" he would chuckle, "You could've joined us."

"Yeah, I know." Harold would respond, "Just wasn't up for talking."

Which was true, he hadn't been up for talking with her. He didn't even know the names of the people George would speak to, honestly. He knew they were in their grade and that was it. He knew George liked them.

I mean, he didn't know how much he liked them, but he spoke to them. And that's not, like, well, Harold wasn't complaining about that! George can talk to whoever , it's not Harold's business. 

I mean... Harold's been his closest friend for a very long time...

But still, not his business. Or his right to feel a bit negative over it.

Harold spoke to people that wasn't George too, of course. He was a somewhat social person and had a few classmates in his art class he liked to talk to, and a bunch of people who would wave him over (just him) in the lunch room for a quick catch-up, and he would meet George at their table.

Maybe he was close with George, and their strong friendship made him feel like he had a crush. Because he did love him, they loved each other, George was his best friend. These strange feelings would go away and Harold would be able to feel content knowing all the love he felt for George was purely platonic.

Things really started to kick off when they got to high school.

In year 11, he'd had a few embarrassing dreams now that he knew George would swing with girls or boys, he must have subconsciously thought he and George would work as a couple.

Harold ignored it. He was probably just like… feeling pressured to get with someone now his school life was coming to an end, and George was right there. They were best friends, these stupid feelings would go away and they could sleep in the same bed again during sleepovers without his face heating up.

He avoided thinking about it. If he thought about it he'd think about how they couldn't be together, and it would make him feel resentment for either the future partner George probably hasn't met, or maybe even George himself. 

This would all pass, he'd be fine, and the day George met someone he'd smile and support him. George would do the same when Harold found someone. It would be fine, and he would move on and stop feeling sad about the romantic relationship they never had.

It began with a cough. 

He woke up unusually early one sunny morning–a Saturday–and coughed a short few seconds. He yawned after, his throat felt a little croaky and his mouth was dry. George had told him about his habit of sleeping with his mouth open and drooling on his pillow.

Harold slipped out of bed, rubbing his eyes. His bare feet slapped against the wood floor. He could hear his mom and sister chatting idly somewhere in the house.

He went about the slow Saturday morning as usual, meeting up with George around late morning. He had to clear his throat a few times to get rid of small itches while they hung out, but hadn’t thought about it for a moment.

A tiny, unnoticeable cough.

Easy to dismiss and ignore, he lived his life as usual. Pulling pranks, giggling with his friend–not crush–about mischief they pulled, having totally normal sleepovers that he would normally (after a bit of fussing with the blankets overheating him) sleep just fine during.

It was so minor George barely glanced at it, Harold hadn't given it a second or first thought. I mean, everyone coughs a little everyday, right?

It went on like that for about two weeks.

After two weeks, they gradually became deeper, some even having a bit of a rasp. They were far and few between, though, and there was something going around in their school.

(There was always something going around in their school. Harold had watched a kid lick ketchup off a window once. No one was even filming him or anything, he just did it for fun.)

George had started to offer him water, but oddly it made the urge to cough worsen.

They were sat in class, the smartboard was the only light illuminating the space, the big lights had been switched off because kids complained about the 'glare' on the smartboard so they could sleep. George was scribbling down notes the teacher had on the board. Harold was less motivated, his mind felt elsewhere. His eyes always drifted back to George, his fingers fiddling with his pen absentmindedly. He couldn't focus, which was per usual, but he wasn't sure what he was so distracted by George for.

Harold felt calm as he watched him, a soft smile on his face. George was leaning over with his head resting on his lifted hand. He could see the soft rise and fall of his breathing if he focused on his back and shoulders, and from his angle he could see the length of his eyelashes. George always had great eyelashes, Heidi had even argued with George about how lucky he was.

Out of nowhere, Harold started coughing. Cutting through the peaceful quiet of the room. It wasn’t bad, his throat was just incredibly itchy. But it was loud enough to rouse a few of the students drifting off at their desks. The teacher had glanced, but carried on with typing.

George looked over too, blinking a few times before leaning closer and rubbing his back reassuringly. Somehow, the itch increased dramatically. He covered his mouth with his hand and kept his mouth closed, muffling the coughs and trying to keep them down.

The coughing stopped, and anyone who had looked over went back to what they were doing. He only had to clear his throat a few times for the rest of the day and that was it.

The next few weeks were about the same.

Around the six week mark, Harold noticed an unusual shortness of breath. Sure, he wasn't the most athletic, but he could climb up a few stairs and not feel the need to take in a big gulp of air. 

Or… he used to, anyway.

He always moved his face into his sleeve to muffle the heavy breaths (from George and anyone around), until the need to do so faded and the tightness in his chest eased. He chalked it up to being out of shape. He could run, he and George always ran from the scene of the crime after their pranks, but he tried to ignore it. Lots of boys his age hit the gym (including George, oddly enough, though Harold doubted he was at all dedicated, he'd only been using his parents’ old exercise machines in their garage), maybe he was just noticing how unfit he was compared to them subconsciously and taking note of his breathing or something.

Whatever, no biggie.

It was harder to ignore when he woke up with it though.

In just a week, he found himself taking deep breaths when he woke up in the morning, like he’d stopped all together just before waking up. Usually as he got ready for the day it would lessen, but that wouldn't stay true for long.

Shortly after, maybe a few days, the coughs began to deepen, occasionally rattling his chest and making him gasp for breath after. 

These were far and few between though! No problem! Everyone gets coughs all the time. When was the last time he actually got sick with something anyway? He was due for it.

He hadn't assumed a problem until the first real fit.

Harold was drawing in his sketchbook on his bed, something for a comic, maybe something just for leisure, or practice. He looked up for a moment to adjust how he was laying–damn, had laying on his stomach always made his chest feel so tight?–and his eye had caught a photo of George taken during their middle school graduation party at Piqua's favourite family friendly restaurant (with a casino room just next door). 

They'd cut the original photo in half, the half with Harold was in George's room.

He'd lingered for a little too long, even smiling as he reminisced. George had spilled a splash of his drink over his own crotch on his dark blue pants, and Harold had laughed heartily while they ran off to the bathroom to dry it (his mom would've killed him if she'd seen the stain, and the other kids would’ve done worse if they had), doing more hollering than helping while George cursed at him through giggles. The photo was taken just after they'd gotten back to their seats, and you could see the slight panic in their eyes, but they were smiling widely, genuinely happy.

They made it through three whole years of middle school without getting expelled! They were seniors now, which was kind of scary as heck, but they'd be doing it together.

Reliving the memory made Harold feel warm. A nostalgic and happy kind of warm…

before it vanished and was replaced by a violent coughing fit.

He had to get up on his hands and knees so he wouldn't suffocate, coughing out a lung like he'd been smoking most of his life. It was hoarse and dry and he did that weird back-of-the-throat cough that hurts a lot. 

He was starting to think he’d pass out from the lack of oxygen, alone in his room with his sister uselessly yelling somewhere in her's.

It was easily a few minutes before it died down enough for him to take a breather, gasping and red in the face. His throat hurt like hell too, and he swore if he coughed any harder he'd be spitting out blood.

Luckily for him, the only one home was his little sister, who helpfully yelled sometime toward the end of his fit, ‘ARE YOU DONE CHOKING YET?!’ and a ‘EVERYONE KNOWS HOW TO DRINK WATER HAROLD!’ He hadn't bothered responding, he was too busy enjoying having air again, and he didn't want to trigger it again by using his voice at all.

It started to go downhill from there.

He only had coughing fits like that every few days, they usually lasted under two minutes. His regular cough had gotten worse though, louder and from deep within his chest. George said something this time.

“Hey, man. You’ve had that for like weeks now… it doesn’t sound better. Maybe you should go for a check-up.” 

Both he and his mom thought he was coming down with something. And for Harold's own sake and anxiety, he thought so too.

“Harold, hon, have you been taking that cough syrup? I know you hate the taste but you sound terrible baby.”

Of course he had. He'd taken that disgusting medicine every day for a week.

He had a tiny sliver of hope, when for one beautiful day the cough had been less violent, easier to handle, like it was when it had first appeared. He slept easy that night, only waking once for a drink of water. Was that copper in his mouth? He probably bit his lip.

He woke up with a light chest, grinning all through getting ready for school, even jogging up and down the stairs in his house a few times to relish in the easier catching of his breath. His sister had stared in confusion from her recline on the couch, bowl of cereal balanced on one hand, the other holding the remote, still in her pyjamas (she liked waiting until 10 minutes before needing to leave for Jerome Horwitz to get ready). She'd shrugged it off, no longer questioning his weird teenage-boy things. Like when he got tall enough to hop up and hit the top of the door frame when entering rooms.

He triumphantly skipped out of his house and met up with George outside, lifted his hand for a victorious fiver, looked into his shining brown eyes (the perfect shade, mind you, have you seen those beautiful brown-gold tones in the sun?) 

...aaaannnd leaned over to cough into his arm harshly while his friend hit his back in an attempt to help. 

It took at least three minutes before his cough calmed enough for them to get in George's car (a gift he got when he turned 17, Harold's mom didn't trust him enough to get behind a wheel, but she'd started to come around to letting him try for his learner's). He spent the entire car ride to school holding the extra muffle of his shirt over his mouth, holding coughs in his throat.

The cough had come back worse. For months, that day (night, really) would be his only reprise from his progressively tightening chest.

George had become more insistent with a doctor's trip, even going as far to say the dreaded word ‘hospital’. Harold could only distract him for so long, and he was running out of excuses.

One of his all time worsts, his personal ‘how the hell did I get away with that one?’ was when he told George he'd been working on his fake coughing so he could get out of school. He hadn't believed him, obviously, why would he practice in class? But, he let it slide, his eyes narrowed in suspicion until they were both distracted by something else, and Harold knew it would begin to be a lot harder to get him off his case. 

He had to get this cough under control. Unless he wanted to be tied up, shoved in George's car, and forced to the ER. George would do that.

What was once a mild cough every hour, turned into an itchy throat, which escalated into coughing every half hour. Slowly, they started getting harder. More violent. To the point his chest was constricting and it was hard to breathe.

It was getting difficult to brush off as ‘coming down with something’, especially since these coughing fits started to disrupt his sleep. Every night he’d wake for 10 minute intervals coughing violently into his pillow. He didn’t want to worry his mom or wake his sister. 

He desperately tried adjusting to his new normal. Desperately tried to convince himself that this was okay, that he wasn't dying and there was nothing wrong.

If he had been another person, watching someone go through what he was currently, he would force them into a doctor's office too. But this felt different. He felt like he had to hide it. 

His mom was stressed enough, raising two kids on her own, one of which had been relentlessly bullied then was constantly pulling nonsense at his school, having to handle the expenses of a house on her own, clean it on her own (until Harold was old enough to actually take up chores without asking) was difficult and he knew that. 

When he and Heidi's dad had left, she'd gotten back into her old habit of painting. Only then, it had been obsessively.

His mom used her art to cope, as an outlet, just like he did.

He couldn't stress her out. She had only just started getting better with balancing art and her life, if he was deathly ill it would send her back. 

And George... 

he wasn't sure why he felt like he couldn't tell George. Maybe just a gut thing. 

Anyway, he decided to keep this to himself. It was a cough, a bit of breath shortness. It was fine.

In just a few days, one morning, when he got up, red was dotting his pillow case. 

He froze.

Harold’s eyes had never been so wide. That was blood.

He sat up on his knees and brought a hand up to his nose, nosebleeds were a thing too. He felt around for crusted blood with his shaking fingertips.

Nothing.

He was coughing up blood. He was coughing up blood and was probably going to die or something.

His heart raced in his chest, hammered in his ears. He remembered the copper taste from a few weeks ago. He could taste it vaguely in his mouth as he stared. Had he already been coughing blood and not realising it?

Everything in him screamed to tell someone. 

Tell someone.

Do anything.

Get. Help.

...

Harold grabbed his phone off the nightstand, almost dropping it from his trembling hands. He and George's chat was still open from when they'd wished each other a good sleep. His thumb had hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then he decided to hit the home button.

wyh am i coughing up blood

Unsurprisingly, none of the answers were good.

can couging up blood be fine

George would be having a fit if he saw, Harold thought a tad hysterically, he's always hated blood.

is it okay to cough up a few drops of blood

…

what should i do if i cough up blood

All the results had ‘hospital’ in very obvious wording.

…

An extra day wouldn’t kill him, right?

Maybe this will leave on its own!

Besides, medical bills were expensive, his family couldn't deal with that right now. He was being... efficient. Yeah. No use worrying about something his mom would spend years trying to pay off.

He swore to himself he'd get help if he felt worse. When he felt worse.

Though he felt that thought was a sorry attempt at reassurance.

He’d skipped out on hanging with George that day, and while he was a little disappointed, he assumed Harold was actually coming down with something and needed some time to rest.

Harold didn’t see George for a whole day.

His chest felt a little lighter.

Soon it was Monday again, and he had to pull himself out of bed and pray he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of a bunch of people because of a stupid coughing fit.

Again.

All he did that weekend was sleep, or try to. He couldn't rest in any position and be able to breathe lighter, and was a little scared he wouldn't wake up if he'd suddenly stopped.

The disruption in his sleep started to show during the day, he could see the dark circles beneath his eyes, they had never been this bad. Even when he had 5 hours of sleep every night in 7th grade because he had too many distractions. He was paler, whether that was from avoiding going outside in fear of curling up on the sidewalk or whatever illness he had was beyond him. He hadn't bothered to guess.

He kept telling himself one day at a time and eventually the days melted together, he could barely recall what events happened on what days. Harold had found it harder and harder to go through regular tasks now. There was even a rumour he had asthma circling around his school. What did being able to breathe even feel like anymore?

He had tried adjusting to this new normal. His mom and sister had noticed something off, even Mr. Meaner (who Harold had never willingly struck up a conversation with) had made a comment about how out of shape he was because of his breathing. He’d responded by raising an eyebrow and giving the large man a once-over before heading back to the privacy of his room. His mom felt a little distant as he got older, so her attempts at coaxing an explanation out of him fell flat, and she'd always left him in his bedroom, shutting the door gently with a sad smile.

Harold could understand she was trying. There was a time he'd even acted moody so she would try and pry... but this time, where he would normally spill everything, his lips felt zipped shut.

None of them pried as hard as George, though.

He had argued with Harold constantly, about how he could tell, that it was obvious something was wrong.

They had been in George's house, idling in the kitchen. His parents weren't home. This used to be one of Harold's favourite places, just them in the comforting space of George's home, the only place to top this was their tree house. The air was stiff. Harold knew George wanted answers. But he couldn't bring himself to give them.

"Dude," he had said quietly, cutting through the thick silence "you're a wreck."

Harold had huffed and muttered a dry "Thanks." But George's expression hadn't changed.

"You're thinner. Have you been eating?"

Harold paused where he had been bringing his glass of water to his lips. Was it noticeable? He hadn't been eating as much. He was too afraid to choke. On some occasions he'd even resorted to blending up his food and making the liquid as thin as possible. He'd tried his mom's home remedies she'd written back when he was probably a baby, though the pencil was faded and he'd always struggled with reading cursive, but there was several different soups, a gross tea with different spices she swore worked magic, but nothing helped.

"Of course." He mumbled into his glass.

George had put his own drink down so he could wave his arms around in gestures.

"Look at your eyes man, your eyelids, they're always drooping–and your eyes–the color–it's–they're different. They're grey." He'd stammered, gesturing wildly to Harold, staring up at his eyes.

His eyes were not grey. And he had wanted to argue that, but he just didn't have the energy. Maybe they looked dimmer or something. He doesn't know. He was so tired.

Harold didn't say anything. There were things he should have said, but he didn't think he could.

He had stepped foward, despite Harold's clear nervousness as he neared. His hands found his shoulders, and through the cloth of his shirt, they burned.

"Harold." His voice cracked, tone almost begging, "What is going on?"

Harold's throat had bobbed as he swallowed air, trying to push down a cough he knew was inevitable. He didn't answer George, looking down when the eye contact became too much to bare.

George had sniffled, hugging Harold gently. His arms around him used to make him feel safe and secure (and maybe a little flustered). While he did still feel all that, the softness was suffocating, and quicker than he had hoped his weakening frame was shaking with bone-rattling coughs.

George, of course, had been with him through it. But if anything, his company made it worse.

Class had become a struggle too. He was always eyed during his fits, but usually muffled himself as much as he could. He'd even wear a jumper when it was cool enough for the extra muffle.

Though one regular cough-muffling English class marked the day his life would really worsen.

It was a regular fit, and Harold was even feeling a little lucky. George wasn't in class, he had a dentist appointment and left the previous period. As he coughed he started to realise there was another reason he couldn't take a breath in. His chest was heavy, but that wasn't what had affected it. There was something in his throat. Itching, but somewhat soft.

Whatever it was, it had to leave.

He raised his hand quickly, gesturing to the door with a waving hand with his mouth still muffled. He didn't wait for a response before standing abruptly and rushing out of the room. Usually, he would hyper-focus on the stares of him leaving, what they were thinking, imaging himself from someone else's point of view. He didn't do that anymore. His anxiety had to take the back-seat now his life could be in threat.

The quick movement only made his coughing worse, but he had to get to somewhere private as soon as he could. Coughing a lung out in front of his class was one thing, but literally coughing something up and out of his throat? Absolutely not.

His face was definitely red, chest heaving uselessly, and the tears in his eyes made him pray he didn't come across anyone ditching class in the bathroom. 

Please be empty, please be empty...

He rounded the corner and shoved open the door aggressively, not waiting for it to shut before gripping onto the sticky uncleaned sink and coughing loudly. He couldn't even feel embarrassed for how the rasping coughs echoed on the walls, there was something being pushed up his throat. Itching as it got caught over and over, forcing him to hunch further, cough harder, to get it out.

His throat burned, what was happening to him?

Finally it left his throat, though his coughing didn't stop, it became less urgent. Catching his breath, he reached up shakily, poking his tongue out to grab whatever had stuck to it.

As soon as he felt the soft material, his eyes flicked up to the bathroom mirror. It was stained heavily and the overhead light was flickering, barely hanging on, and desperately needed replacing, but he could tell.

Harold pulled it away from his mouth. The air left his lungs, but not from coughing, or from any pressure in his chest.

Between his fingers lay a delicate, perfect, red-stained flower petal.

He froze, completely silent and unbreathing as he held it.

Memories of his 'irrational' childhood fear flashed in his head, his mom's story-telling, her paintings...

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

He didn't think it was real! How could something so–so bizarre actually be possible!? Was it really happening? Was he really going to die from a plant growing inside him?

This wasn't real. It had to be a dream. 

He lifted his other hand from the sink, sticking as he pulled it and was disgustingly, horrifyingly, reminded this was in fact real.

He scrubbed his hands, left through one of the unattended school exits, and made a beeline for his home. He would run, jog at least, but now he knew there was space taken up where air was supposed to be, he was keen on reserving it. Even at his somewhat brisk pace he breathed heavily, and he didn't feel like coughing on the sidewalk, let alone coughing up petals.

After a trip that used to be so much shorter, Harold arrived at his house, body shaky and steps a little uncoordinated, he pulled the spare key from the hiding spot on the porch, and shoved open the door. He slammed it behind him, letting the full of his body weight rest heavily against it.

Harold breathed deeply. His chest hurt.

His eyes burned. He was so tired, he just wanted to breathe. 

He wanted sleep at night. He wanted to be able to hang out with George. He wanted his life back.

He slid down to the ground, having to let his legs stretch in front of him because it would've made his chest feel even tighter. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't he just crush on his friend in peace? How does this even happen?

It was supposed to be poetic, not a real literal thing!

An hour later found him in his room, hunched at his desk. He had been searching relentlessly about this stupid disease. He couldn't find credible medical sources, only Reddit stories with very minimal upvotes. 

He'd read them all anyway, half were either promoting fanfiction or it was people who had literally eaten flowers then threw them up. The rest sounded like genuine stories, though most were over a decade old. Three people said they were going to have surgery, then never updated, and two others he saw said they were just going to wait it out, again never updating.

He'd seen one thread that was sorta promising, where someone had described what they were going through (trouble breathing, tight chest, coughing petals) and the top response was a very demanding message to get to a hospital.

After he'd seen all he could on Reddit and decided it was a bust, he opened a new tab and went to Quora.

He didn't just want 'hospital' he wanted to know how and why.

Christ. If he thought studying was hard before, it was triple that now. He couldn't go two minutes without hunching over. 

For the first time in his life, not even Quora could help him. He could find stories of people that had it, or sounded like they did, but not a story of someone recovering. Had they all died? Why was this not a worldwide panic? 

After the person passed the person at the morgue would see the flowers, right?

He decided to finally accept he was sick, and his next search was remedies. 

hwo to get rid of hanahki

Surgery.

howto get rid of hanahaki no sugery 

He went back on pages, all the way to literally 2004 to find answers. Some people said natural remedies like lavender, and while he knew they could help a headache, he had his doubts about them killing flowers growing inside his chest.

Some people said poison or insecticides. He almost rolled his eyes at that. 

He scrolled past joke or sarcastic answers, literally spending hours typing questions and scrolling through archived chat rooms.

He'd also come across the horrifying 'confess' answers, but he didn't know how he would go about that. Some answers had theorized rejection would speed up the process. And if George didn't reciprocate he would have to live with guilt. He didn't want to make George feel guilty, or force him into such an uncomfortable situation.

But surgery? These feelings were literally killing him... but, oddly enough, he loved loving George. George was so easy to love.

So… great. He could either die from rejection and/or the disease growing slowly or get surgery and have his romantic love towards George go away.

Neither sounded appealing.

He was running low on options, Reddit wasn't helping, neither was Quora, not even Iffipedia offered any use.

He was adding another tab to his growing list to search about how that surgery would go (already imagining it happening in someones rusty garage, since there was no medical essays about the disease), but was interrupted. 

A knock at the door.

He faced the sound, able to hear it as his bedroom door was open. He tilted his head slightly. Who could possibly be at the door?

Harold scooted his wheely chair away from his desk and stood, clearing his throat. He slowly descended the stairs, mainly so he wasn't out of breath when he had to answer. He felt a little unsteady as he walked over, because of the disease and his impending death. His hand felt weak as it gripped the front door handle. 

He didn't know who he was expecting–his mom would've unlocked the door, and Heidi would've been yelling at him and demanding he unlock the door, but a quick glance at the clock showed over an hour before school even let her out.

If it–eugh–was Meaner, Harold would've heard his 'yep-yep-yep's, and he wouldn't come over if no one was home. He pulled open the door with hesitance, only to be met with the shyly grinning face of his best friend.

"Hey man!" He chirped, though Harold could hear the worried tone in his voice. Harold fought down coughs, face red as he gave a nervous smile back. "H-hey, dude."

George welcomed himself in, gently pushing past Harold and closing the door behind himself. 

Harold noticed George had his schoolbag slung around his shoulders, but held Harold's by the carry handle. "You uh, kinda left your bag in English." He started, handing it over.

Harold hadn't yet thought about the consequence of leaving school like that, from the staff or his mom. "Crap," he cleared his throat as he took the bag from George, "yeah, thanks."

"They said you had a coughing fit and... left?"

"Mhm." 

"Harold," He said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder, "you okay, man?"

Now that he was able to recognise the funny feelings for his best friend, and feel strong enough to develop a deadly disease, Harold was suddenly very nervous around him.

He nodded his head, not trusting his voice (or his lungs).

That didn't put George at ease.

Without warning, he lifted the back of his hand to Harold's forehead. "Harold, you're burning up. It's barely a warm day. What's happening?"

He shrugged away George's hand, stepping back. "Nothing–I'm probably just getting si—" he leaned over and wheezed into his elbow, letting the bag drop to the floor.

Damn, it's like this disease just wants to contradict me.

George stepped forward, maybe to pat him on the back or offer some of his usually comforting techniques, but Harold shook his head and waved him back with his hand.

George stood with his arms raised, fingers twitching, wanting to do something, anything. He waited, more concerned than anything, helpless as Harold coughed roughly. It couldn't have not hurt–he could see Harold's furrowed eyebrows, his pained expression, his hands balled into fists as he waited for it to pass.

The coughs slowing took much longer than George had hoped, and he frowned deeper.

"Harold."

His voice was pained, George hated being useless. He needed to help, to fix the problem. 

"I–" Harold broke himself off, clearing his throat.

He loved George, he wanted him around, but George being around meant he had to... 

That he had no reason not to...

Confess. 

About his feelings and the disease.

"Harold." He repeated, "Please. Talk to me."

Harold's mouth opened and closed as he tried to find the right words.

George searched his eyes–his usually warm and careful gaze was almost demanding. He looked scared. Harold couldn't blame him.

"I-I can't–" he stammered, "I mean I d-don't know how–" 

God, this is humiliating he thought angrily, Harold was never nervous around George. Well, he was, especially that time in year 1 he lost his lucky writing pen (but he'd told Harold right after he didn't have a 'lucky writing pen' that was just the one he had on him) but never like this. 

George's faced switched to something much softer, though the worry was still apparent. He stepped close again, holding his arms gently. "Tell me what's going on." He said softly, apparently trying a different approach. 

...

"I can't." He whispered.

"Why?"

"I..." 

He should explain. He really really really should explain, spill everything, tell him from start to finish what was going on. Why was he anxious? This was George. Literally the kindest person he knew and he was worried?

"I'm... not ready." 

He felt George's shoulders slack. Definitely not what he wanted to hear, but hopefully better than a flat out rejection.

He let Harold go and stepped away

They stood in silence, awkward, uncomfortable, awful silence until George sighed.

"I'm worried about you, Harold."

"I know. And I'm sorry. But... I just can't."

"Did I do something?"

"No!" Harold denied, voice quieter than he wanted it. "Of course not."

"Then what is it?"

"George." Harold croaked, his voice was loud, but so quiet. "Please." He said softly, hand lifting to gesture to the front door. "Please... leave me al—" he hesitated, having to shut his eyes and force them to look to the ground at George's hurt expression, "alone."

George opened his mouth to argue, but decided against whatever he was going to say, only stepping back with clear reluctance and turning for the door.

He had closed it behind himself gently, and no more than a few seconds later did he hear the click of the lock, then the horrible sound of his heavy coughs. George sighed, walking across the lawn back to his house.

He didn't want to push, but he couldn't keep telling himself Harold would tell him when he was ready. If he had tried harder when he had first gotten sick, maybe Harold would've been more willing to open up. Did he think because George hadn't been as pushy earlier that he didn't care?

He didn't know what Harold was thinking.

All he knew was if he had any chance at getting Harold to open up to him again, was that he had to respect his boundaries.

Harold retreated back to his room, taking much longer going up the stairs. He pushed a hand on the wall, leaning on it heavily as he held his sore chest. He stumbled up the last step, catching himself on the corner of the wall.

He felt like coughing again, but as he went to do so he very suddenly realised petals weren't the only thing wanting out of his throat.

He rushed to the bathroom, slamming open the toilet lid and retched into the bowl.

Obviously, he had no interest of what came up, but as he went to shut the lid his peripherals saw pink and red.

After cleaning up and washing, he went back to his room and flopped onto his bed.

Sleep hadn't come easy, but he managed to pass out anyway. He didn't wake up until around 10 PM, and had been moved under his covers, tucked in tightly. His shoes were even off.

Mom.

He'd never felt worse in his life, but had given a little smile. Though he was a year and a half from graduation, he still kind of liked when his mom would do things like that. And especially when he was sick.

He quickly looked to his laptop, still open, but the screen was off. It wasn't dead, he'd kept the charger in, but hopefully the screen had gone to sleep when she came in. He didn't know how Heidi got in either–or how he didn't wake up to her pounding at the door. He'd left the keys in the kitchen when he came inside.

Harold spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, and coughing painfully, but had managed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

When he woke, there were several petals, some broken, some covered in blood, sprinkled through his sheets. He swallowed, his throat hurt so much. His mouth tasted of blood.

It was a school day, but his mom hadn't woken him. She hadn't even left him a note or text about whatever his punishment was for ditching school. That was one positive.

He spent the rest of the day sipping cold water and searching more about the disease. No one was home, so he was left in silence to wonder what the hell he was going to do.

Heidi and his mom would be going out later that evening, so that gave him some more time alone.

He avoided looking at his phone, not wanting to know if George texted him or not. His fingers were itching to reach for his phone, but it felt like something was physically stopping him.

Hours passed of him going over the same answers he'd seen everywhere else, of researching 'surgeries' (that 100% were not legit).

Jeez, if he didn't die from this fucking plant he would die from some guy using rusty knives in a dingy garage who wanted to sell his organs.

Specific, but probably true.

"Harold, baby, we're leaving now." His mom called, pushing open his door. She cocked her head to the side, curly hair bobbing. She gave him a look, Harold rarely studied–how on earth did he become so focused?

"Are you coming?" 

Harold looked up, "Sorry, mom. I, uh..." He cleared his throat, "I kinda can't."

He felt guilty at the dejected look she had on her face. But he would ruin their evening if he went. 

She stepped into his room, high heels clacking. She grabbed his face and gave him a light kiss on his forehead. "Don't stay up too late. I'll bring you something back–whatever I get. How's that sound?"

"Good, Mom." He smiled softly, "Thanks." 

She let go of his face, turning to leave his room. "I love you," she said, holding the doorknob.

"I love you too, Mom." 

She shut the door gently and he could hear her walking down the hall.

For the past few weeks, he'd kept his window's curtain shut, not wanting George to see him. If he had it open, he would've seen George pacing back and fourth for days, wondering what the hell he could do to fix... whatever this was.

He came to a conclusion eventually–one that felt really invasive but...

His best friend was sick, and had shown zero signs of getting better. This was for his health. This was for him.

George quietly slipped downstairs and crossed the main area, trying not to alert his parents half asleep watching TV. While he wasn't sure if Harold was in trouble for leaving school, he definitely was, and though he only left like an hour and a half early they had still been furious. He'd even gotten the 'when I lived on a farm I could only dream of going to school like you' rant from his mom. 

He opened the door as silently as he could and shut it behind him gently.

George crossed the yard with hurried footsteps, unlocking the door with his own key Harold's mom got cut five years ago, giving it to him for emergencies. 

This felt like an emergency. 

He opened the door and locked it behind him, climbing the stairs quickly. He had seen both Heidi and Harold's mom get in the car–so he didn't have to worry about sneaking. As he neared Harold's room his door swung open from the inside, it was Harold, and his eyebrows were furrowed. They shot up to his hairline when he realised it was George.

Harold coughed a few times. He looked flustered, and had likely just got done with a fit.

"George?" He croaked, door only open a few inches.

George pushed past Harold into his room, despite Harold’s choking protests. He made a beeline for his open laptop, sitting open on a search tab. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, or if he'd find anything at all, but he knew Harold, and he knew if he was ever anxious he'd go straight to a new tab to research.

"Geo—" he broke off into a rasping cough, "What a–are y—"

Even though he was hunching over, gripping at the cloth over his chest, he desperately tried to stop George from reading his tabs, which gave him a little hope he was looking in the right place.

He stayed put, skimming through them all.

Every single one had 'hanahaki' somewhere, had he heard of that before? He was trying to remember something, anything.

Hanahaki.

It was such a unique word, if he knew it he had to remember something. He kept reading down the open Reddit tab, and skimmed across a line of someone talking about chest pains, trouble breathing,

... and coughing blood.

George paused for a few moments, Harold's coughing growing louder. He was suddenly struck with a realisation.

His parents hadn't told him old stories when he was younger–he wouldn't sit still for them, and he preferred his stories with a little more action, so he'd just write his own. When he was about twelve though, he'd seen one of Harold's mom's old paintings. 

It was of a woman laying on her side, petals surrounding her. Vines were tight around her neck, and there was blood carefully painted onto her lips. He had been queasy seeing the blood, though it was only a painting. Harold's mom had seen his interest. 

"What do you think?" She asked, smiling softly. He tried to smile, though it was more like a grimace. "It's–um, I like the uh, colors and stuff but..."

"But?"

"W-what's with the blood?"

"Oh," she'd chuckled, "It's a disease called Hanahaki. The idea is if someone had unrequited romantic feelings for someone else, that they feel so strongly about, a flowering plant starts to grow in their lungs." She had smiled sweetly, as if the little boy in front of her wasn't on the verge of puking. 

"That can't be real."

"It isn't, don't worry. Only in stories."

Harold came back into the room, having found what he was looking for. 

"George! We going to the tree house?"

George blinked, the memory suddenly back to him.

It... how?

But, no, that wasn't possible.

he looked to his side, Harold's bed, and saw a single drop of blood staining his light pillowcase. He pulled the sheets back, pink petals fluttering back down from the movement.

Of course what reminded me of this was the blood, he thought.

"O–kay," Harold choked, trying to hold up a hand to get him to pause. He tried to catch his breath, "I-It was an art project, I'm not–"

"Come on, man." George sighed, this had been going on forever, and finally George found. "I know now. It's okay."

"You know...?" He left a deliberate open end, wanting to know what George knew. Maybe he could still save this.

"The disease. I didn't know you had a crush?" He asked, not holding any strong emotion in his voice. Harold lifted his arms over his chest, shyly looking up at George.

He considered himself an expert at reading Harold–and that look... was actually one he'd seen before.

The past few months. 

The staring.

The avoidance.

The tossing and turning during their sleepovers. 

He was slapped with realisation. Harold... this was George's fault? 

...

Harold didn't think he loved him back? 

Something on his face must have given away his new-found understanding, because Harold immediately started waving his hands.

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–it just happened. I didn't..." 

Harold took in a breath, and was able to have a break from coughing. Finally, his voice let him talk.

He let the dam burst, finally spilling everything he'd stopped himself from for months.

"I didnt tell you because I didnt want you to feel guilty for me dying because you didnt love me romantically back." He spoke quickly, wanting everything in the open. It felt like a weight was lifting off his chest. Even if this would break his heart, he wouldn't feel alone in it anymore. 

"And I didn't–before this even started I didn't want to ruin our friendship."

"Now because I couldn't just be normal... I–I'm going to die from this stupid fucking plant or some guy wanting to steal my organs."

George faltered,

“'Steal your orga'–? W–You aren’t going to die, dude.”

Harold paused.

"...What do you mean?"

"Because I love you too."

The moment Harold couldn't have even dreamed of, happening right now. He had a million things to say, maybe a surprised 'you do?!' fireworks in his head, an amazing moment, he'd practiced his response! 

"...Huh?"

George gave a little smile, stepping closer. He had the nerve to look bashful after literally shoving his way into Harold's room and checking his tabs, looking down as he neared.

"I... love you too." He said quietly, bringing his eyes back up.

George grabbed Harold’s red face, watching those mix-matched eyes for a second, before closing his and gently pressing their lips together.

Harold went still, shoulders high and arms raised slightly. Fingers twitching. Unsure what to do.

The grounding pressure of George's lips against his own made him slip his eyes closed. 

Okay, he thought, wow, this is happening.

He forced his eyes to stay shut, scrunching a little. He made his shoulders relaxed, and untensed slightly. He felt his throat open up just a little, petals not even a thought, and even gently kissed back.

His own hands went to George, one resting tentatively on his shoulder, the other carefully holding his cheek. George pulled him closer, a hand boldly going down to his waist.

They continued for more than a few moments, bodies pressed together. It felt right. Like everything fit.

George's lips were surprisingly soft, though not from balm or anything like that, he didn't have a habit of biting them unlike Harold. Harold's were bitten and rough, he always picked at the dry skin absentmindedly, so George used his tongue to lubricate them. 

Their lips slid together, suctioning at times,.and made small smacking sounds whenever they parted.

They went on like that for a little longer, then Harold suddenly pushed back.

George blinked in confusion, a little worried he'd crossed the line–but calmed when he saw Harold gasping for breath and not coughing up more flower petals.

He laughed a little, watching Harold, his cheeks bright red, and blond curls falling in his face. And for the first time in such a long time since this started–Harold laughed with him.

That was the first of many kisses they would have–and even after the flowers were long since gone, he would feel like every time it cleared his lungs.

They spent the rest of the evening talking through the past months, then got ready for bed before Heidi and Harold's mom got back. They slipped under Harold's covers, giggling as they squirmed to get comfortable in each other's arms.

And for the first time in months, Harold fell asleep easily. Breathing was easy. Following George's breathing was easy. Instead of the tightness in his chest, he was able to focus on the warmth he was snuggled up to.

George held him gently, and for once in such a long time, he didn't feel any tightness or pressure. He was drifting to sleep, barely able to feel his own body as he relaxed, only being able to focus on the warmth, the security, the knowing that all of this crap was over.

"You love me." Harold smiled, a little giggly. "Yeah." George whispered back, trying to soothe him to sleep before his family got home.

"I always have."

Harold smiled against his chest, snuggled into his side.

His eyelids had grown heavier and heavier until they finally drooped shut, and Harold felt the lightest of kisses pressed to the side of his temple.

Damn, George thought, nose smelling the fruity shampoo of Harold's recently dried hair, my parents are gonna ground me forever.

Harold continued to cough up flowers for a few weeks after, only now they were wilting. And much easier to get up his throat, as they had broken apart on the journey, as weak as he once felt.

He had been able to get his life back, and had been so much happier. He even started jogging on the weekends.

And he had a particularly stubborn boyfriend-bestfriend beside him to hold him through his shaking fits. Letting Harold curl up beside him and cough into his lap, though blood had still made him queasy, he could deal with it for him. The blood had stayed in him for the most part, dead petals were rarely dotted. He would rub his arm, telling him gently how good he was doing, and how soon he wouldn't have to deal with any of it anymore.

And he would assure him he was there, and never going anywhere.

George even stuck the middle finger up and crushed the dead petals under his shoes for good measure, making a show of beating them up to make Harold laugh.

Now, his fits ended with a soft smile on his face (though his cheeks were still red, it was less from the coughing)

His mom had been happy he was feeling better, giving him a wink and a comment about how her recipes always did the trick.

And he had sat down with her to tell her what happened. Thst he was coughing petals and blood, and thay he was in love with a boy. George.

She hadn't really believed him about the disease, only saying how it was nice he was becoming interested in something so poetic. But she accepted her son's love... and told them off whenever they had the door closed in Harold's room. 

George had been grounded an extra two weeks for disobeying his parents and going to Harold's that night. Harold heard the lecture from his living room window.

And he continued to get grounded because he could never wait out his punishment, always sneaking off next door.

His parents caught on they were together by themselves. They were on their way to the Hutchins' house to.drag him back and lengthen his sentence, but saw the boys kissing in the window. They waited until the morning to lecture him. 

And George's dad still had wanted to believe they were just being 'good friends'.

Harold's  school life had changed as well, similar to how it was before, but some of the students gave him knowing looks whenever he and George walked together hand in hand. Some people had came up to him, saying they're happy his cough went away and that he was feeling better.

...And that he and George finally 'figured it out'.

Of course, they still got shit from homophobes in the school, but they would always just give each other a look, promising quietly to get them back later. 

He sent George TikToks of cuddly pets or gay penguins and George would always respond 'us' . 

He learned the fuzzy feeling when he was with George never went away... it just made him feel comforted instead of anxious. It made him feel happy instead of frightened.

And it made him a little flattered when George admitted he got the same fuzziness.

He used to feel terrified. Now, after it all, he still laughed with George, they still made comics, they still pulled pranks. The only thing that changed was how close their lips got to each other, how cuddly they were at night. And how often George climbed into his bedroom window.

Harold doesn't think he could ever admit this, but maybe that stupid disease did help him after all. Maybe without it he'd end up living a life with a man he could never love more than his best friend, maybe George would've ended up with a woman he didn't feel truly connected to.

At least now, for sure, abso-freaking-lutely, they would always been together. Like it always had been.